Warnings: Blood, violence

Notes: Thank you guys so much for your favorites/follows/comments. They're very encouraging. I hope you enjoy this next chapter! Chapter ten goes up on Saturday.

Chapter Nine

Emma nearly fell into the water when she scrambled up the hull of her ship, and over the gunwale. August and Jo reached down to pull her onto the deck. For one precious moment, unadulterated joy bubbled over, and Emma threw her arms around both of them in turn. The ship smelled of both fresh and well-worn paint alike. The sails had been replaced, a gentle and beautiful fabric that rippled in the breeze. The helm gleamed in the starlight, and the deck was freshly scrubbed.

"Your mother and father would have rebuilt the entire ship if they'd had the time," Jo said, kicking at the deck.

August shrugged, long-suffering, but fond. "It was difficult to convince them not to come themselves, but there have already been skirmishes at the border between Misthaven and Camelot. We can't risk the King and Queen on the open sea."

Emma nodded, and swiped at the tears that stung her eyes.

"I know, I know," she said. "They should stay in Misthaven."

Jo smiled sadly. Uncharacteristically, she seemed to be out of things to say. Her hands were poised on her hips. She looked weary, though fire still burned behind her eyes. Her hair coiled in the damp, spring air, and she managed to look somehow older and younger than ever before. Emma reached out, and squeezed her shoulder. Jo's smile widened, and she nodded over towards the gunwale.

"Have you been taking good care of my husband?" she said.

Emma turned, and watched as Killian climbed easily aboard. He looked over the masts and sails, the helm and the deck. His eyes lingered on the bowsprit, jutting at a high, proud angle. Shadows still bit at his heels, and his hook and hand still shook faintly at his side. Even so, he grinned winsomely when he looked at Jo.

"Indeed she has, my lady," he said. He bowed before her, taking her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. When he stepped away, he was distracted once more by the ship, leaning back to look at the fighting top, eyes twinkling. For just a moment, silence predominated, and the joyousness of the reunion faded. August cleared his throat, and caught Emma's eye.

"Emma, I don't mean this to sound distrustful," he hedged, "but what the hell are you doing here? When your parents asked Jo and I to sail Jack to Weir, I thought for sure they'd gone mad."

"We met a seer in the forest..." Emma began. She closed her eyes, and shook her head. "Actually, never mind, the story is too long. We're looking for the heir of Camelot."

August frowned, a distasteful expression on his face. "If you're talking about Mordred, you don't have to look too far. He was in Misthaven's courts hardly two weeks ago."

She breathed in, harshly, alarmed. "What?"

"Oh yeah," Jo said. "He's terrible. He declared war like he was discussing the weather."

"It's a shame your parents didn't have him gutted when they had the chance," Killian said.

"Stab him until he dies, yes, that was my second suggestion."

Killian smiled, clearly amused. "What was the first?"

"More importantly – " Emma gestured wildly between them. " – he declared war?"

"Essentially," August said. "He demanded that you and your companion…" He paused, then, and looked Killian over, a suspicious appraisal. Killian – eyes dark, a deep blue bleeding faintly out and into the whites – stared back, unblinking.

"…that you both be given over to Camelot's courts within the month," August finished, slowly, "or they will take up arms."

Emma tugged at her braid. The world crumbled beneath her feet, and all she could do was chase after a woman who may not even want to be found, whose family was the key to restoring peace in Camelot. With their wisdom, guidance, and military force, Emma was certain the land would be lost to Mordred's design. She felt helpless, and angry. She shuffled on her feet, casting shadows that rose to speak in her ear.

It's not as though we haven't won wars before, they said. Destroy their courts. How can they find you, how can they kill your family and friends, when they're rotting in the ground?

Emma indulged the vision, if only for a moment.

"We have to find the heir," she said, quietly, feeling unsettled. "The people of Camelot broke into two factions when Misthaven still warred with Regina and the Black Knights. If we find the heir, we can reunite the people. She and her family, they can repair their kingdom, and prevent Mordred from darkening not only his own kingdom, but those around him. If we can't find her, if we fail…"

Then perhaps you'll consider another option? Rumpelstiltskin suggested, laughing when Emma sneered.

"Then we go to war."

They were all silent for a moment. Misthaven had suffered war before, at dire consequence. The kingdom, small as it was, had rebuilt itself beautifully. The passion of the people who had carried them to victory, it laid down the brick and mortar that tugged them all out of despair and poverty. Emma knew her people would lay down their lives. She wondered if she could put a stop to it, or if her life was fated to be a cycle of violence, until at last death took her.

"So," Jo said, at length. "King Arthur had a daughter?"

"No," Emma answered. "Aldan is Guinevere and Lancelot's daughter."

August startled. "Lancelot? Married your mother and father, helped us when we were kids, disappeared and assumed dead, Lancelot?"

She smiled, faintly, and recalled his face, older, written over with lines, smiling down at her with affection.

"Yeah," she said. "Him."

"How?"

"I'm not kidding, August, it's a long story."

He was not satisfied. "So, a faction of Camelot returns with the royal family…and we think that alone will put a stop to this? It could turn the war inward. Camelot could devour itself."

Emma thought of her mother, tireless and full of hope, leading where no one else could. The darkness reached out and grabbed a hold of that thought, and tried to twist it to ruin –

There is always hope, Emma, she recalled, in her mother's gentle voice.

I didn't think you were the sentimental type, dearie.

– but it failed.

"We have to have hope," Emma said. "If we don't, we've already lost."

August hesitated, just long enough to stare hard into her eyes. Confusion, skepticism, they wore away, and gradually gave over to unerring trust.

"Alright, Princess," he said, "what next?"

"We sail to the northern isles," she said. "The locator spell we cast puts Aldan there as of ten days ago. Which we can't cast again because, uh…well a portal sort of appears every time we use dark magic."

"Sorry..." Jo laughed, humorless. "A portal?"

"It's like I said. Long story."

"Aye," Killian said, "and we don't have time to linger. Mordred's guards have infected Weir, and likely every bloody village in the province. The longer we stay, the more likely it is that we fail in this quest, and your kingdom falls back into war."

August looked at Killian strangely. "When did this become your problem?"

Killian hesitated. Emma could still feel him struggle, whatever war within had begun the moment he pulled her light magic out of his own darkness.

"I've not cared much for this realm for quite some time," he said, quietly. "I accepted darkness as a rule long ago, but this is something else altogether. It's unholy, and I don't intend to allow it to infect your kingdom…yours, above all others."

She felt as though it was the most honest thing he had ever said. Killian looked down at his feet, clearly unable to resist the urge to tangle his fingers in the hairs curling wildly beneath his ear. August, for all his suspicion, appeared to accept that answer, and looked at Emma, a curious expression on his face. Jo bounced on her heels, and stepped closer to Killian. She smiled up at him. Killian's hand fell back to his side, and his lips twitched.

"Don't fuck this up," she said, then looked to Emma. "Don't."

"That's very encouraging, Jo," Emma said, dryly, "thank you."

Jo's smile brightened. "You're welcome."

"We'd best weigh anchor," Killian said. "The winds are poor, and the journey will surely take several days."

Emma nodded, and began to walk towards the helm. "A week, in this weather, maybe more, maybe less. August, can you – "

"We're not going with you, Emma," he said.

"What? Why?"

August smiled faintly.

"Mordred is desperate to find you," he said. "We have correspondence from citizens of Camelot friendly to our crown, and Killian is right, there are guards in every town. He threatens war without you. Jo and I will row back to shore, and we'll lead them off your trail."

Emma protested. "But – "

"You're our friend, Emma, but you're also our Princess. We'll do whatever we have to do to help you."

Emma considered asking them to stay. But August was clever, and Jo was quick. She longed to keep them at her side, but she couldn't deny that Mordred grew closer at every turn. To reach the northern isles as quickly as possible, they would have to sail the fast current near the shore. If suspicion were turned elsewhere, they could avoid open conflict.

"You'd better be careful," Emma warned.

Jo, half over the gunwale already, grinned. "Is that an order?"

"Yes."

August squeezed Emma's shoulders, and then bowed, the height of propriety. He followed Jo down to the boat, still tied to the hull. Emma felt tears in her eyes, watching them go. She watched them as they grew smaller, bobbing towards the shore.

When last they were visible, they laid their hands on their hearts, and Emma felt the cool, solid surface of a hook against the tips of her fingers.

"They'll be alright, Swan."

She could only hope.

When the ship was set to sailing some hours later – the ropes tied, the proper sails unfurled, the enchanted helm ticking away – Emma shuffled up near the bowsprit. The endless sunrises she'd longed for spilled out before her, light of all shades caught in the waters out ahead. The wind was heavy, thick moisture in the air hinting at a fog in the afternoon. The haze dragged through the colors on the horizon, like fingers through wet paint.

Emma sighed, and pressed her hands to the gunwale, reaching down to touch the hull. It was so very quiet, and yet again, they needed to do little more than wait as they travelled north. Jack could do much of the work for them. But it was almost as much of a burden to do nothing than to be tasked with defending the kingdom in its entirety, to let silence pervade. The darkness loved the silence, chattering noisily. Emma resisted the urge to tug at her hair, and instead reached up to take hold of a loose swoop of rigging.

"You seem vexed," Killian said.

She could both feel and hear him approach. His hook brushed lightly against the fabric of her shirt. Emma turned, and he made his way even closer. When she said nothing, he sighed.

"Emma, I…"

A stiff breeze wafted across the bow, and Killian's nostrils flared. His eyes turned and turned, catching on her hands and on her boots, venturing no further than the slope of her shoulder. She might have found it amusing – for the way he appeared to try to sink below her, for the way his fingers dug into the skin behind his ear – were it not for the shameful look on his face.

"You what?" she said.

Killian shook his head, and finally looked her in the eye. There was something unbearably vulnerable in his expression, and it made her palms itch with the urge to reach out and touch him. The longer they travelled together, the harder it was to resist, to remember the reasons that she shouldn't.

"Thank you," he said, to the curl of hair that rested over her shoulder. His jaw clenched, and he looked back into her eyes. "That woman on the dock…were it not for you, I would have…"

"No," she said, quietly. "I don't think you would have."

"How can you be sure?"

The question caught her off guard. She could hear the darkness whispering to him, terrible things, she was sure. Killian winced, and Emma wondered why he did not harden himself to it.

Because he is weak, they spat.

Emma dug her nails into her palm.

He's not weak, she thought. He's strong.

"I just am," she said.

Killian looked down at his feet, and he reached up to drag his fingers through his hair. Emma watched as he sunk deeper into despair, and she stepped forward, until she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She wrapped her fingers around his and pulled them away from his neck. His lashes fluttered, but still he did not look at her.

He's pathetic, isn't he? one of the voices said. The hairs on her neck stood on end.

We ought to tell you the truth, said another. How even darkness fails him.

When Emma did not falter, they persisted.

It hasn't always been this way. A woman's voice, pleasant and accented. He found peace in the darkness. Then he's bound to you, and now even your light magic cannot soothe him.

You're torturing him.

Emma scoffed, and made a face. She was glad that Killian had shut his eyes, lashes casting long shadows over his cheeks, his fingers slack and clammy between hers.

I'm torturing him? she thought.

He's said it himself, they answered. All he wants is to keep the darkness. You fight against it, you drag him along. How long before you bring him to ruin?

"I…" Emma said, aloud, faltering. But the darkness prodded at her, and the doubts she carried began to magnify.

Don't take this from me, he'd said.

He had very nearly begged her, when he'd first agreed to help. And she had taken it from him, in a way, polluting his darkness with her light, their souls wound together so tightly that he could access her magic, could tug it out of her heart.

It's destroying him, the darkness insisted.

This isn't what he wants.

Let him go.

Let him go.

Over and over again, Let him go.

"Let me go," she said, when she could stand it no longer. Killian blinked, and looked down at her.

"Pardon?"

"Whatever happened on the docks, with the light magic…even before that, everything I've put you through. I know it's hurting you. Just…I can do this on my own. You don't have to come with me."

Killian's hand began to shake. "What?"

Emma swallowed. "Before I met you, it had to have been better than this. I can go, I can – "

Give myself to Mordred, she thought, in a voice that did not sound quite like her own. She wondered that it had not occurred to her before. Perhaps it would delay the war long enough to give them time to negotiate. Mordred was clearly consumed by madness, but he could be appeased. The voices within hummed. That they were pleased did not bode well, but Emma was desperate. Her friends could be killed in Camelot's forest, none the wiser. Killian fell apart before her. Her own kingdom, still recovering, sure to bleed dry.

Better to do these things alone, dearie.

There's nothing you can't do on your own, said another.

Do it alone, said many others. Alone, alone.

"I can go to Mordred," she said.

"Emma," Killian said, stumbling back, as though she had struck him. "No."

"What if that's the only way? I can't believe I didn't think of it before now. How could an heir, one woman, unite the people of Camelot?"

"Merlin's spell is nearly broken. It's hardly one woman. An entire faction of Camelot will return." He leaned down, and caught her eye. "This isn't you talking, Swan."

She huffed. "It is me. You've been miserable. And now my light is pouring into you and the darkness is seething. I can hear it when it whispers at you, you know. I don't know what it's saying to you, but it's driving me mad."

Killian's eyes darkened, but the expression on his face, desperate and vulnerable and wild, remained.

"You think your light is hurting me?" he said.

Emma nodded. His hand was still in hers, and he brought them both up to his chest. He pressed her fingers over his heart, and shuffled on his feet until his boots nudged against hers.

"The darkness is desperate to be rid of you," he said, quietly. "Can't you tell? Your light isn't hurting me, they are."

"But this won't stop. You told me not to take the darkness from you. That's exactly what I'm doing."

He sneered, and his hand tightened on hers. "Fuck the darkness. I don't want it anymore."

The voices, they shouted at her, in a dizzying array of languages and dialects, but with all her might, Emma focused only on Killian. The shadows drained from his face, and the man stood before her, pleading with her not to go.

"Take it," he said. "Take all of it. I can still feel you, your light, warring with the darkness. It is painful, Swan, I won't deny it." He paused, and let go of her fingers, reaching out to lay his hand on her shoulder. His fingers brushed against her neck, thumb pressing into her collarbone. "But I swear to you, I don't want it. I only want you."

His jaw snapped shut, as though he had realized what he said. Emma waited for him to take it back, to step away. But he only stared at her.

"I..." Killian said, and paused to glance down at her nose, her cheeks, her lips. Then, quietly. "I only want you."

"You'd give up the darkness?" she said.

For me? she wondered.

He nodded – whether at her words or thoughts or both – and tilted his head. The morning light, brilliant and awash with color, caught his eyes, and she held her breath.

"Aye," he answered.

Why? she thought.

When did you change your mind?

Are you sure?

Emma breathed out against his neck. She thought many things, but none she could voice. Her hand gravitated towards the lapel of his coat. The runes, mysterious and beautiful, glowed brightly. With the other, she touched his hook, her pinky curling around the tip. She shuffled closer, until her chest pressed against his, and he sighed, warm breath washing over her lips.

I only want you too, she thought, and she stood on her toes. Her hand found its way into the hairs at the back of his neck, and she pressed her mouth to his. It was only a slight pressure, her lips closing over his. She could feel his beard, tickling her face. The darkness, like lamp oil in the rain, washed away. He tasted sweet, and though his hand fell to his side, he pressed back. A few, chaste seconds, and then Killian pulled away with a soft noise, his bottom lip catching on hers. He looked down at her, eyes wide, a disbelieving expression on his face.

"I'm – "

I'm sorry, she'd meant to say.

But then, with sudden abandon, Killian tangled his fingers in her hair, his hook resting on her waist. Open and wanting, his mouth slid against hers, his tongue pulling languorously over her own, over her teeth, the seam of her lips, then back again. From his coat to his hair, from there to his waist, her hands wandered. She forgot where she was, why she was there, and could only remember the curl of Killian's hair at the back of his neck, tickling her fingertips. And the slightly uneven slant of his teeth. His nose pressed into one cheek and then the other. He kissed her with the same passion that burned behind his eyes, in the moments he allowed himself to shine through. Emma could hardly stand it, stumbling over his feet, using them for leverage to pull herself higher so that, when he broke away, she could feel his cheek, rough and prickly, against her lips. His jaw, then, and the whorls of his ear. She hid her face in his neck, her arms twined over his shoulders, palms flat against his back. Killian held her tight, his hook catching on her vest, fingers dragging along the divots of her spine, up the slope of her neck.

"I won't leave you, Emma," he said.

She believed him.

Evening fell sluggishly, but for once, the interminably slow passage of time was not entirely unwelcome. Fog had rolled in from the east, as she had suspected, but it was not dangerous. Beautiful, iron lamps hung from the port and the bow, and when dusk had settled, Killian had leaned over the edge, carefully setting them alight.

Before the sun had set, they had retreated to her cabin, where Emma's maps and compasses and sextants were locked away in a simple, wooden chest. Killian had moved through the space carefully, as though afraid he might break something, looking at everything with memories in his eyes. He'd relaxed, in stages, as she'd poured over their route. Though Jack was enchanted, and responded to her light magic, her instructors in her younger days had warned her not to rely on him overmuch. So she drew from star to star, marking their course. Killian, perhaps emboldened by how she'd practically thrown herself in his arms, stomping on his toes while she chased his mouth, had begun to circle the room, his chest brushing against her back with each pass. He was silent, save for once, when he'd leaned over her, the pommel of his dagger pressing into her back.

"Follow the swan of the stars," he'd whispered, breath wet against the back of her ear.

"Cute, but not helpful, at all," she'd said, pretending to be annoyed.

Now, upon the deck, darkness descended all around them, and they were ensconced in a bubble of warm, yellow light, lounging at the bow of the ship, with several days of travel ahead. Aside from the light fog, the weather was pleasant. Emma had sailed to the innards of the gyre, where few ships were likely to be. The waters were stagnant, but Jack was light on his feet, and the winds above were steady. So, onwards he went, while Emma sat upon the base of the bowsprit, one foot dangling high above the water, the other above the deck. Killian sat nearby, watching her with a wary expression, within an arm's reach of her leg.

"In my day, you'd be flogged for lounging on the bowsprit in such a way," he said.

"Your day was centuries ago, so that's irrelevant."

Killian snorted, an entirely undignified sound. She looked down at him, and was struck by how light he appeared, and how quiet the darkness was, hardly a murmur in the back of her mind. His eyes were nearly green in the lamplight, with flecks of blue that overtook during the waking hours. The sight of his hair, mussed by the wind, curling in the damp air, evoked something of a synesthesia in her, like a waking dream. Emma followed the curl of it with her eyes, and her fingers itched. She glanced at his lips, and felt as though she could taste him on her tongue.

Live for the moments, Emma.

Somehow, she imagined this wasn't what her father had in mind, but she'd take his advice all the same.

"Tell me something," she said. She leaned forward, allowing her leg to swing back and forth. Killian watched it a moment, his jaw ticking, before looking back up at her.

"Like what?"

"Something good. From before the darkness, maybe? Something about you."

Killian looked wary, and she imagined that, days ago, he might have refused. But, perhaps between the taste of light magic, and the taste of her mouth – all speaking to some greater degree of freedom from the darkness – he'd allowed himself to crack open. He seemed to think on it, looking out towards the sea.

"I had a ship," he said. "Before I wrested her from their control, she belonged to my kingdom's Royal Navy."

Emma leaned forward. "Were you a pirate?"

He grinned, bright and beautiful. "Aye, I suppose I was. That's what they called us, sailing wherever and whenever we wished, to the aid of no crown. Never before had I felt so…free."

She smiled encouragingly, and he continued.

"I called her the Jolly Roger," he said."Terribly unoriginal, I know, but I named her during an impassioned speech, all while throwing my frock into the sea, and burning our Pegasus sail."

"You burned a Pegasus sail?" She imagined what Regina would have to say about that. "You could have just taken it down, used it later."

"I was afraid my kingdom would take it from me, use it to acquire the dreamshade. Of course, decades later, they'd managed to do so anyway…" He paused. It seemed he could not tell a story without skirting one bad memory or another. He sighed. "Besides that, it was quite a spectacle. The crew deferred to me immediately. Given it was my brother whom they had followed so long, the dramatics were necessary to turn their eye."

Emma ignored the mention of his brother, afraid it would lead him back into despair. "So, you admit you're just dramatic."

He quirked a brow. "It certainly has its uses. I convinced nearly two dozen men to abandon their crown and turn to a life of piracy."

"What was it like?"

"Piracy?"

She nodded.

"Well," he said. He scooted closer, and nudged his knee beneath where her foot dangled above the deck. It was cheeky, but she suspected he just couldn't hardly stand watching her sit so precariously above the water, for whatever reason. Concern couched in flirtation, perhaps. "It was frightening, at first. The Jolly Roger had been called The Jewel of the Realm, and she was indeed. The kingdom was desperate for their ship, their people, and their weapons. I spent many a night awake above deck, watching obsessively for their ships to approach. But, once we took our first schooner…well, it was like an opiate, if I'm honest. We took more and more each time, smuggling their precious cargo and selling it for wages. Some cargo…"

Killian looked up at her. He reached up, fingers wrapping lightly around her calf. When she tilted her head, he gripped harder. His flesh was warm, heat seeping down through her trousers.

"I've told you of my kingdom," he whispered, hoarsely. "Some cargo was simply immoral. That, we destroyed, or…delivered to freedom."

He drifted away for a moment, eyes turned towards the stars, but Emma pressed down against his knee, and brought him back to her.

"Eventually, we sailed further," he said, "until we were docking at desert ports. Heat like you wouldn't believe, dry and biting. The overwhelming smell of perfume, jewels glittering in a sun that sat almost directly overhead, all the year round. Lush jungles and soft beaches. We sailed north as well. That was when I first set eyes upon the northern isles. Craggy mountains and rocky shorelines, ugly and desolate. But…whales as well. Incredible, massive creatures that seemed to follow us from port to port. They scared the wits out of everyone on my ship."

Emma laughed. "The whales scared you?"

"Well, we had known krakens, you see. Other sea monsters of the sort. Who was to say we wouldn't wind up in the whales' bellies?"

She gave him a look. "Right, of course."

Killian scooted closer still, until he was almost directly beneath her. He leaned until his cheek pressed against her knee. It was a new feeling, like a wall had been breached, one she'd kissed down to rubble just that morning. He touched her with very little reticence, and she did the same, reaching out to draw one finger down the length of his jaw. He closed his eyes, and breathed out, warm air down the length of her inner thigh.

"I saw the world, Swan," he said, quietly, in a far-away voice. "It was beautiful. I saw all manner of creatures, some of which you'd never believe. We went where we pleased, and answered to no one. When I looked inside, I saw only myself."

And not the darkness, she finished, silently. For some time, he remained where he was, quiet, breathing against her leg. She moved closer, and rested her hand in his hair.

"What about you?" he said.

Killian opened his eyes. He reached out for her other leg, drawing his fingers over the sensitive flesh behind her knee. Just touching her. No intent in his eyes, content only to press his body against hers. Emma imagined it had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to touch and be touched in return.

Why don't you ask him? the darkness prodded.

You get the fuck out of here, she snapped. Her face twisted, hardly a moment, but Killian caught it, a worry line drawing between his brow.

"Swan?"

"I'm fine," she answered. "So, something good, huh?"

He nodded, slowly.

"Well, okay, uh…I told you about Jack, right? I got him when I was nineteen."

"Aye, you've said."

"Well, that is seriously a ridiculous thing to get when you're nineteen. I was practically still a child. But it was a guilt present. From my parents, really, but strongly encouraged by the woman who nearly destroyed our kingdom."

His brow climbed up towards his hairline.

"Yeah, I know. The war had dwindled to nothing but skirmishes here and there when my parents captured the Evil Queen. We had taken her back to our castle, and she was locked away in the basement, held there with some kind of…" Emma wrinkled her nose. "…really awful magic. My parents told me not to go down there. Not under any circumstances."

"I imagine you didn't take too kindly to that."

"Not at all. At first I just wanted to see her. I was curious. What was the woman who put me on the run for so long like?"

"What was she like?"

"I about pissed myself, to be honest."

He laughed.

"After the first time, I wanted to prove that I wasn't afraid of her. She tried to intimidate me. But without her elaborate dresses, or her magic, it didn't work so well, not when I realized that she couldn't lay a hand on me. But then…something started to change."

Killian seemed enthralled, leaning hard against her leg. "What?"

"I'm not sure I can explain it. I asked her questions. Endless questions. She answered. Not at first, but eventually. I guess she was bored, so she talked to me. When I was fourteen or fifteen, I can't remember, my magic started to give me trouble."

"The wiles of youth?"

"Something like that. We had tutors in the castle, some faeries that came to visit from time to time. They tried to help but I couldn't stand them. They were so pedantic. So, I went to the Evil Queen. She was awful. But also...encouraging somehow? She helped when no one else could. We became friends, I guess."

Killian looked up at her with a soft expression. His fingers had fallen away from her knee, and instead dug into her ankle. Further still she sunk down off the bowsprit, nearly in his lap.

"And how did your parents take to that?" he said.

"Oh, they were livid. I thought they were going to banish me to the tower. No matter what they did or said, I kept seeing the Evil Queen, and she kept helping. She became Regina to me. I guess she had a soft spot for children, or something, because in a matter of years, she went from sworn enemy to something of an advisor to the crown."

"Perhaps she just had a soft spot for you?" he suggested.

He shifted, and she slid until her thigh rested on his knee. His brow waggled, slyly, and Emma remained stubbornly atop the very base of the bowsprit, leaning back on her elbow.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe. Either way, the older I got, the more restless I became. I sailed as far as I could and as often as I could, but my parents wanted to groom me to rule in their stead. After a…well, it was a really nasty fight. It was the first time I suggested that I abdicate to my brother, who was only a few years old at the time. I stowed away aboard a ship bound for Agrabah. We didn't make it far before my parent's officers discovered me, and took me back home. My mother wanted me to shadow her advisers. My father just wanted me happy. Regina suggested a compromise. Give me a ship, and allow me to try my hand at being an ambassador."

Killian seemed impressed. "At nineteen?"

"I was only an honorary captain, really, and an honorary ambassador. Although…well I guess it wasn't long before I took over. Nine years later, here I am."

He hummed, eyes glittering up at her, and Emma smiled. Her arm began to shake beneath her weight, so she let go, and sat properly in his lap. Color rose in Killian's cheeks, and he shifted to let her down, but she did not go.

"Got you," he said, quietly, a bit nervously.

"Were you really so worried that I'd fall off the bowsprit? I've been on ships my whole life."

"Oh, I know. You just seemed so determined not to be dissuaded from leaving your perch, I wondered what it would take coax you down."

"Ass," she accused.

"Most definitely."

Emma did intend to leave, then. But, as before, the constant vile whir and murmur of the darkness seemed to fade away with their closeness. She could almost trick herself into believing that she did not bear their curse. She focused on the way the heat from his body wept into hers. She leaned forward, until their hips were flush. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His mouth hung open, just barely, teeth peeking out from between his lips, and his breathing was shallow. Though there was no real rhythm to it, he shifted forward, and then backwards. Emma could feel him, and followed where he led.

"Emma," he said, softly, from somewhere deep in his throat.

"What?"

When she pushed forward, gaining her balance, hips hard against his, he made a noise. It grabbed ahold of her spine, jolting down her back before settling between her legs. She breathed with him, and watched him lick his lips. He still moved beneath her, like he couldn't help himself.

"I don't think this is a good idea," he said.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Me neither."

Still they moved together, dangerously close to finding a pace. She remembered the taste of his mouth, wondered if he would taste different tonight, when the stars were muddied by a gentle haze. If his tongue would be cooled by the sea air, if the salt would sink into his flesh.

But he was right. A stilted decrescendo brought her body to a halt, and she moved away, unsteady on her own two feet. Something still haunted him, some secret he still carried. Emma wanted to tell him that the past was behind them, that it didn't matter, but he carried his darkness close to his chest. He would not let go of it quite so easily. So, she backed away, and watched the fire in his expression grow cool.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Killian shook his head. "It's not your fault, darling." He smiled crookedly. "I would not have beckoned you closer if I did not want you."

I only want you.

Emma nodded, and watched as he got to his feet. The pitch of the deck let him stand taller than her, more so than usual. She looked up at him, and though she could feel the darkness begin to struggle, wriggling down into the figurative space growing between them, he appeared gentle and calm. Whether it was a trick of the night, the moon rising in the southeast, or of her own imagining, the runes on his coat began to shimmer, faint red light seeping out of the enchanted leather.

"Maybe next time you can tell me the story behind that coat," she said.

He looked down, and fiddled with the hem. He frowned, and held out his arm, watching the magic roll gently from the fabric. When he looked back at her, there was a sharp expression on his face. But then she blinked, and it was gone. Emma wondered if she had imagined that as well.

"Aye," he said, quietly. "Perhaps."

The breaking of dawn was hardly quiet, for like them, the sea did not rest. But it was more peaceful than the forest by several degrees. Emma loved the forest. At times, she felt torn between the wood and the sea. But the darkness seemed to thrive among the trees, leaping from shadow to shadow, crawling beneath the underbrush and dripping out of the canopy. On the open waters, the shadows could not hide. Emma had brought her maps and tools above deck. She'd tied a chest to the portside rail, figuring that, if the waters grew rough, she could hide them there. But otherwise, she did not venture down below. There, more so than anywhere else on board, the darkness lurked, whispering hurtful things.

Unlike the waiting game they had played in the ruins of Weir, their journey on the sea went quickly. Dawn rolled to noon and then to night, and Emma busied herself with the scuffs and marks on the deck, what few there were. Killian walked from bow to stern, and surveyed the ship with a sailor's eye. She could hear the darkness whispering to him. Often, his jaw would clench, and he'd lurch as he walked. His face would pale, and he would stare at the water until life flooded back into his flesh. Then he would turn to her and say –

"The sea can purge any demon."

He was right.

The darkness spoke to her too. Insidious things meant to tear them apart, to make them doubt, to frighten them to inaction. When it didn't work, the shadows would slither away, sure to come back.

In the evenings, each of which grew colder and colder the further they travelled, they would sit upon the bowsprit, or on the curve of the bow, or on the fighting top. Emma would dangle her legs over the water, and he would tell her stories. Most, of his days as a pirate, in this realm and others. And some, of those he spent in the Royal Navy. She would tell him stories in turn. Lands she had visited, royalty she had met, customs and religions and languages that reminded her that the size of the realm was truly incomprehensible. He would alternately watch her eyes and her mouth as she spoke. By some silent agreement, as much as she longed to step back into his arms – and he into hers, judging by the way he looked at her – she did not.

On the ninth day, late in the afternoon, a young gull fluttered down upon the deck, a capelin writhing in its mouth. As gulls often were, it was bold, finishing its meal in its entirety before leaping to steady upon the gunwale, and then flying north.

"There are several small, virtually uninhabitable islands stretching down towards the southeast," Killian explained. "So, we're not quite as close as you'd think."

When Emma's face fell, he reached out and tugged at the sleeve of her shirt, straightening it on her shoulder until she looked up at him.

"Tomorrow morning, I'd wager," he said. "Bully for us, then, since – "

"There's a storm coming?"

"Aye, there is. Not the best time to face the northern isles, but Jack is as steady a ship as any. He'll make it through alright."

Emma nodded, and reached out to pat at the helm.

"You'll be alright, Jack," she said.

The ship groaned congenially. The wind picked up, and he cut swiftly due north. Killian smiled, and leaned over the bow. In the cold, the waters were the color of slate. The sun shone at a low angle, and the light skipped off the surface of the sea like stones, leaving whatever was beneath hidden by a curtain of gray.

"Your ship is a marvel, Swan," he said, still gazing down at the sea. "A bit younger than I'm used to."

Jack lurched over something, a wave Emma couldn't see, and Killian stumbled on his feet. He smiled. "A bit livelier too."

"You said the Jolly Roger was enchanted too?"

He nodded.

"So, you know about the whole…" Emma gestured, weakly. "…you know, mood swings thing."

"Oh, yes," he said, his eyes twinkling. "The wisdom of an ancient forest brought out upon the sea. Given legs on which to run, so to speak. The Jolly Roger was just the same. Wizened by time and war."

He spoke of her as an old friend, and she smiled.

"What happened to her?"

Oh, a deep voice whispered, my favorite tale.

Yes, said another, just after the death of the courts.

I wonder how long it will be before you realize the true shade of his heart.

Emma bit down on nothing, and watched several emotions appear on Killian's face. Anger, regret, sorrow, all tugging on his brow and aging him by several years.

"I don't think that's a story you'd like to hear," he said, quietly.

"You've said that about a dozen times now. You don't have to tell me, but don't hold back because you think I'll suddenly toss you overboard."

He smiled, briefly, faintly, and looked down at his feet before looking out at the horizon, curved along the gentle arch of the realm. He sighed, and his breath crystallized upon the air. Spring, it seemed, had not yet come to the north.

"It was after I…" Killian paused, and his fingers dug into the rail. "…I'd left my old kingdom in ruins, factions of the people fighting for power. Blood still stained my clothes when I returned to my ship. I sailed north, and when at last I docked, it was upon the deck, dark footprints from bow to stern. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but they would not leave me. I suppose the darkness could have tricked me – "

Oh no, they said to her, speaking over him in her mind. Blood taken in vengeance is not so easily washed away.

" – but that's beside the point. I felt I was going mad. I could not bear to look at her. She was born of their kingdom, familiar colors mocking me whenever I passed by. It seemed she no longer cared for me. I don't know what came over me. But I…"

He looked up at Emma. His eyes shimmered, the flesh around them swollen.

"I burned her," he said, mournfully. "I sent her off to sea. By the time my senses returned, it was too late. I brought her back to the harbor, but she was little more than a skeleton. I suppose I could have restored her. But I let her sink to the bottom of the sea to rest. I did not want her to see what else I would become."

Emma stepped away from the helm, and stood beside him. She laid her hand on his shoulder. Nothing she could think to say seemed adequate, so she was silent.

The skies were gray, and they grew darker as she stood with him. It was not quite raining, but mist, cold and flush with salt, coalesced from the air, dripping down his coat. After a time, he turned and looked down at her.

I did not want her to see what else I would become, the darkness mocked.

Do you suppose he'll send you away as well?

Quiet, Emma commanded.

"Jack likes you," she said, in lieu of anything else. She was relieved when he smiled.

"I," he began, and looked over her shoulder. His eyes hardened. "Emma."

Alarmed, she turned. There upon the water, several leagues behind, a ship followed. Killian dashed to the chest by the portside rail, and fished out a spyglass. He pried it open with his teeth.

"Camelot," he spat, and handed the glass to her. Sure enough, the flag upon the ship bore Camelot's crest.

"Mordred is so fucking persistent," Emma said, rushing around the ship. As the islands drew near, the shelf in the waters below grew shallow, rocks jutting up from the sea floor. Killian had cautioned her, and she had pulled a few of the sails. Wordlessly, she coaxed Jack to let them loose, full sail. Killian followed, helping her to tie the rigging. She ran back to the bow when the job was complete, reaching into his coat for the spyglass. Faint amusement flickered on his face when she wrenched it open with her teeth.

"I have no idea why I did that," she said, absently. She watched for several long moments, but the ship only gained. "Shit."

Emma passed the spyglass back to Killian.

"I'm not sure we can survive open conflict with another ship," she said. "There are only two of us."

"At full sail, though the danger of shipwreck increases precipitously, if we're careful as can be, I'd say we can dock in…six hours?"

Emma huffed. "They'll be on us in two."

Killian paced in tight circles against the rail. He chewed on his lips. Emma could feel his mind rattling against hers. Still locked away, secrets living behind the iron bars.

"Sail to the east," he said. He stepped to the helm, and grasped the spokes with hand and hook. Jack seemed to take a breath when Killian looked to her.

"Why?" she said.

"There is a lone kingdom upon the cove. We will barely reach in time, but the sea is treacherous and I assure you, Emma, the shore will take them before they take you."

Emma didn't hesitate. "East, then."

She watched him tug the wheel to the right, over and over, the sails swinging out, while Jack turned smoothly. The winds, directly in his sails, carried them quickly upon the current. Emma took the helm while Killian remained behind, watching as the ship approached.

"Just the one," he said. "A schooner, judging by the speed."

"A scout?" she guessed.

"Aye, most likely. Foolish of them to confront us alone."

"There are two of us, Killian," she reminded him, loudly. "There are probably a dozen people on that ship. We've got magic, but we can't use it. Jack is fast, but he's not meant to fight. There are six cannons, and they're lightweight. We won't lose a battle, but we won't win one either."

Emma recalled the day Jack had first broken water, brand new and shimmering upon the sea. Then, suddenly, she imagined gaping holes in his side, his innards spilling out into the sea. Wounded and left for dead while they crawled over frozen, unfamiliar isles. She gripped the spokes, her knuckles white, palms sweaty but sure.

"Come on, Jack," she begged.

At the end of the hour, rain began to fall, light and stinging droplets characteristic of late winter. They soaked through their clothes. Though Emma did not need warmth, she was uncomfortable all the same. But it was far outweighed by the fear that tugged at her heart. Fear that spilled first to anger, and then to determination, as the schooner grew closer.

Another hour brought them among high, snow-capped mountains. They were clear and bright, like beacons in the dark. She could see a cove ahead, just the lip, turning out towards the southern rim of the island. But she could also see rocks, natural jetties that reached out and into the water like maleficent claws, dragging along the bottom and turning stones up high into the air. Though the rain lashed, and the hull smacked against the churning waters, there was otherwise a deathly quiet, a silence that shouted over the noise of the storm.

"They're here," Killian said, into her ear.

You should have run when you had the chance, a voice taunted her.

He'll drag you down to the depths.

He already has.

Emma growled, an aborted sound that lurched with the ship when heavy, steel claws smacked onto the deck.

"Princess!" a voice shouted.

Emma turned, and spotted a figure leaning over the edge of the schooner. There were lamps, several of them, glowing along the edge of their ship, alighting upon the faces of hardly ten people. Two cannons jutted out of the portside hull, chains holding them fast to their position. They seemed to stare up at her, gaping maws filled with dark promises.

"Our lord demands your presence in our courts," the figure shouted.

"I'd rather not," she answered. Killian stood poised above the trap that led below deck. Their own cannons were tied, powder and shot secured at their aft. He watched Emma with dark eyes, painted over with pitch. For once, she was not sorry that the darkness joined them.

"Surrender," the voice demanded, "or we'll be forced to take action."

When she did not answer, the figure shouted again.

"Our lord demands it!"

Emma snarled, and ran to the gunwale. The deck was slick beneath her feet, but she did not falter. She grabbed a hold of a coil of rope and hoisted herself on the rail. There were all manner of things she could say, distractions or negotiations. Killian had run to the helm in her stead, steering the ship towards a narrow parting of rocks, weathered down to great, slate towers, smooth and slick in the rain. She supposed she could buy for time. But Emma could not find it in herself to be charitable. She held fast to the ropes, and leaned out as far as she dared.

"Fuck your lord!" she shouted.

Emma ran back to the helm, and nearly pushed Killian off the wheel.

"Move," she said, sharply.

"You ran all the way there and back for that?" he said, incredulous.

Emma only glared, and motioned at the trap that led below. He complied immediately, leaping down the steps. She heard him clank about, but she paid him no mind. She jerked the wheel to port, and watched with satisfaction as the metal claws on the ship dragged over the deck, embedding into the rail. She could hear shouting on the schooner. Jack lumbered beneath the extra weight, but the winds were kind, carrying them to half speed. She knew it would not be long, that they approached the rocks quickly, but not quite long enough. When Killian called up to her, she turned back to starboard, just enough to allow him a clear shot.

The schooner fired first.

Emma had been aboard ships during sea battles before. She remembered the splintering of wood, the feet pounding on the deck. As a child, she had been afraid of drowning. But now, all she could think of was the ship, a faithful machine dying like a beloved and benevolent soldier. When the schooner fired once more, Emma cried out. Jack heaved and groaned, but Killian, swift on his feet, fired back. The cannons cracked, wheels rolling loudly, iron bodies snapping against the chains. Only one of three hit the schooner, but she could hear him loading more, cursing loudly. That damnable little ship was not built to sustain battle. But then again, neither was Jack, and he protested against another round of shot, sinking through the hull and into his tender innards.

The rocks, Emma chanted to herself, the rocks, the rocks.

She willed the ship to go faster. They were nearly upon them. The rocks ahead were just barely too narrow for Jack. Clearly the schooner did not think her foolish enough to brave the passage. Another round of shot sent them pitching dangerously to the side before they rolled back.

"We can't take another!" Killian shouted.

"I know," she answered. "We won't have to."

Emma glanced over to the schooner. Several of the sailors were cutting away at the ropes that held the claws. Three, then four, grew slack, but they were not quick enough. Emma tugged once more at the wheel, setting them straight ahead. Jack gave a terrible cry when he pushed through the narrow passage, boards scraping roughly along the rocks. The schooner, however, skimming the sea at an awkward angle, was chewed to pieces. Emma could hear the people shouting.

Hmm, I don't suppose we're going back for them? a voice wondered.

I'm certain they would surrender.

It would be the right thing to do.

Or are you not who you think you are?

Emma did not listen...but neither did she turn back. She set her jaw, and turned around the bend in the rocks and into the cove proper. Killian climbed above deck as the ship limped across the water. Jack gasped pitifully as water began to fill the ballast, spilling over into the upper chambers.

"Come on," she said. Killian stood beside her, and watched the great city ahead come into view.

"There are docks on the southeastern side," he said.

"Not going to happen."

Emma turned the ship towards a lonely gravel beach. Where once he cut smoothly across the water, he jerked, hardly obeying the direction of the sails. The foremast was likely to blame, sure to have broken in two if they had remained in the line of fire any longer.

"Hold onto something," Emma said.

They were fast encroaching upon the beach, the razor sharp mountains rising overhead, leaning over as if waiting to see what they would do next. Killian acquiesced silently, reaching out to twine a loose bit of rigging around his arm.

With a terrible shudder, Jack at last came to a halt. Emma lost her footing, and skidded along the deck as the ship leaned forward along the slope of the land. She caught herself at the portside rail, the force of her fall rattling up through her bones.

When she rose to her feet, Killian appeared behind her. Battle still raged in his blood. The unquenchable thirst that boiled through him, rage and vengeance always biting at his heels, it chafed against her mind. Outwardly, he appeared calm, and he looked out upon the waters, a sharp curve of the land that led around to the city by the harbor. Cold lamplight rose up from the docks, and all throughout the city proper, painting it in several shades of blue.

"Arendelle," Killian said, by way of introduction.

Arendelle, Emma thought, with a stab of familiarity. She shook her head, leaned tiredly against Jack's rail, and watched him bleed out upon the gravel.