Warnings: Blood, violence

Notes: Thanks so much for your comments, follow, and favorites! I hope you enjoy this next chapter. Chapter eight will be up on Saturday.

Chapter Seven

Just as the last light of day spilled over the horizon, Emma sat beneath the crown of one of the Isle's great, fruit-bearing trees. The laden branches hung low, and it appeared to kneel in supplication. Though the spell on the forest could no longer touch her or Killian, it seemed the trees were still in mourning, bent down to look upon the rest of the forest in graceful despair. They were draped in finery, instead of rags, and the sap that poured from the knots in their flesh was brightly colored, and sweet. Emma gazed on just such a tree – pale white bark and blood red leaves – her legs folded beneath her. It seemed sad, but resigned to its fate, and she wondered if this too was a reflection of what she felt inside, or if it was tied to Merlin's death.

Does it mourn for him? she thought.

She wondered if, should she stare long enough, it would answer her.

"Watch out below," Killian called from the branches. A moment later, a few of the tree's dark, swollen fruits landed beside her. She looked at them sharply, and then up at him, unimpressed.

"Couldn't you just carry them down with you?" she said.

He smiled, theatrically, the sort of smile she imagined could get him most anything he wanted. She scowled up at him, determined not to smile back.

"Laden down with so much fruit?" he said. "However would I get down?"

"I don't know, climb? Jump? It's not like it could – wait no."

Killian appeared to follow her command, leaning forward on a thick branch. It wasn't even that far to the ground, and though he was clearly joking, Emma startled to her feet, reaching up towards him. He halted, the merry expression on his face fading back into something with which she was more familiar. A few more of the fruits fell to the ground, and he climbed gingerly back down through the branches. He leapt off the lowest, landing before her with a soft thud.

"I'm sorry, Emma," he said, quietly. "I'm only trying to…"

He shook his head, and leaned down to pick up two of the fruits. They were small, but plump. She took one from his hand, and squeezed just until the skin broke. Like the tree itself, it bled a bright red, the juice spilling down through her fingers. It smelled sweet, and fresh, reminding her of things that grew deep in the wilds of the Enchanted Forest.

"How do we know this isn't poisonous?" she said.

Killian shrugged. "I know of few poisons that can stay the Dark One, and none of them come from the forests of this realm."

"Yeah, but – "

Like the fool that he was, he took a bite from his own, and swallowed. She glared at him, and he smiled down at her, again with theatrics. Red, wet lips stretched over his teeth. Something low in her belly twisted, and she glared harder.

"You're an idiot," she said.

He took another bite, and bounced on his toes. In that moment, he reminded her of her brother, young and carefree. Smiling so hard that his eyes crinkled up. Killian looked like anything but the Dark One, wearing a face meant to comfort her, of all things. It was a farce, Emma knew, but the intent was true. His bright eyes looked almost purple in the burgeoning starlight, stained red by the otherworldly leaves on the tree above, no sign of darkness.

"Aye," he said, when he'd eaten the last of it. Only three bites to the core, a tender little fruit that gushed as though it were harvest time, though it was only just spring. He licked his fingers, and Emma found herself fighting against the urge to bury her hands back in his hair.

Something's changed, a voice said. If he worms his way into your heart, how long before he breaks his way out?

Love is a weapon, dearie.

Love, Emma scoffed. She did all she could to quiet them, but they only grew louder, more insistent, offering up all the ways that Killian could hurt her.

What would your parents think of you now? Allying yourself with this wretched man.

He's destroyed a kingdom, by his own tacit admission. Surely, he has no love in his heart, only hatred.

Hatred that's bound to hurt you.

Retreat from him. At least you can be cowards, together.

Emma breathed out harshly through her nose, and closed her eyes. She crushed the fruit in her hand, and tried to shut out the noise. She hummed under her breath, recalling a song her crew would often sing during long, sunny days at sea. Only just the chorus, over and over.

Until, quite suddenly, the noise dissolved, like the morning sun stealing away the fog. She felt cool, sticky fingers on her cheek. Warm, sweet breath washed over her face, stirring her hair and lingering on her lips. She opened her eyes, and nearly startled again, a shock of blue, tufts of dark hair pulling sideways in the wind. Often, he seemed to be made of stone, pulled from the earth, liquid obsidian, fashioned to drag the world down with him. Yet here, standing before her, his eyes leaping back and forth between her own, falling to her lips when she blinked, he was only flesh. She listened, hard, with her magic, and could hear his lungs expanding, his tongue gliding over his teeth, before he smiled at her as though nothing was at stake.

"I've heard surprise turns the darkness off," Killian said, quietly. His hand lingered, and he tilted his head while he followed the path her tears had taken an hour or so ago. He drew his fingers along her cheeks, and she wondered if the tracks remained, or if he merely wanted to touch her.

"Yeah," she said, too stunned to speak in earnest. "I, uh, crushed the fruit you gave me. I'm sorry."

"It's no trouble." He stepped back, and bent down, reaching for one of the others. He placed it gently in the palm of her hand. "Grace fails us even at the best of times…doesn't it, Swan?"

Emma gave him a look in response to the name, though she said nothing. Without a second thought, she bit into the fruit. It was sweet, a little sour. The skin was soft, like that of a peach, though the flesh was blood red. She threw the core beside his when she was finished, feeling oddly refreshed, though it satisfied a hunger that was not really there.

"Thanks," she said. "Sorry about…you know, being so testy."

Killian quirked a brow. "I don't think you should ever apologize to me, Emma. I'm sorry that you had to leave your friend. I'm sorry that this task we've undertaken grows more difficult with every step. I'm sorry that the darkness…" He sighed, and the young, almost cavalier attitude he was wearing melted away. Bright eyes darkened, and an unburdened face grew weary. "…well it always survives, doesn't it?"

Emma looked away. When Killian sighed, she could still feel it on her face.

"So," he said, pausing until he caught her eye. "Where to, your highness?"

"You have a say in this too, you know."

"Aye, but darling, I fear it's you who has more to lose."

Emma frowned. "Just as long as you don't lose the darkness, right?"

Killian looked down at his feet. Decades of sorrow seemed to well up, and she watched as the darkness began to take back its hold on him. Emma sighed, and felt chagrined, though a part of her couldn't bring itself to regret what she'd said.

He came with you because he was worried for him,she reminded herself. Not out of any nobility.

Rumpelstiltskin tittered. Yes, more of a rat than a Dark One.

You, shut up.

"That was the deal," he said. He lingered on the word deal with distaste, his lips curling back over his teeth. It was incredible to Emma, his capacity to become many different men in the span of one day. She remembered his insistence, again and again – I am the Dark One. – and wondered if that was just one of the prices he paid for the things he'd done, warring with the darkness over who he was.

"What do you want to do?" he said, at length.

He wouldn't look at her. Last light had faded, and the stars were shining brightly. He stepped out from beneath the branches of the tree, and looked up. Emma followed his gaze, and remembered the great arcs of magic in the sky that she had seen through his eyes, the threads that moved the realms. When she looked hard enough, they began to shimmer faintly in the sky. They were just as quiet and coldly beautiful as the stars, though they offered no guidance.

"What if we sought out the wizard?" Emma said.

Killian scowled, darkly.

"The heir of Camelot is the key, Emma," he said. "If this wizard is truly as far north as the seer suggested, it would be a fool's errand, and a terribly long one at that. Better to find the heir first, as you said."

"Yeah, but we have no idea where she is. Maybe that's where the wizard comes in. He can help us find her."

"And he will surely demand a price. All magic does. If we seek out this wizard, and he demands more than you are willing to give, then what are you left with? Better to cast a locator spell on the dagger, and try to outrun Mordred, than to waste your days in the company of wizards, of thieves."

"Thieves?"

Killian inclined his head, an arch expression on his face. He looked over his shoulder, and was drawn to a sluggish stream that cut around the base of the great, bone-white tree. There along the water's edge, he paced in tight circles. He looked down, clearly agitated, his fingers digging into his neck as he stared hard at his reflection. Curious, Emma followed him, and did the same, watching with grim fascination as several figures appeared behind them. But when she turned around, no one was there. Killian did not appear to be surprised by this. He sneered at the water, and turned back to the sky.

"This is getting really frustrating, you know," she said.

"What is?"

"You are. It's like you only ever let me know one part of you at a time, and you never tell me which it is. You clearly have some kind of history that's affecting this quest, and yet – "

"That was ages ago, Swan, and you heard it yourself, it's legend, it could only affect the ancestors of those alive today."

Emma growled, her nails digging into her palm. Don't ask me, he'd begged. She asked him anyway –

"What happened?"

"I happened. Must you know all the gory details?"

"If I'm going to spend day and night with you, then yes."

"You'll have to take it from me," he snarled. An unnatural shadow enveloped his face, and he stared at her through a fog, bright eyes breaking through. "You'll have to tear it from my mind. Enter if you can, but don't expect to be able to leave. I never could."

"You think I'd do that to you?"

"That bloody seer certainly did. And she was not the first. But I suppose I cannot blame them. There is clearly something about me that predisposes itself to being violated, to being owned."

Emma could only stare up at him. It was clear that, at several points in his long life, he'd been broken open, and now he waited, as if she was capable of doing the same.

Aren't you? the darkness wondered.

He hides in a gilded cage, because without it, he is nothing.

Own him, Emma, and then perhaps you can be free.

She bit down her tongue, and could taste the blood flooding into her mouth. When she breathed, the air felt warm, and smelled of copper.

"That's not true," she said.

Killian shook his head. "There is nothing you can say that will make this any better."

Emma wanted to scream. She wanted to rage at him, and the darkness that had taken him, in equal measure. She reminded herself that he had taken it upon himself, that he was built from many pieces, most of which she did not know. He was like no one she had ever met.

"You still owe me two questions, you know," she reminded him.

He looked down at his feet, curling in on himself. "Aye."

"New rule. You can choose not to answer them."

His brow climbed, lost beneath a thick lock of his hair, turned over in the breeze.

"But then they don't count," she said.

To her infinite relief, he smiled, hardly a quirk of the corners of his mouth, but a smile all the same.

"You can't change the rules in the middle of a game," he said.

"Watch me."

He nodded, absently, halfway in darkness, half in the light. He twirled the rings on his fingers, he shuffled on his feet, he tugged at his ears, all manner of distractions. When he began to chew on his bottom lip, she reached out to stop him, grabbing onto the sleeve of his coat. As ever, the runes flared. When he looked at her, they flared brighter still.

"Okay, so be honest," she said. "Why do you trust the seer and not the wizard, whoever he is?"

"Wizards are not to be trusted," he answered, slowly. "You never know from whence they came, who they truly are."

"Okay, well, I still think we should go. What, are we just going to use blood magic, and put Mordred on our trail?"

To Emma's surprise, his face crumbled, and he pleaded with her.

"Emma, please. There are several purveyors of magic in the north, and none of them can promise you any good. It is a wasteland. In all of my travels, never have I encountered a place more desolate, more punishing. I will help you find the heir, but I cannot help you find what you seek in the north."

"So, what, you'd just leave? After everything that's happened?"

He seemed frustrated, reaching up to tug at his hair. "Bloody hell, Emma, no. I wouldn't."

"But you just said – "

"I know what I said!" he shouted. His voice rang clear. A few skittish animals startled, faint plops heard up and down the stream, where they sought cover beneath the water's surface. He sighed, and continued, quietly, "I only meant…it should be a last resort. Mordred's power will grow, while we travel the realm on foot. How much time do you think we have?"

"Not much," she admitted.

Emma reached down, and fiddled with the pommel of Excalibur. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. She had a choice, to cast the spell, and take their chances, or to spend ages traveling to the north, so far that nothing grew, starved for light and warmth.

The darkness suggested a third. You have no obligation to these people. You didn't start this war.

She huffed. But I'm going to end it.

"So," she said. "Blood magic, then?"

The darkness recoiled.

Killian nodded. "I suggest that we – "

"Get far enough away from this place that Mordred doesn't catch on to Merlin's spell, the location of the Isle?"

"Aye, and – "

"We should go north, in case we do have to seek out the wizard. If we have to backtrack…well, that's life."

"I wonder that I ever speak at all in your presence."

Emma smiled. It felt wooden, fleeting, dissolving quickly into darkness. And then, turning up through the trees, along the sloping path, so did they, their path decided.

"The Isle of Apples," Killian said. "Seems much more appropriate now."

Emma agreed. It had been several days since they left Guinevere and Lancelot behind at the village. The forest was awash in more and more color the longer they walked. The great, mourning trees near the town's edge had given way to the smaller, gentler sort, bearing familiar fruits. The mighty oaks had leaves of red or orange or yellow. It must have been magic, for it was still early spring. Travelling for so many days, with no rest, the earth and air began to change, the nights growing longer and the sun slanting lower in the sky.

As they walked, several meadows began to open alongside the streams, sodden ground flush with reeds. Willow saplings bent over the water. They looked like young women letting out their hair, the leaves as red as cool fire. The morning light led them from there through a thick glade of apple trees. Emma admired them, and though Killian offered to climb them as he had before, to reach the very best of the very oldest trees, she refused.

"I've never really liked apples anyway," she said.

"A terrible coincidence, then, considering this forest, this Isle of Apples, never ends."

"You've lived a thousand years, and yet you can't stand a couple weeks of walking in the forest."

"I've lived less than half that," he corrected, unnecessarily. Killian stopped in the very center of the glade, where the whorl of trees appeared to converge. A knot of mossy roots jutted out from below the earth, and he leapt on it, contemplating an overripe apple that hung right before his eyes. "These apples appear to be unaware of the season. Hardly planting time, and these are all inedible."

"Which is irrelevant to you."

"Just because I won't die without it, doesn't mean I can't enjoy it."

He looked at her and, absurdly, his brow wiggled. He was teasing her, or flirting with her. Emma laughed, softly, and, before she could second guess herself, laid her hand on his chest and pushed. He stumbled off the knot, the most graceless thing she'd ever seen him do. He looked caught between offense and laughter, surrendering to the latter when she smiled at him.

"Leave the fruit alone," she said.

"As you wish."

Killian had been quiet through the night, which puzzled her now that he seemed almost cheery. There was something farcical about it, a mask he wore. One that peeled away in darkness. It seemed to her that he didn't like the dark, but that he loved the stars. Emma had caught his eye several times after the moon set, when the shadows had grown thick and acrid. He'd look at her like he wanted something, and then look away.

She wondered if he was afraid she would ask him about his past, where he had lived, where he had worked, about the tattoo on his arm, about the legacy he'd built.

You'll have to take it from me.

The darkness still prodded at her to do just as Killian had goaded. He walked beside her, through tufts of tall grass, the fabric of his coat swishing softly, his face turned towards the light. It cast harsh shadows beneath his hair, under his nose. It glinted off his hook. All at once, he looked boyish, yet capable of the things that legend said he had done.

The dichotomy of a worthless Dark One, one voice said.

At least his early days were not quite so fruitless.

Not quite so bloodless either.

Emma startled. What?

Well you'll have to ask him, now won't you, dearie?

Oh, how she wanted to. But Emma ignored them fastidiously, while she watched Killian walk ahead of her, drawn to a little body of water in the glade, a living mirror. She waited apprehensively, for him to see something terrible, for his face to twist back into a monster.

"Why are you always going to the water?" she said. "Don't you…you know, see scary things?"

"From time to time," he answered. "Not enough to convince me to stop."

Emma stepped beside him, and gazed down into the pool. Their reflections stared back up. The darkness stirred restlessly inside, but did not appear in the water.

"Why?" she repeated.

He sighed. "Is this one of your questions, Swan? Your last one, as I recall."

"Are you going to keep calling me Swan?"

One corner of his mouth twitched. "Follow the swan of the stars."

He did turn to look at her, then, his face close enough to touch. It was curious, she thought, how her skin still prickled where she had touched him in the village, days ago. How, as they walked among the trees, her fingers curled, remembering the shape of his jaw. Among the magic, and the intrigue, the threat of war, seeking a young heir to rebuild a kingdom – all of these things, and yet all Emma wanted, in that moment, was to draw him back to her. She imagined what it would be like, how he would look at her. If the Dark One would step between them, or if they would be cowed in the face of Emma's desire. She wondered if it was merely a distraction, for when she thought of him – of the shape of his mouth and hand, the natural color of his eyes, the way his skin had felt against her cheek – the voices of the darkness were oddly silent.

"I had a brother," Killian confessed, quietly, after some time. "He was my captain, and I was his lieutenant. Before and after his death, I lived upon the water. As long as I tread the sea, through several lifetimes, she never betrayed me. Even in storms, she was always a comfort. That is why I go to the water."

"This isn't the sea," she said, gesturing at the pool.

"All water becomes the sea."

She nodded, though she wasn't quite sure if it was true.

"I have a brother," she said.

"So you've said…" He looked curious, hesitantly so. Emma waited. "What…what's he like?"

She smiled. "He looks like my mother, but he acts like my father. He always has this sly expression on his face, like he knows more than he does. He'll be twelve this summer, and he's already more suited for the crown than I ever was."

"I wouldn't be quite so sure."

"I would. His name is Leopold – " Killian grimaced. " – yeah, I know, my father hated it. But not so much anymore. I'm his duckling, and Leo is his little lion cub. He likes the animal metaphors."

Killian laughed, quietly. "Clearly."

"I used to resent him," she admitted. "But then I realized, that's how it's supposed to be. Things are supposed to get better. He plays more than he should, and curses like a fucking sailor. He prefers the forest to the sea…" Emma sighed. The last she had seen him, he had hugged her goodbye, demanding she bring him back a new pet, something he'd never seen before, all while their mother and father shook their heads vehemently behind him. "He's perfect."

"So was mine. And yet – "

"Annoying."

"Pigheaded."

"He never shuts up."

"He was stifling, ordering me about."

She tilted her head. "I can't imagine that."

He looked surprised. "Truly? You're worse than he ever was by spades."

Emma opened her mouth to protest, when a bright shock of plumage arced just over his head, and landed on Killian's shoulder. She blinked, recognizing the species, the individual even, a scuff on its beak, and a little leather strap around its leg. She gasped, and smacked Killian's arm, just where the sleeve of his coat met the shoulder, her fingers digging into the leather. The little bird leapt from her perch, fluttering before landing back on her fingers. She broke out in a familiar song.

"Ow," Killian said, and looked down at the bird. "What the bloody hell is this?"

"It's a bird," Emma answered.

"Aye, I do indeed recognize birds. But – "

"She's one of my mother's."

Killian's eyes widened, and he stood still, watching as Emma curled her fingers, the way her mother had taught her, and brought the bird to eye level. It sang on, unperturbed. Emma imagined she had flown for days and days, over sea and land. Her sleek feathers glistened, clearly under the influence of some sort of magic, likely blood magic, so that it could find her.

"Regina," Emma whispered. If only the bird had brought some more.

"There's something on its leg," Killian said.

"Yeah, probably a message…"

She bit down on her cheek, hard. Moisture flooded her eyes. It was easy to pretend, when it was just she and Killian, that she was living in a half-dream, wandering through nightmares. The connection to her parents made it seem real. Emma swallowed, and pulled the little tube from the bird's leg. She grabbed Killian's hook, and the bird stepped easily from her hand to the blunt curve. Curious, she pecked softly at it, a tinny ping. Clearly enchanted, Killian grinned. A flash of teeth, disappearing quickly when he looked back at Emma.

"What does it say?" he said.

Emma's fingers trembled, so much so that she could hardly free the parchment from its parcel. When she did, she unrolled it, slowly and carefully. The message inside was written in a familiar shorthand.

"Dearest Emma," she translated, a lump in her throat. "Word has spread throughout the kingdoms. King Arthur is dead, and Camelot claims that you and one other are responsible. August and Josephine explained what truly happened, but our kingdom's hands are officially tied. We know that you traverse the wilds of Camelot, but we do not know why. Neither do we know why you trust the man who did kill the king…"

Emma glanced up at Killian. He frowned back at her.

"I'm glad you did," she said, and his expression softened, marginally. She turned back to the parchment, flipping it over. "…but we do trust you, duckling. War, it seems, is inevitable, but we care for you, first and foremost. Return this parchment, and unofficially, we will give you whatever it is that you need. We love you, and know beyond doubt, that you will always find us. Signed, your loving mother and father."

Emma's lower lip quivered, and she bit down into the flesh. She looked up at Killian helplessly.

"I don't have anything to write with," she said, mournfully. One stubborn tear escaped, and she swiped it away.

"And you said light magic wouldn't be useful," Killian scolded, not unkindly. "Just rearrange the ink."

Emma frowned. "I – "

" – can do it, Swan."

"You really think so?"

Killian smiled, though he looked sad. "I would not say it if I did not think it were true. You would know."

Emma flushed, and turned back to the parchment. She held her breath, and pressed her fingers against the ink. The darkness squirmed, thrashing in its cage. The light lay buried deep within, lost in the fog. She reached for it, desperately, and breathed out, just as the ink began to swirl on the page, writing back with only as much detail as she dared. It was messy, but readable, and she tucked the message back at the little bird's leg, still singing away on her perch, talons clasped tightly on the smooth hook.

"My ship," Emma said, sorrow snapping into anger. "There's a town on the northern coast called Weir. It should be no more than a few days from here. I want my ship back."

Killian quirked a brow, clearly impressed.

"I told you I studied the coast."

"Won't they recognize her?" he said.

"Him. And no, he was built in the Enchanted Forest. The wood is just as enchanted."

"Him," Killian echoed, and shook his head. "Is that all you asked for?"

"Do you think we ought to ask for anything else?"

He stepped closer, his boots nudging hers.

"Follow the swan of the stars," he said, prophecy turned to litany. "You do what you think is best, Swan. I've been alive far longer than any man should have to be, yet I could not pretend to know the world as you do. I've been away from it for too long."

She flushed, and looked back down at the bird, reaching out to stroke at her feathers. Her song became softer, and she leapt to Emma's fingers.

"Go home, little bird," she said, feeling bereft, even before she was out of sight.

Goodbye, she thought. Killian's hook fell back to his side, and he watched the sky until it was empty.

"Goodbye," he said, and reached down for her hand. His rings, cold and sharp, bit into her skin, but his flesh was warm and soft. Emma sighed, and wondered if that creature was the last she'd ever know of her parents. She closed her eyes, and squeezed Killian's hand. Ever an enigma, light and dark, man and monster, he squeezed back.

"Quite a burden for one so small," Killian said, well into the afternoon. When Emma blinked up at him, he clarified, "The bird, I mean."

Distracted, all she said was – "Oh." – while she silently contemplated him, wondering if he'd meant what he'd said. Again and again, he would tell her, Follow the swan of the stars. He reminded her whenever they spoke, if not so explicitly, then by looking her in the eye and calling her Swan.

Why would anyone follow you? the darkness wondered aloud.

Especially with all these irritating voices in my head, she spat.

"I'm pretty sure she was enchanted," Emma said, at length. "Just something to keep her from getting tired."

Killian only hummed.

"Have you really been thinking about the bird all this time?"

"No, not as such."

He didn't seem keen to elaborate, so Emma needled.

"Then what have you been thinking about?" she said.

Killian looked down at her, as though surprised she had asked. He hesitated.

"Only that…the greatest burdens often fall on those who least deserve them."

Emma stepped closer, and craned her neck to look up at him. He nearly tripped over a fallen branch, and looked away.

"Like you?" she said.

Abruptly, familiar shadows crept back into his eyes, and they appeared to sink back into his skull, his skin growing sallow. His hook glinted dangerously in the low slanting light, and he dragged it against the bark of the trees as he walked along.

"You've no idea what I deserve," he said, in many voices, all of which she recognized. Emma allowed herself to sag when he pushed on ahead.

If you won't take him, the darkness said, then we will.

They walked until night had nearly fallen. Killian refused to speak a word, pouring over the landscape like sluggish water. It reminded her of the second time she had seen him, thundering through Arthur's castle.

It was only a marginal relief when the brilliant colors of the Isle began to fade, when what felt like summer bent back over into spring. Cold air bit powerlessly at her face, and the young, green leaves of the deciduous trees curled inwards. Little flowers peeked hesitantly through the earth. Emma longed to leave the strange forest behind her, tired of walking, tired of thinking, tired of waiting for Killian to rise and fall like the tide. He trembled even as he walked, like a broken machine. Another hour, last light painted blue against the horizon, and Emma led them to the banks of a sandy stream, half in hope that the water would calm him.

It did not.

"We can cast the spell here," she said. He nodded. "Uh, we need a map."

Killian drew his dagger from its sheath, and stepped towards the sand. She peered over his shoulder as he crouched down. Water pooled at his feet, seeping from the sand. He looked up at the stars. Emma watched, and carved him in high relief, there in her mind. When he leaned back down, for just a moment, she was certain he would crack in two.

"There you are, Princess," he said, after some time. He stepped away, and there at his feet lay a crude map of the realm.

Though…she moved closer, and found it wasn't very crude at all. She recognized the jut of three of Misthaven's largest ports. The town to the north, Weir, situated along the innards of a small cove, was also visible.

"This is…really nice," she said, impressed. Emma drew out Aldan's dagger from her side, the jewels, the weight, the curve, all uncomfortable in her grasp. But she gripped it hard all the same, hovering over the map. She hesitated. "Shouldn't you be doing this?"

He scowled, and his hook trembled.

"Trust me, darling," he said, "you don't want me to touch dark magic."

Are you alright? she thought. She knew it would do no good to ask, so she turned back to the map, shuffling nervously on her feet, licking her lips.

We'll do whatever you ask, the voices taunted.

Yes indeed, dearie, just say the word.

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, loud and long. Emma considered putting the dagger away, insisting that they seek the wizard. But she had already called on the darkness, and it began to rise. The light within flickered, growing dim. Emma had used the darkness before, but now that it knew her, it crawled between her broken pieces, wrenching them open. It began to seep out of her skin, twining down her arm, and around the ornate dagger. The blood, long dried, grew warm and red. The magic burned.

And yet, it felt good. Rushing through like a balm to her ills, singing in her blood. All of the turmoil faded, a pleasant numbness everywhere she prodded. Emma watched Lancelot's blood drip down to the sand, power pushing it along its track. The magic crested within, and she wondered why she had ever held back.

Yes, good, they said. Keep going.

The blood wound its way around and around, before arcing back up through the sea. Before it even came to a stop, Emma knew.

"The northern islands," she said. Killian took a step forward, nearly crushing the map. His jaw jumped, again and again. The droplet stalled, and they both leaned over it. She, to commit it to memory. He…well, he'd made it no secret that he despised the wizards of the north.

"There she is," Emma said. She breathed in, and breathed out, the taste of something sickeningly sweet filling her mouth. She licked her teeth, rolled her tongue, and found nothing. "We should go."

"No," Killian said.

"No? Do you want to be caught?"

"No, it's not possible. This place...she's travelled west of the frozen village."

Emma recalled the words of the seer. "Oh gods. She's gone to see the wizard."

"Aye...perhaps."

Two birds with one stone, she thought, and then shook her head. They didn't have time to linger. Killian lingered beside the map, and made a harsh noise of protest when she kicked it over and over, until no sign remained. Darkness began to pool in Excalibur's scabbard, burning through the leather and dripping to the ground.

"Killian!" she shouted, when it seemed he might stay behind. He startled when she grabbed his hand. Emma tugged, until he was running alongside her.

Emma didn't have to see the portal to know that it was behind them, the terrible sound of rock grinding through soil. She ran as hard as she could, but soon, heavy, clanking footsteps followed. She knew the soldiers would grow tired eventually, and that she and Killian would not, but still her heart seized.

"Ah, Princess Emma!" Mordred called.

Emma allowed her feet to carry her to the east, through a thicket of honeysuckle. The branches scratched against her face. Killian grunted beside her, but he did not falter.

"So kind of you to call over," Mordred said, his voice slightly more distant. Tall, and wearing heavy armor, she imagined he would be the first to fall behind. But other feet still kept pace. "Your parents didn't take too kindly to the last letter I sent. I suppose demanding your head as the only condition for amnesty was a bit much."

Emma tried to detach herself, she tried. But the darkness still sung through her blood. Power like she'd never felt, demanding to be released. She halted, and turned, four soldiers nearly upon them.

"Emma, no!" Killian shouted, and grabbed at her hand, urging her along.

She wondered if the darkness, in all its might, had some measure of control over time as well. For it all ground to a crawl when one of the soldiers, a wicked gleam in her eye, drew a throwing dagger from her belt. Some kind of dark magic poured from its tip, and Emma watched as it tore through the air, severing a young, tender branch from a shrub before missing her by the width of a hair, and sinking deep into Killian's back, between his ribs. She knew they were immortal, that mortal weapons would do them no harm. But these soldiers and their weapons smelled of the same magic that Mordred commanded through the charm around his neck. Killian cried out, a terrible sound, long and sharp.

The darkness within, quick and menacing, demanded a price. Emma obeyed, and gave herself over to it, sweeping her hand violently. The four soldiers, their bones twisted, a sickening noise as they collapsed in towards their tender, mortal flesh. They fell, and before they even hit the ground, Emma came back to herself, and watched in horror as blood began to pool beneath them.

Run, the darkness commanded. Killian panted at her side, and fell to his knees, tears leaking out of his eyes. Mordred approached, his heavy footsteps drawing near. Without the time to consider whether or not the dagger should be removed from his back, Emma grabbed Killian's hand, dragging him to his feet. He screamed, in so many voices, it pierced the canopy and echoed through the sky.

Even so, Killian followed, and with unnamable terror at their heels, they did as the darkness commanded, and ran.