Warnings: Smut

Notes: Thanks so much for your follows, favorites, and reviews! They're so encouraging. I hope you like this chapter. Chapter twelve will be up on Saturday.

Chapter Eleven

When the doors slammed shut behind them, a sense of foreboding settled in Emma's stomach.

A powerful wizard, the seer had said. It is he who can give you what you seek.

Looking around the castle, she wasn't quite so sure. It was unlike anywhere she'd ever been. There weren't rooms, only levels, several of them, blocks of stone that jutted from the sheer mountainside, parallel to the floor. They rose higher than she could see. The ground floor was nearly the size of her parent's throne room. Every sound she made echoed harshly back at her. The furnishings were meager, but neat. A long wooden table sat at one end of the room, carved from a rich and heavy pine, the earthy smell drifting along the cold stone. A great fireplace was at the other end, a utilitarian and orderly set about the rough-hewn blocks. There were several windows carved into the walls, thin slits that cast shafts of light along the upper levels. It was enough to see by, at least.

When they stepped upon a dais, the fireplace roared to life. The candles in the sconces on the walls snapped, flames flickering from nowhere.

Startled, Emma turned, looking for the spell's originator.

"It's an enchantment," Killian explained.

Emma nodded absently, and searched the room. But there was hardly anywhere to hide. The levels above were too high to climb. The ground floor was too spartan to provide any protection.

"Aldan?" she called. When she heard no reply, she nearly growled. "Fuck. She's not here. This is the worst place I've ever been."

"To be fair, Swan," he said, darkly, "I wasn't expecting any company before I left."

Emma stopped in her search, and turned to look at him. He moved easily around the room, looked past the details as though he had seen them many times before.

I imagine so, he had said, cryptically, just moments ago. She had ignored him, suspecting he fed off the dramatic posture of the castle, speaking esoteric nonsense, as he seemed wont to do.

"You know this place," she said.

It was not a question. Still, he answered, "I do."

"How?"

Killian led her to the uneven walls at the back, where shelves stretched in three long rows. Trinkets and potions and tools of all sorts lined them from top to bottom. Emma recognized many of them, from her studies. Many were dark, and dangerous, meant to do terrible things. Several of the shelves carried jars, some filled with the remains of animals…some with eyes or hands. Magic, insidious and heady, filled her nostrils, a stench like decay.

"When you were first bound to the sword," Killian said, walking from shelf to shelf, "I thought perhaps death had come for me. It was a brief, pleasant thought. You were an angel. Light like I'd never seen bathed these walls, poured in through the front door. It was as though you were here, walking the halls beside me. You disappeared, abruptly, and then I knew."

Emma's stomach dropped. As though detached from her body, she followed him until he reached a pedestal near the back wall. When he laid his hand upon the stand, it unfurled, block by little block. A great book appeared, bound in leather, a sharp pen at its side. He opened it, and deep, red lettering marked the pages. It was a ledger, she realized, debts owed and repaid, in one form another. Only, instead of gold, or jewels, there were items. Some of them seemingly mundane, others cruel and gruesome.

"Killian," she breathed. Then, uselessly, she asked, "Where is the wizard?"

He laid his hand upon the book. Emma could feel his mind unfurl, the great labyrinth he kept within unlocking passage by passage. Just like the structure around them, and the pedestal at his side, he opened to her. There was not a thing she could not see, past and present. Revenge and magic, an insatiable desire for payment, watching as he became the very thing he despised most of all. A terror in self-exile, tasting the desperation of the people who came to him, twisting it to suit his own need. And oh, what a need it was, deep, deep in his bones, clawing day and night to break free. She watched him, inside and out, as he stepped closer.

"I am the wizard," he answered.

All at once, Killian had never felt quite so free, and quite so caged. Where once he and Emma were of two minds, grinding together under the weight of immortal darkness, now they were one.

Before he had discovered who she was, and what she wanted, he had allowed his mind to slip freely into hers, keeping select pieces of himself behind locked doors. The darkness had welcomed the additional soul, at first, rising from the vault with an incredible power running through her veins.

A payment, they had whispered. A reward.

"For what?" he'd said.

Time.

Time that he had lived with the object of his hatred in his mind. Time after which he had grown restless, festering in his obsession with revenge. A long chain of desperate people, generations passing him by, coming to him and asking for power, love, absolution, any number of things. Under the guise of giving, he took, demanding payment, not quite realizing until it was too late that he had become the demon he so despised.

Until Emma appeared, and he pretended he could be something else.

That's all it ever was, dearie, an elaborate game of pretend. She'll never forgive you.

"Good," he whispered back.

"You are the wizard," Emma said, quietly, numbly. He watched her mouth shape the words again and again. He did not have to wonder what she thought. A series of images leapt through her mind. The moment they had met, the start of their journey, a blur of trees and danger and an unknowable magic in Mordred's two charms. In turn, he allowed her to see. The gush of royal blood at his feet, his beloved Jolly Roger lost to his rage, following the pull of his magic to the reaches of the North. He'd tugged the castle out of the lone mountain's side, drowning in magic, drawing first the attention of the curious, then of the envious, the greedy, the murderous. All manner of sins laid at his feet by the people who came to him, none left unsatisfied. Emma seemed to watch his memories with detached fascination, her quick mind turning over and over as she looked at him. The real him.

"Why?" she said, hoarsely. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Killian circled the pedestal, and gestured to the shelves, the unreachable levels of the castle stretching high above.

"Look around, Emma," he said. "What do you see?"

He felt her in his mind, walking from memory to memory, and he watched her wander through his castle, looking at all of his spoils, an obsessive collection he'd built as the decades passed him by. Rumpelstiltskin, the vile creature, he laughed and laughed, a shrill and interminably familiar sound that echoed in the great hall.

"Debts," she said, at length. "Debts repaid. Like…" She swallowed, skin stretching taut over the long line of her neck. When she looked up at him, she was disbelieving, frightened even.

Never forgive you, the voices whispered.

Emma looked him up and down, before her eyes came to rest on his. "Like Rumpelstiltskin before you."

Killian hummed. Magic crackled at his fingertips. The darkness, let loose, poured like ink through his veins. The shape of her mouth, the touch of her hands, her body against his, all stained with the secret he'd kept locked away, so deep that, for a time, even he did not believe it.

"You claimed not to care about the past, that it was behind me," he said. "You said that you only cared for who I am now. Well, Swan, this is who I am. It was easy to pretend, with you, that I could leave it behind. You were born of the light, and the light heals...but there are some wounds that can never heal, some sins that cannot be forgiven. Some shadows that cannot be banished."

Emma stepped closer, and he could feel the tremor in his hand, a pain in his chest. As every day, every hour, every moment, he craved the magic. And when it did not come, the darkness shrieked, a terrible cry that plucked at his nerves. They tugged him every which way, told him to keep her close, to push her away, to let her be, to follow wherever she might lead. The man, the young sailor he had been, was nearly silenced, save for one declaration.

I only want you.

"I don't believe that," Emma said, nearly spat it in his face. "Why didn't you tell me? And stop being cryptic, it's ridiculous."

He sneered, and the voices of the darkness grew louder.

"I saw your face when you learned what I had done to my kingdom," he said, leaning over her, a step above her on the dais. She was not cowed. "For a moment, you were frightened of me. But then you offered to turn time itself over on its head, to only look forward, and not back. Only, what lay forward from there…" He dug his hook into the stone that held his ledger, the very tip scraping along the delicately arched surface. "I did not lay idle for all the decades after I tore my own kingdom apart. I longed for revenge, I craved it, and so I holed away where only those desperate enough could find me. I told myself it was atonement, that I could hide the darkness, stow it away where it could not wreak havoc. It found a way, I found a way."

Killian leaned back, and when he breathed, the room breathed with him.

"I gave in," he said. "With you, I felt like I could be the man you thought I was. Instead of this pathetic excuse for a Dark One, hiding away like a bloody coward."

The shadows on the ground began to coalesce, pooling upon the floor. Emma paid them no mind. She looked at him like she saw him.

"Liar," she said.

"Pardon?"

"I said you're a liar, Killian Jones."

Emma stepped closer, and the careful expression he'd worn since the moment they walked through the doors began to crumble. He turned away so that she would not see, and paced aimlessly towards the fireplace, the shadows following him as he went.

"Bloody stubborn woman," he said, through his teeth.

"I'm stubborn?" She followed close behind. "I can see what you're doing, I can see you, the same way that you can see me. You see a man who gave into darkness, gleefully, and I see a man who tried to hide it away. He failed, but Killian, you are not a monster. You want to give up the darkness. I heard you say it, and I know when you're lying to me."

Killian stopped, abruptly, and Emma nearly ran into him when he rounded on her.

"Don't you dare try to justify the things I did, Emma. I couldn't bear it." Then, quietly, "Don't follow me into darkness."

"I swear to the gods, you are the most infuriating person ever born. I am not justifying the things you did, I never could. What I'm telling you is that it's not too late to change. You asked me what I see? Well, this is what I see. You're desperate to become something else. When the darkness begged to be free, you exiled it, and yourself, to the North, trying to atone. You did a terrible job of it, but it's not too late."

Killian was aghast, listening as the woman he surely loved defended him to his face. Passion, immutable and bright, spilled out of her mouth.

"Well isn't this precious."

The shadows at their feet rose from the floor, as though climbing out of the earth. The twisted darkness took form, wearing Rumpelstiltskin's face. He smiled at Killian, sharp and inhuman teeth peeking out from behind discolored lips. When he laughed, it was like rough stones against glass. Killian felt cowed in its presence.

Emma, clearly, was only frustrated.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she said.

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, turning gleefully in place. The firelight caught on his opalescent skin.

"It seemed like the appropriate time for a history lesson," he said. He snapped his fingers, and the book that sat upon the pedestal appeared in his hands. He began to flip through the pages. "My personal favorite is when he demanded a child as payment for the means with which to break a powerful curse. But let's start at the beginning, shall we?"

Killian closed his eyes, and hung his head.

The babe will go to a family that will actually care for him, he'd argued, at the time.

Who are you to make such a decision?

Who was he, indeed. Each sin listed out, a record drawn in his own blood, permanence that only death could erase.

"A hand, an eye, the blood of a most beloved," Rumpelstiltskin went on. "All of these festering here, a library of torment. Tell me, dearie, which sin will satisfy you? Which will turn you away?"

Killian opened his eyes when he realized the beast spoke to Emma. Her expression was furious, underlain with a sense of calm. She listened for some time, and the fingers of her right hand curled up behind her knuckles.

"Stop," she warned.

The darkness laughed. "I don't think so."

Killian watched – both disbelieving, and yet not – when Emma leapt forward, and punched the apparition square in the jaw. It did not so much connect, as it banished the shadows, crawling back from whence they came. The ledger, heavy beyond its natural weight, fell to the ground with a sickening thud, wet like flesh and bone. It laid open, and Killian reached down. His hand shook, violently, and the pages rustled when he picked it up, and opened it up to a recent entry. He walked, slowly, back to the pedestal, and let it lay. Emma joined him, as he knew she would. His eyes stung, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

"Sorry, I uh…" She tugged at her vest. "…punched the darkness? That was stupid."

Killian shook his head. "On the contrary, it was more than I was ever capable of doing." He glanced at her, and found an unbearably soft expression on her face.

You're a monster, the darkness told him.

A magnet for death and destruction.

Your brother could not survive you.

You allowed your lover to die for you.

Even your own mother withered away.

"I thought I could protect myself," he said, over the voices of the darkness. "A man once came to me. His love had been cursed, hidden away where he could not follow. He wore a coat that shimmered in a language I had come to know. In return for helping him, I asked only for the coat."

Emma reached out, her fingers brushing over the lapels. The magic, as always, responded vibrantly to her touch.

"It was many decades ago," he said. "The magic in the fabric knows the touch of light, and falls silent in darkness. How heavy and dark it was on my shoulders. I thought I could use it to know the intentions of those who came to me for help. Only...those who walk in light will step into darkness to save the ones they love. I was a tool. I killed, I maimed, I stole. But with you…" Killian sighed. "…I pretended that I could be more."

Emma shook her head, and she held tight to the lapels, jerking none too gently, until the toes of his boots were flush with hers.

"You don't have to pretend," she insisted.

"I do. I do. Rumpelstiltskin was right, I did those things, I did all of them."

"I know."

Killian could feel his face grow hot, tears spilling down his chin.

"How can you forgive me?" he said, thickly.

"These sins aren't mine to forgive. I meant what I said, the past is behind you. Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you mean what you said? Do you want to get rid of the darkness? Do you not want it anymore?"

He could only nod. Emma's hand climbed up his neck, and into his hair. She tugged, and he bent down, far enough that he could lay his head upon her shoulder, and weep. He had wept in these walls before. Out of regret, sorrow, anger, tears staining his face and his clothes while the darkness mocked him. But, in that moment, the darkness was silent.

"I love you," he confessed. Again, and then again, "I love you. Please, Emma, please don't leave me."

"I won't," she said. "I won't, I swear I won't."

In the wake of the quiet, the darkness banished to silence by her light – the only sound in the halls his cries, and her soothing murmur – he believed her.

It was an odd change of pace, Killian thought, to be held in her arms, when he'd been so certain that she would shun him. His sins were all in writing, in a heavy, living tome. Treasures he'd kept, things he hated, all organized neatly along the shelves in the great hall. Things he convinced himself he needed one day, and then sneered at the next. He was ever swinging back and forth, under the umbrella of darkness, then reaching out for something else.

When the seer had insisted there was a powerful wizard in the north, one who could banish the darkness, he could feel her probing his mind.

She will lead you to the end, the seer had said.

Killian had scoffed. The end of what?

To the end, she had repeated. She will lead you to the end.

He had puzzled over it on their journey, locked away where Emma could not see.

The end of the darkness, he had guessed. Or the end of my life. Perhaps not one without the other.

The darkness had seethed and plotted, threatened to tell his secret. Though, for their own untold reasons – hoping, perhaps, that Emma would balk at the revelation – they never did. It did not want to end, frothing still from whatever terrible beginning it had come. Burning him from the inside out, remembering every letter of his ledger, never hesitating to remind him.

You can try to hide away, the voices would mock, but we're a part of you.

We know you.

We own you.

There was not a day that had gone by, since the moment he rose from the vault – even earlier still – that he felt free. That is, until this moment.

"I'm sorry, Swan," he said, when he finally pulled away. He tried to reach up, to wipe the tears from his face, but she wouldn't let go of him. There, standing amongst the damning evidence of his wretched life, Emma wouldn't let go.

"What for?" she said.

"I was too much of a coward to tell you. I suppose I should have known..."

You're an angel, he thought.

She blushed, a quiet – Thanks. – drifting into his mind.

"You are not a coward," she said. "Maybe…you know, kind of bullheaded, but not a coward."

He smiled wanly, and she mirrored, her loveliest expression. Her arms loosened around his, and she reached up to wipe the stains away from his face with her thumbs. He was pliant beneath her touch, his lashes fluttering.

"Is that what the darkness tells you?" Emma said. "That you're a coward?"

He nodded, her calloused fingers rasping over his beard. "Aye."

"They try to convince me that my family hates me."

Killian opened his eyes, and he reached out to touch her, the backs of his fingers trailing over her face, along the slope of her neck.

"How do you push them away?" he said, quietly.

"Well, first of all, fuck them, my family loves me."

He laughed. "If only I could convince myself with the same ease."

"Second, I look at you. You can curb the darkness, I've seen you do it."

Killian frowned, and looked over her shoulder, at nothing in particular. "It has always found a way to act through me, nonetheless."

Emma shrugged, and leaned closer, until he could feel her breath upon his face, cool and wet. She smelled like the alpine air, cold and severe. The darkness, quiet and resigned, seemed to stir, but Killian ignored it, and instead thought of mundane things. He thought of the way her hair fell over her shoulders, a messy braid that had been tangled by the wind and the frost. He thought of her eyes as well, how she seemed to carry the forest with her. Above all else, he thought of how he loved her, and how, whatever the end might be, he would happily follow.

"It did," she agreed, though she passed no judgment. She sighed, and tilted her head back, her throat bared to him while she peered at the upper levels. "Anyway, this was a dead end."

Killian sighed wearily, grateful for the change in subject.

"She may not be here, Swan, but she was here. Blood magic does not lie. That collection over there carries all sorts of artifacts. She could have wanted for any number of things."

"I think she wanted you." Emma paused, and made a face. "In a less suggestive way than that sounded."

He laughed, softly. He'd grown paradoxically accustomed to being surprised by her.

"You amaze me," he said. With nothing to cover him up, nothing between them, every thought in his head seemed to pour out of his mouth. "You're a wonder."

She blushed, and Killian followed the bloom of color with his thumb.

"Perhaps we should search," he said. He leaned back, meaning to step away, but Emma held fast. He tilted his head, curious. "Swan?"

"I know," she said. "I know we should search. But can we just…rest? I know we can't sleep, but I'm just so…" Emma closed her eyes, briefly. "I can only learn and do so many momentous things in so many days. For just one hour, I don't want to think about this. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

Killian nodded. He certainly knew what she meant. Her eyes were bright, and her skin was drawn and pale. He held out his hook, and she took it, following him to a wide swath of blank wall near the back of the room. He laid his hand upon the stone, and it trembled in recognition. An archway, ornate and out of place, warped into the stone, pulling away from a hall that led into the mountain.

"Wow," Emma said. "Another enchantment?"

Her voice echoed neatly along the walls. He only nodded in reply. The stone door disappeared behind them, and the sconces on the walls came to life. They were made of fine brass, brushed over with whimsical finery. Paintings hung on the wall, of lush jungles and wide meadows. Clear and gentle seas, all things that were far from the castle.

"Sometimes," he said, "it was good to feel normal. Like I had a home. I'd never had anything like this when I was a child, but I remembered places I had seen in my travels. The modest homes of those who longed only for peace."

Killian paused when he could feel Emma's fingers fall away from his hook. When he turned, he found her gazing at one of the paintings on the wall.

"You really like flowers, huh," she said.

He came to stand behind her, close in the narrow hallway. It was a simple painting that had caught her eye, a vibrant blue flower spilling down the banks of a quiet river, the reflection of a mighty forest quivering in the water.

"Forget-me-nots," Emma said, reaching out to touch the thick, textured paint. "Sorry I'm touching your painting, I just…want to."

"It's quite alright, Swan. I would give it to you, if you asked. You could have anything here that you wanted."

She turned to look at him, a sly look on her face. Even exhausted, she was radiant. The candlelight fell over the angles of her cheeks, and her jaw. Her eyes twinkled. Out of habit, he listened for the reproach of the darkness before he smiled. When none came, and he grinned down at her, she wrapped her fingers around his hook, and he led her to something of an alcove at the end of the hall. The stone walls and warm light flared out and into a pale imitation of a cottage. There were no windows, but there was a simple fireplace at one end, uneven river stone around the mantle and upon the hearth. There was a rug on the floor. An oaken table and chair, not unlike those that had been in the cabin of the Jolly Roger, held the rug in place. A few shelves, largely barren, were against the wall.

More than anything else, Killian favored a plush, overlarge and high-backed armchair near the fire. On the rare days when the darkness was quiet, briefly sated, he would sit and slouch, limbs splayed out. He would lay back, close his eyes, and look through old, sun-drenched memories, a facsimile of dreams.

"I'm being selfish," she said, while she moved about the room. He stood near the entrance, and watched her.

"Selfish?" he echoed.

"My family's in danger. We need to look for the heir. War will be upon them…in a week. And yet, here I am."

"It's not selfish to rest, Swan."

"But I don't need it."

Killian stepped deeper into the room, interrupting her circuit. She smiled, a faint and beautiful expression, and laid her hands on his shoulders.

"Don't mistake sleep for rest," he said.

Emma tilted her head, and for some time, she only looked at him. Her hands did not wander, as they often did. She chewed on the inside of her lip, her eyes leapt between his, then down his jaw, his neck, lingering on his chest.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

When he nodded, she pulled him closer, and he could feel her breath tickle his neck.

"I just…" She hesitated, her hands twisting up in the fabric of his coat, the runes flaring brightly. "…I want to see you. I want to know you. Is that alright?"

Killian did not answer, not right away. He listened for the voices of darkness, for them to cajole him, or pull him back. For them to mock his hesitance, to tell him how Emma could bring him to ruin. They had often done so before, trying to tear them apart. Light incarnate, brighter than the evening stars...he could see why they did not want her near. He could see it in her eyes, in the shape of her mouth, in the expressions she wore, a variety of emotions all underlain with unyielding single-mindedness.

Often to your own detriment, he thought fondly, a warm flush of affection in his belly.

The darkness, it said nothing.

"Aye," he said. He took her hand and laid it back on his shoulder, encouraging her. "It's alright."

Emma tugged his coat down his arms, wriggling the sleeve over his brace. She looked at it, eyes widening when the gentle magic lit all the way down to the hem. It glittered, beautifully, a rare sight. After a moment, she tossed it unceremoniously on the table.

"That coat is neat," she said, quietly, her hands wandering back up his shoulders, "but don't you find it…you know, kind of annoying?"

"Not at all. It's a beautiful sight. It was dark for so long...until I met you."

She flushed. "At least a little annoying."

Killian only smiled in answer, and watched her while she plucked carefully at the buttons on his vest. It was curious, watching her, watching him. He could hear her in his mind, feel her grow nervous. The same affection he felt warming his belly, warmed hers. Her fingers, calloused over with many years at sea, rasped over the rich fabric of his vest. When the last button had been undone, that too joined the coat on the table.

"You look nice in blue," Emma said.

She looked at his chest, intently, a frown pinching at her nose. Her hand followed her eyes down to his own hand, and she pulled it up where she could see, tracing over the lines, the knuckles, examining the tips of his fingers. She tugged the sleeve of his shirt down to his elbow, and similarly traced the tattoo on his forearm. Every exposed bit of flesh, every divot and scar, thoroughly examined, with a lover's caress. Killian breathed shallowly through his mouth, a flush pooling in his cheeks, and spreading down his neck. After quite some time, she dropped his hand, and did the same to his hook, tracing over the straps and buttons and embellishments. His throat felt thick and useless, and he took a deep breath, air stuttering out against her hair. She looked up at him.

"Are you okay?" she said.

He nodded, and swallowed. "Aye, I just…"

It's been quite some time since anyone touched me like this, he thought.

Get used to it, she answered him, gently.

He grinned down at her, and she unsuccessfully tried to bite her smile from her lips, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling up. His hand free, he reached out, fingers hovering over her cheek, ghosting down her neck.

"You can touch me, you know," she said.

His fingers trembled, and not from the thirst for magic. He touched the base of her neck, reaching around to rub at her spine, arching gracefully up towards the line of her hair. Killian was too distracted to touch her in earnest, watching her learn the mechanism that held his hook in place, pulling it out of the brace and laying it more gently on the table than his coat or vest. He wondered that she treated it with more care.

That hook is a part of you, she answered.

Aye, he thought, the simple word like a wisp, hovering between a sound and a vision, the way thoughts often did.

His hand fell away from her neck when she tugged at his shirt. This, she let fall to the floor. With only slightly more urgency, she touched his belly, and then his back. Still, he could hardly do anything more than watch, pulling absently at her ear, tweaking the line of her jaw, brushing the dip of her collarbone. He could feel his blood pooling in the very pit of his stomach. The sound of her hands whispering over his chest, lingering in the dip of his spine, was soft, atonal and pleasant. Her palms brushed over his nipples, and the sound that rose in his throat was guttural. His hand tightened on her shoulder, and he pressed on her back until she was flush with him, her body all in line with his. He leaned down, a slight bend in his knees, and kissed her.

Killian had kissed her before, or more accurately been kissed by her, but never with quite so much building desire. Again and again, he worked his tongue over hers, memorizing the shape of her mouth. Her teeth scraped over his bottom lip, and her hands both threaded through his hair. Just as she said, she tried to know him, and he did the same in turn. The uneven tempo thrumming between them began to quicken, and when he pulled away, he began to tug at her clothes, until she was bare from the waist up. Emma stepped back into his arms, her mouth brushing lightly over his before following his jaw, down to the chords in his neck. When she began to pull the straps of his brace down over his arm, he tangled his fingers in her hair, and unwound her braid, until it spilled freely down her shoulders.

"You're immeasurably beautiful, Swan," he said.

"So are you."

His breath hitched when she pushed him backwards, and he laughed when he stumbled, nearly falling into his chair. The fire was warm and pleasant, and it cast a glow over Emma's skin.

"How do you not know where your own stuff is, you've lived here for a thousand years," she said, tugging at her belt. She paused when he beckoned her closer, and sighed when he pressed his face against her stomach.

Hopefully no longer than that, he thought.

I'll bring down the mountain. Her mind was like a whisper in his ear, soothing and calm. No offense, but it's ugly anyway.

Killian laughed, a vision of the mountain eroding back to its natural state, aided by the push of magic.

"None taken," he said. He leaned back, and looked up at her, lashes fluttering when her hands wandered over his face. "Let me look at you, Swan."

Okay.

It was strange, the sensation that he saw her before she had even removed her trousers, their minds and his eyes competing oddly, an arousing synesthesia that almost made him look away. But he couldn't bare to do so, certainly not when she stood nude by the fire. She helped him out of his own trousers while his hand and wrist wandered over her flesh, down her shoulders and over her breasts. His legs began to tremble, and he resisted the urge to pull her into his lap, to rut against her, to refuse the chance to know her in favor of his own pleasure.

"You're not the only one," Emma said, squirming when he kissed the jut of her hipbone, and thumbed at the crease where her thigh met her pelvis. Her hands couldn't seem to stop, memorizing him wherever she went. Her touch breathed life back into him, filled him up where before only darkness had lived.

Come here, love, he thought, and she fell into him. Her hips led into his, and he could feel her, wet and warm.

"Breathe," she said, smiling down at him. He laughed, a choked sound, and complied.

For some time, she remained in his arms, her skin pressed tight to his. Her thighs were parted over his own, her chest flush with his.

I just want to know you, she thought. I want to keep you.

You can do both.

Her arms tightened around him, and the push of her hips became purposeful. When she breathed, a soft noise caught in her nose, sharpening when he began to keep time, sliding against her until she was slick. Killian could feel her in his mind, all hesitation fallen away.

"Emma," he begged. Emma, please.

She nodded, panting against his mouth. Sweat beaded over her brow, and on her back, the fire now overwarm, but not unwelcome. He looked down, and she mirrored.

It was a slow, almost tortuous thing, when he joined with her. He breathed with her, nonsense words falling out of his mouth, until he had to look away, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder, his fingers splayed wide over her back, his wrist digging into her thigh.

Killian hummed, a low and broken sound, half between a moan and the note of some unknown song.

Oh –

– gods, she finished.

Emma rearranged her knees, gaining leverage, and an angle that dragged over him. The pleasure hummed in his bones, and he spoke into her mouth, kissing her with terrible form, lips and tongue down the side of her face, and over her shoulder.

"I knew," he panted. "I knew there was something about you. The darkness begged me to leave you, or to possess you. But I knew."

I knew you were destined for something more, he thought. I can't –

" – ever go back."

I know, Emma thought. "I know. Me neither."

Killian breathed wetly over her skin while he rose against her, as slowly as he wanted, as fast as she beckoned, until his toes curled, her mind like a balm, her body like a vice, her flesh wet and wanting where his fingers played. Until he stuttered, and she along with him, coming long and hard and loud in the little room.

"Shit," Emma said, into his ear.

Killian laughed, conscious but uncaring about the mess between their legs, eager to hold her as long as she would allow.

"Just a little longer," she answered, leaning back to look him in the eye. She drew her fingers through his hair. So close, she still smelled of alpine earth, and of sex, a heady aroma.

"Aye, darling," he said, and gathered her close. A little longer.

"Ow."

Emma's voice echoed loudly in the great hall. Startled, Killian peered through a gap in the shelves, and watched her rub at the back of her head.

"You alright, Swan?"

Son of a bitch, she thought. "I'm fine."

She returned to his collections, searching carefully to see if anything had been disturbed. Killian chose to sit with his ledger, as much as it pained him to look at it. The darkness, reawakened after its slumber, hummed in his ears. Groggy and weakened, it said nothing, little more than a shadow in his mind, hanging over him while he poured through the pages. It was a pointless exercise, but he was too much of a coward to look through the things he had taken.

"You're not a coward," Emma said, absently.

Killian sighed, comforted by her presence in his mind.

After the pleasure had abated, she had lingered, her fingers digging into the back of his neck. He would have held her forever, if she'd asked, but she was an honorable woman, given over to duty and love. In that moment, at least, she had been his and his alone, and he cherished it for what it was. He wondered if there would be any more like it.

"Are you really reading that ledger?" she said. "Or are you just thinking about sex?"

He smiled, faintly, and shut the book. It was no use, and besides, he did not want to linger. For perhaps the first time since he had begun that vile record, he did not care to look at it, did not heed its call.

"There's nothing there," he said.

When he turned the corner, he found her laying on her side, looking through a series of jars, all carrying seemingly mundane things. Cow's tongue, sheep's brain, lily petals. The ingredients for potions and spells, some more benevolent than others.

"It's a good thing you're obsessively neat," she said, when he stood over her, peering up at him. "I would think it'd be easy to tell if anything had been taken."

"Aye," he said. He took her hand when she reached for him, and pulled her to his feet. Despite the warm cloths with which they had cleaned themselves – admittedly insufficient, but enough for their purposes – she still smelled faintly of sweat, and sex. He inhaled, and brushed his lips over her forehead. "We'll have to try another level."

"And how exactly are we supposed to get up there? They're about a dozen fathoms high."

"Hardly two, my love, and besides, there's a back way."

"Oh, of course."

He took her hand, leading her to the hidden door. Only, instead of walking back towards the alcove, he turned right, and the stone parted for him, long winding steps giving passage to the upper levels. Killian could feel Emma's wonder as the stone unfolded before them, magic tumbling uphill. She turned, and leapt closer to him when she saw that the stone pinched closed behind them. The enchantment stuttered when they stopped, ancient rock grinding to a halt.

"Wow," she said.

"Aye."

"This place is so dramatic. I would know it was yours even if you weren't here."

Killian snorted, but he said nothing, squeezing her hand tight as they followed the path of the spell through the mountain.

The next level, it seemed, held no more answers than the first. There were spells, and books, and chests full of treasures, all of them accounted for in the ledger below. Nothing was out of place. Frustrated, they moved to the next, and then the next, the enchanted passageway winding upwards. Emma seemed delighted by the enchantment, though her enthusiasm wavered the longer they searched.

"This is the next to last level," she said, pouring through a small chest, Killian watching carefully.

So high in the mountain, with no fire to keep them company, it was cold. The cracks in the stone, masquerading as windows, allowed a meager light, and it poured over Emma's back while she rooted through his things. The darkness, louder now, squirmed, and demanded some sort of retribution. A price, always a price. Emma had taken more of him, and it wanted more of her in return. Drawing on a strength he'd never believed he had, he ignored their cries.

"Aye, it is," he said. "I'm sorry, Swan."

She frowned, and leapt to her feet, motioning for him to lead. "Don't be sorry yet."

I admire your determination, he thought, but I fear your hope may be in vain.

My mother would say that –

" – there is always hope."

Killian paused on the landing, just as the stone curled opened to the highest level, and turned to look down at her.

"Oh?" he said. "And what do you say?"

"I…guess there's always a way, at least. If we die, we still lived."

He smiled, tremulous, and turned back to the open room, which held just the one chest...

Open, and bare. And the passage to the outer mountain, broken, stone spilling onto the floor. Whatever the woman had done, she had clearly used magic to find her way out. Her destructive spell followed the path of the enchantment, a path now chewed to rubble.

"Bloody hell," he said, stunned.

"Oh, thank the gods." Emma seemed momentarily chagrined. "Sorry about your, uh…house, though."

"I don't bloody care about the house," he snapped. Emma looked up at him, clearly unimpressed. "Castle. There was only one thing in that chest, Swan, and I can't imagine it will do her any good."

"What was it?"

"The blood of the Dark One before me. Rumpelstiltskin's blood."

"She had to have wanted it for a reason. Here."

As unceremonious as ever, Emma tightened her hold on his hook, and tugged him through the passageway. It spilled out into a hidden valley, a thin shoreline and a great, blue pond in the sleeping cauldron of the mountain. The water was clear and crystalline, stirred only by the stray breezes that arced down through the craggy stone. Emma paused to drink it in. The smooth, spherical stones beneath their feet, bright pastels that rolled down towards the water. Life stirred sluggishly beneath the surface, weeds and creatures alike.

"Wait," she said, rushing forward. There upon the ground, a vial had been discarded. No blood remained, but Killian recognized the seal, the cork, the shape of the glass. He sneered.

"That's the one," he said. "She must have – "

"Over here." Emma followed an invisible path. She picked her way along the shore, leaning down from time to time to prod at the stones.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Tracking," she answered, absently.

She offered nothing else, until she came to a knot in the shoreline. Emma pushed the stones away, digging, he realized, until a thin, brown leather strap became visible. She yanked, hard, until it came free. In her haste, she simply sat there upon the ground. Killian followed, and sat at her side while she rifled through the pack. Ignoring the other contents, Emma tugged out a bound leather book. She opened it to find a neat and flowing script.

"Look at this," she said, and handed it to him, before turning back to the pack.

Killian opened to the first page.

"I travelled with Father to the border again this evening," he read. "We've made camp hardly a league from its edges. I can tell he seems stifled, that he's waiting for something. But this country is many leagues across. I don't understand."

Emma, clearly having found nothing else, laid the pack aside, reached over to tug at the sleeves of his coat.

"No offense to her," she said, "but can we skip to the end?"

Killian smiled, and turned back to the journal, flipping to the most recent entry. He read aloud.

"In the letters that he left, Merlin said that this wizard would help me, but I've searched the entire castle, and he's nowhere to be found." Killian turned to Emma. "Bloody hell, Swan, she was looking for me."

Ah, and what terrible thing would you have done to her to get what you wanted? the darkness wondered.

"First, I told you so." Emma paused, and tugged harder at his sleeve. "Second, don't answer them. Keep going."

He obeyed. "I've read all the books that Merlin left behind, several times over. Some of them, I think, he never meant to be read. But they respond to my magic. I know that the blood of those who have died and returned can serve as a key to the…Underworld." Killian looked sharply at Emma. Her eyes were wide. He read on. "Merlin's prophecies are dizzying, as it seems prophecies often are. It was written that the broken blade Excalibur would be renewed, that the Promethean Flame…" He paused, and shook his head. He looked to Emma once more, but she urged him to continue. "…would knit back the weave of destiny. But frankly, that's meaningless, so I've decided to take matters into my own hands. The spell on my family's home cannot crumble. If they were meant to fight a war, then someone else will have to take their place. My people are aging, and few. I will not allow them to die. I will die in their place if I have to. Meanwhile, I will find Merlin, and restore the magic that protects them. My family, my people, may not yet be lost."

Killian turned the page, but there was nothing else.

"Killian…" Emma whispered. "...the Underworld? We can't follow here there. Unless…well, you know."

Emma scrambled to her feet, the smooth stones loose. Clearly frustrated, she began to pace the banks.

"I thought this was it," she said, tugging at her hair. Killian watched as she wandered back and forth. She looked lost, and he felt it in his heart. "That we could find the heir, and then banish the darkness. And…" Emma stopped, and looked down at him, a weary expression on her face. "…I just want to go home."

He pushed himself off the unsteady ground, and stood before her, leaning until he caught her eye.

"That woman is right, Swan," he said. "They may not be lost."

"But how?"

"Several decades ago, a man came to me, and offered me something in exchange for wolf's bane. I thought him a fool. Wolf's bane is rare, but not worth what it seemed he had given, something precious to him, but seemingly worthless to any other. I was in no state to question what seemed like madness, so I took what he owed and thought nothing of it."

Emma was nonplussed. "Okay, but what does that have to do with this?"

Killian smiled. "He called it the Promethean Flame."