Warnings: Blood, violence, minor character death

Notes: Thank you guys so much for your favorites, follows, and reviews! I appreciate them so much. Chapter thirteen will be up on Wednesday.

Chapter Twelve

"Is this it?"

Emma poked along the shelves on the ground floor, no longer quite so careful to leave his possessions undisturbed. She had offered to thumb through his ledger to find the Promethean Flame, but Killian had refused, ostensibly because he knew roughly where the entry would be.

The truth of it was, he wasn't certain he could bear to watch her hold the record of his sins in her hands.

"Just wait a moment," he said.

The darkness seethed as he pored through the pages, showing him all of the things he'd done in vivid detail. They begged him to turn Emma away, to return to exile, to draw Mordred's ire with dark magic, anything but the path he now took.

But Emma's light was so near to his heart, like cool water over a burn. He did not listen to them.

"What about this?" she said. She picked up a little box. Its latch sprung open at her touch, and a terrible scream tore through the room. Startled, Emma snapped it shut, and let it drop to the floor. "What the hell was that?"

Killian laughed. "A mermaid's song."

She made a face. "It's a little out of tune."

"Those songs aren't meant to be heard above the water, Swan. They're really quite beautiful." She appeared skeptical, nudging at the song with her foot. "Perhaps…well, perhaps one day you can return, and you can listen."

"Yeah," she said, quietly. "Maybe one day."

Killian sighed, and turned back to his ledger, muttering while he turned page after page. Emma seemed to sober with talk of the future, pacing up and down the aisles between the shelves. She eyed the collection, but she didn't touch anything. It cost her a great deal, judging by the way she wrapped her fingers in the fabric of her vest.

Tactile, he thought, a brief vision of her hands on his nude body. He shook his head, and turned another page.

"Here!" he shouted, when at last he found mention of the Promethean Flame.

Emma ran to his side, peering over his shoulder. Her hand followed his, as she read aloud, "A fool of a man traded this for wolf's bane. If he'd seemed more eager to be rid of it, I wouldn't have accepted. As it is, it appears to be little more than a jewelry box containing a dead stone." Her fingers leapt over his, to the number and category at the left. "Thirty-four J, Baubles." She snorted. "Baubles, really? This is such a wordy ledger."

Killian snapped it shut, nearly catching her hand. He made a gentle, apologetic noise, though he wasn't terribly sorry. The sight of her fingers gliding over the enchanted, bloody ink was as jarring as he'd imagined it might be. Emma laid her hand on his arm as he gazed down at the cover. The binding was rough beneath his fingers, and he realized that, whenever he turned away from it – if he turned away – he would never look back. He couldn't, not when she beckoned him forward.

Too much of a coward to take ownership for your mistakes.

Emma tugged sharply on his sleeve, and he let go of the ledger.

"Show me where it is," she said. Don't listen to them.

Killian nodded, and took her hand. He led her to the back of the room, where the light never quite reached. There in the corner, beneath the lip of a high window, dust had gathered over the baubles, each one more meaningless than the last. Many of them were simply things he had found, things that were worth little gold, and nothing else besides. Still, he had carried with him a terrible compulsion to build up a library of possessions. He could not sleep, he had no taste for food or drink, so to while away the night, he had pored over all of the things he had stolen, bartered, and otherwise acquired.

Watching Emma move among them, making faces at the more peculiar objects, and wiping the dust away on her trousers, he wondered how it was that he had ever needed them.

I only need you, he thought, fondly, and she flushed.

"So," she said, "where is it?"

Killian stepped past her, and to a shelf marked J, where the Promethean Flame sat idly between two false gemstones. It was a little, ornate box, made of fine materials, a delicate pattern weaving along its lid. It occurred to him, when he picked it up, his thumbing running over the seal, that if it did indeed renew the blade, he'd unknowingly possessed a powerful forge for decades. It was no wonder that Aldan had not found it, a beautiful but unassuming little thing. He wondered at the man who had brought it, if he knew the Flame's purpose, or if the gods merely smiled upon them.

"What will it do?" Emma said, looking cautiously down at the Flame.

"Re-forge Excalibur, if Aldan's journal is to be believed."

"No, I mean, what will it do if we re-forge the sword? She wrote that it would knit the weave of destiny. But…what destiny?"

Killian frowned.

This could be a trap, one of the voices suggested, a woman's. It could destroy you.

No matter, Killian answered. I suspected it might.

It could destroy her. The sword is not to be trifled with.

Or perhaps it is not a forge, and the so-called weave of destiny is elsewhere.

He closed his eyes, and an image of the blade appeared, whole. The darkness, it both feared and craved Excalibur's power.

Don't, some pleaded, while others urged him to take it. Killian grasped the Flame tighter, and the voices grew louder.

"This is ridiculous," Emma said, and reached out to lay her hand over his. She startled when the lid creaked upon, and under their combined touch, it came to life, a bright red flame engulfing the dull stone within. The darkness, loud and menacing, fell away, cowed in its presence. His mind was blissfully empty of their influence, nothing but light in its place. When he looked down at Emma, she looked back up at him, and he felt that he surely knew what the blade could do when it was whole.

She will lead you to the end.

Emma tilted her head. "The end of what?"

"The darkness," he answered, truthfully.

And me? he wondered, though he did not voice it, and he did not let it bleed through to her mind.

"Are you sure?" she said. "Really sure? You said so yourself, you've been the Dark One for one hundred and fifty years. Do you really want to…you know, give that up?"

Killian thought of his long, and fruitless life, revenge and solitude and innumerable sins. He thought, perhaps, he didn't deserve to be able to leave it behind.

And yet...

He looked down at Emma, and thought of the look on her face when he had made love to her, and she to him. Her light, and her compassion, unlike anyone he had ever met before. Even now, she looked up at him like, if he said no, she wouldn't care, that she'd stay with him. Her fingers were fisted in the collar of his coat, her cheek resting against his shoulder. Killian sighed against her mouth, and leaned down to kiss her. The Flame crackled loudly, and he pressed closer.

"Aye, love," he said, his lips brushing over hers when he spoke. "I'm sure."

Emma wasted no time. She was unceremonious, as she often was. She snatched the Promethean Flame from his hand and deposited it on the nearest table. Killian followed her, grunting when she grabbed his belt and pulled him closer. She pulled his dagger from its sheathe, and then the sword from her own. A frisson of dark energy rattled down his spine, but he focused instead on the tumble of her hair over her shoulder, the familiar determination that tugged at the corners of her lips, and watched with faint amusement as she leaned over the Flame.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," she said. "No idea."

She looked to him, and when he smiled encouragingly, she mirrored, and reached down for the two pieces of the blade.

At first, nothing appeared to happen, the flame licking uselessly at the unearthly metal. But then, after a few moments, the longest of his very long life, the flame grew brighter, and rose from the box. Arcs of an ancient, powerful magic grabbed at the blades. The hilt of the dagger fell to the ground, and the magic pulled Excalibur from Emma's grasp. She stumbled back, and a terrible noise – like stone against glass, like blade against bone – echoed through the castle. Killian threw his hand over his ear, his hook over the other, and watched as liquid darkness dripped off the sword. Even as the two halves knitted back together, the presence writhed in the air. It held onto Excalibur with a human-like grip, long and viscous fingers looping back around the blade.

"Mordred's magic," Emma shouted, over the din.

Killian watched, fascinated and horrified, as two magics battled. The noise ratcheted higher and higher, until, with finality, the room was bathed in a flash of unnatural light, and Excalibur clattered to the ground. Mordred's magic had disappeared, and the sword, whole at last, lay in the light. It glittered beautifully, dust motes dancing in its faint, distorting aura, both of their names written side by side. It was bleak, and twisted, and enchanting, everything that made the darkness so dangerous. He bent down, and reached out to touch the hilt. It hummed pleasantly, and the voices of the darkness flitted briefly through his mind. He pulled his hand back.

"Mordred's enchantment..." he said.

"It's gone," Emma finished. "It's gone. The darkness, our darkness, must have destroyed it."

A curious outcome, the darkness said, many of them at once. Though not unwelcome.

Take the sword.

Destroy King Arthur's would-be successor.

Take his land for your own. His people would be much better off.

Emboldened, the darkness whispered. On and on it spoke, a stream of insidious suggestions, each of which seemed more reasonable than the last.

"Shit," Emma said, tugging at her hair. She reached out, reflexively, for his hand, and Killian gripped tight. "I thought that would do it."

Killian quirked a brow. "Do what?"

She made a face. "Get rid of the darkness."

"I suspect it will be more difficult than that."

All magic comes with a price, dearie, and this is the most powerful magic of all.

Killian scowled. I'm aware.

"Price?" Emma echoed. "What price?"

Oh, but you know, don't you Hook?

She tugged harder at his hand. "What price?"

"I don't have a bloody clue, and even if I did, speculating would be a waste of time. We are free to use our magic, Swan, would you prefer to while away the time in my castle, or would you prefer to go home?"

"You're lying," she said, absently. She let go of his hand, and picked up the blade. For some time, she only looked at it. Her distaste was apparent, and when it appeared she could no longer bear it, she used the dark magic to summon a simple scabbard, and tucked it at her side. They held their breath, but nothing followed in its wake. No churning of the earth, no portal. Emma sheathed the sword, and took a hold of his elbow. In her ire, the runes in his coat appeared even brighter. The expression on her face was fierce, unyielding. "You know what? It doesn't matter. You're right, let's go home."

Emma lingered on the word home, and her voice broke. She hesitated, clearly apprehensive, and he could hear the darkness taunt her.

You return to your kingdom, a murderer, and a bearer of dark magic. Oh, I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see you.

"They won't think differently of you," Killian said, quietly.

Her eyes were bright, and wet. "How could they not?"

"Days after I became the Dark One, I tore an entire kingdom apart. You defended yourself against a malicious guard. Can you not see the difference?"

Still, Emma hesitated. "We failed. We set out on a mission, and we failed. My kingdom is going to war."

"Aye, but darling, don't you want to be there when they do?"

She gripped him tighter, and Killian watched several visions appear in succession in her mind. A raging battlefield, blood spilt out upon the grass, the terrible screech of swords against armor, blades and arrows rending through flesh. He suspected that some of it was memory, and some of it was speculation, grim and violent. At the very least, he was glad that the thought of home, and of war, had turned her mind away from the price he suspected he would have to pay to be rid of the darkness.

And it will be me, he thought. Not her.

The darkness did not reply.

"Yes," she answered, at length, "I do."

And for what he hoped would be the last time, he left his castle behind.

Emma knew something was wrong the moment they arrived.

To maintain at least an air of secrecy, she had brought them to the east wing, her family's private chambers. Private in name, but not in practice, there were typically voices floating down the halls, breathing life into the cool stone.

It was deathly quiet.

"There's something wrong," she said.

She looked to Killian, but he seemed entranced by their surroundings. It was nothing particularly grand. Her parents had bothered with little else besides upkeep since they reclaimed their land, sloughing away the broken wings of the castle and using the stone to build jetties and keeps in the ports. Though, Emma had to admit, it was still a display. The stone at her feet was hewn slate. Tapestries and paintings hung upon the walls, most of her and her family, some of Misthaven's landscapes. All things that were well-loved, and a little roughened.

"You really are a princess, aren't you, Swan?" he said. He reached out to touch the gilded frame of a family portrait.

"You're only just realizing this now?"

"I – "

"Emma!"

The sound of her name echoed down the hall. She turned, and saw her little brother's face peering out of his bedroom. Only half-dressed – his shirt un-tucked and his feet bare, his dark hair a riot, sticking out behind his ears – he ran down the hall. Stunned, she took only one step before he crashed into her arms.

"Leo," she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "Oh gods, Leo." She hugged him so tight that he grunted. "You're so tall."

Leo wriggled out of her arms. "You've only been gone for a month and a half."

"Wow, thanks."

He grinned, her father's smile on a young face. When he looked at Killian, his expression slackened.

"Whoa, is that a pirate? Hey, are you a pirate?"

Killian smiled, clearly charmed. "Once upon a time, lad, I was not so very different from a pirate."

Leo nodded, characteristic earnestness in the way he shuffled on his feet. "Good, maybe you can help."

Emma inhaled, sharply. "With what? What's going on? Where is everyone?"

"You know that passage behind the war room?"

"You mean that one that our mother and father told you to stay out of?"

"The one what you showed me?"

Emma sighed. "What about it?"

"They've been in there day and night. I just wanted to know why. So, four days ago, I snuck back in there. I heard them talking about Camelot, and about you. Papa said that there were scouts at the border, that they'd seen an army coming down from the north. The next morning, everyone was leaving."

She felt the blood drain from her face.

August said we had a month, she thought. We should have another week, yet.

Killian answered, Aye, but that man would stoop to any treachery for the sake of his own kingdom.

Emma laid her hands on Leo's shoulders. It struck her, then, that she was his age during the final battle, when what remained of the Black Knights and their sympathizers had fought an open war hardly a league away from the castle itself. It was brutal, and there were times when she remembered, when she couldn't help herself, holding her hands over her hears while the roar of battle echoed in her mind.

I can't let the same thing happen to you.

It won't, love.

"Can you do something for us, Leo?" He nodded, eager. "Do you remember where they went? Can you show us?"

"I can," he said. "But wait!"

Leo leapt away from her, and ran back down into the hall. She heard several loud thuds, and a few curses that would make her parents cringe. He ran back out, hastily dressed, licking the palm of his hand, and smoothing back his hair.

Emma rolled her eyes. "You ran back in there to get dressed?"

"I'm a military advisor now, I don't want to look ridiculous."

"Military advisor," she echoed.

"The lad's right, Swan," Killian said, gesturing with his hook between the two of them. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again, drastic times are no excuse for – "

" – poor attention to detail, yes, I know. Come on, Leo, let's go."

"Is that a hook?" Leo said, watching the appendage sweep back down to Killian's side, his brace resting on the pommel of his cutlass. "You really are a pirate."

Leo seemed to consider this a moment, before reaching out to grasp it, tugging so that Killian would follow. Emma did as well, amused by the bewildered expression on his face.

They wound quickly through the private chambers, and the throne room. It was all so stark, a minimal guard milling about at their posts. Clearly shocked to see her, they watched with wide eyes as her brother led them to the war room, bursting through the door, and running to the maps on the table. There were still place markers, as though they had left in a terrible rush. A polished round of obsidian lay on Camelot's castle, and Leo reached out, sliding it down to the river and hillocks that rose and fell along the border between Misthaven, and the very southern wilds of Camelot's territory.

"There," Leo said. He tilted his head, and narrowed his eyes, a facsimile of her mother's most searing expression. "They promised Misthaven a month, a stay of conflict. They broke that promise."

"They did," Emma said.

Leo turned, and when he spoke, it was quiet. It reminded her of when he was a child, frightened of the storms rolling in off the bay, crawling into her bed and begging for stories.

"I'm afraid, Emma," he said.

Emma answered honestly. "I am too. But we've won a war before, Leo, and we'll do it again. Don't worry, okay? That's our job."

He looked a little put out by that, but he threw his arms around her all the same, and held on tight.

"You and the pirate's."

Killian laughed, softly. "Aye, lad. I'd offer to keep your sister safe, but I think it will be the other way around."

Leo sniffled, and pulled away. "Okay, well...bring the pirate back, then?" He looked up at Killian. "What's your name?"

Respectfully, Killian bowed, his coat swinging at his thighs. "Killian Jones, at your service, your highness."

Leo puffed up, and though he was more than a head shorter than both of them, he managed to look regal, more so than Emma had ever managed. He was wise for his age, and in the wake of impending battle, she felt a surge of fondness for him, hoping desperately that it wouldn't be the last time she saw him.

"Good luck," he said, and he laid his hand over his heart.

Emma felt her eyes grow wet, and she returned the gesture, before reaching down for Killian's hook, a swirl of gray magic taking them away to the border.

Fear.

Emma could smell it. Like blood, like a forge, it was acrid and potent. She and Killian appeared in a forest, the trees thinning out and opening upon a rolling, verdant meadow. The river was behind them, snaking down into the sea. She could see the water through the trees, a glittering backdrop. When she turned, she could see suits of armor, like liquid metal pouring down the hill. On the other side of the meadow, more soldiers emptied into the valley, a swipe of red paint on the bellies of their cuirasses.

It was a misty day, patches of blue where the clouds were torn. The landscape gave the impression of hills behind hills, painted in shades of gray. One shaft of light opened near the distant shore, and brightened the field, where two figures met in its center. Emma's heart leapt into her throat.

"Oh gods," she said. "I think that's Mordred."

"Emma, is that you?"

A young stallion near the back of the line trotted towards her, Regina shifting comfortably on its back. She floated gracefully towards the ground, and tugged at the lip of a thin set of armor that Emma was certain her parents had persuaded her to wear. She was as artfully composed as ever, streaks of gray in her dark hair, an imperious expression on her face. But there was warmth, a brief smile, and Emma threw her arms around Regina's neck.

"Watch my sword," she said, with fond exasperation. "I have no idea why your parents thought I needed this. Your entire family is insufferable."

"Tough," Emma said, laughing wetly.

"And…who is this?" Regina gestured at Killian, who stepped forward.

"Killian Jones," he introduced, flitting quickly to business. "What is happening here?"

Regina frowned, and eyed him skeptically. But she did not hesitate for long, clearly of the same mind.

"This…Mordred – " Her lips curled distastefully over the name. " – has seen fit to take our kingdom, that he might repair his own. I wouldn't have thought it possible, given what miserable shape Camelot is in. But…" She paused, and looked to the battlefield. Her fingers twitched, and Emma could see magic pulsing in the palms of her hands. "…there's something terrible here, Emma. Some kind of elemental power in the soil, following the line of Camelot's soldiers. It feels like the magic that lives in the roots of the trees of the Enchanted Forest. It's ancient, and knowing. But it's been…corrupted."

"The witches of the wood," Emma explained. "We saw them in Camelot. They were bled dry, darkness pouring down into the water. A seer told us that Mordred wants to control the living magic that moves the realms using two charms in his possession, two stones set in silver."

Regina echoed, "Two stones set in silver…"

She pursed her lips, and leaned back to look up at the canopy. Emma followed her line of sight. The trees above, they trembled. It was spring, soon to turn to summer, but they carried miserable little leaves, not a flower in sight. The ground gave way beneath their feet, dead roots turned to mush. Emma listened with all of her might, but there was a hush over the land, as though it were breathing its last.

"Lapis manalis," Regina said, quietly.

Emma wrinkled her nose. "Lapis what?"

"Manalis, Emma. One is said to command life, the other, death, a delicate balance. It is only legend, but now I wonder…"

It can call the waters up from the heart of the realm...

The seer's words came to her, unbidden.

"If both were used for ill," Regina continued, "all might be lost."

They are chaos, they are the end of all things.

"No," Emma said, quietly.

"Bloody hell," Killian said. "The royalty of Misthaven attract darkness and legend like flies to a fucking carcass."

"Sorry." Regina looked him up and down, sharp and appraising. "Who is this, again?"

"The Dark One," Emma said. "So am I, for that matter."

Regina looked taken aback. "The Dark One is a myth."

"Tell that to all the voices in our head...heads."

She was clearly startled, but Emma cut her off. "Listen, we don't have time for this. Where are my parents? They better not be at the front line."

It seemed like Regina might protest, ask more questions, but urgency won out, and she answered, "It took a great deal of effort to convince them otherwise, but no, they're not at the front. Your parents are at the rear of the western flank. I'm here because…" She hesitated, wringing her hands, a rare show of vulnerability. "…I won't let them die, Emma, I promise you that much."

Emma smiled, brokenly. Quickly, Regina gathered up the reigns of her horse, and led them to her mother and father.

"You won't either, Swan," Killian said, in her ear.

"Won't what?"

He pulled back, and took her hand. "Die. I swear to you, Emma, nothing will happen to you."

"I don't think you get a say in that. Besides, we're still immortal."

Killian nodded. The look on his face was not one she recognized, sad and resigned. Parts of his mind, they felt closed off to her. "Aye, you're right."

She wanted to prod at him, but the canopy overhead began to thin, the soldiers began to thicken, and there upon their horses, bathed in the light that fell from above, sat her mother and her father.

It was curious, Emma thought, how all of the longing, and fear, and uncertainty, converged in that one moment. The light was dull, but it still glimmered off their armor. There was gray all throughout their hair, and lines on their faces, by their eyes and mouths, well-lived lives with many years ahead. Their hands were clasped between them. The sorrow and determination on their faces made for a tragic painting, and Emma hoped that, one day, it would be painted, as a triumph, a battle fought and won.

Don't you worry about the future, duckling, her father would tell her. It won't make you a hand taller, or a day older.

And now there he was.

"Papa," she said, a child in her voice. Both her mother and her father startled, and it was a flurry from there.

Her mother got to her first, and cried into her shoulder. Her father enveloped them both, and Emma sobbed.

"I'm sorry," she cried, again and again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. We failed, we failed."

Emma could feel her father shake his head, her mother hold her tighter. She realized that she could feel Killian's hand at her back, too, still close by.

You didn't fail, he reassured. You didn't fail.

"Oh, Emma," her father whispered.

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," her mother said. "Don't you dare."

Emma nodded, and cried until she couldn't cry anymore. When she pulled away, her father reached up, and brushed her tears away from her face. For the longest time, she stared up at him, then at her mother, back and forth.

"This is sweet and all," Regina said, and it sounded as though she meant it, "but you're running out of time. The negotiations have broken."

"Emma," her mother said, grabbing her shoulders. "First, I want you to know that this isn't your fault. Do you believe us?"

Emma hesitated, but she nodded.

"Wars happen. Your magic is a beautiful, and powerful thing. We knew there would be people that would want to take you. We will die before we let that happen again. So would any one of these people here today. And you don't get to feel guilty about that."

She could feel her lower lip tremble, and Killian's hand pressed harder into her back.

"Your mother's right," her father said. He smiled, serenely, as though they weren't standing at the fringes of a battlefield, the battle itself holding its breath. When he looked at Killian, his smile faded, curious and appraising. He turned back at Emma, and took her hand, leading her to his horse. "I'm guessing you have a lot to tell us?"

"That's Killian," she said, looking over her shoulder. He stood awkwardly at her mother's side, blushing beneath her scrutiny. Emma turned back to her father. "It's a long story."

His eyes twinkled. "I know it is. You know, we would die for you if we had to, but I hope you know, we'll do what we can to come back to you, and you can tell us everything. Remember...we will always find you."

In any other situation, Emma might have rolled her eyes at what she'd come to think of as a platitude. But she smiled, tremulous, and watched as her father fetched something from his saddle. When he turned back to her, he held out a sword. It was something she hadn't used in some time. Much to her father's chagrin, she preferred a knife in her boot, and a quick wit, rather than the weapon he now held in both of his hands. The very one with which he had taught her to wield a sword when she was a girl.

"I wanted to have you on the battlefield with me, Emma," he said, quietly. "This was as close as I could get."

Emma's hand trembled, hovering over the pommel.

"I've done terrible things," she whispered, looking up into his kind eyes. "I've run away, I've killed people. Mordred filled me with darkness, and I've given in, and I just…don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you love me."

Her father urged her to take the sword and she did, the hilt light and familiar in her hand. Once more, he tucked her into his arms.

"Just as we'll always find you," he said, his hand laying gently over the back of her head, "we'll love you for longer."

"Your majesties."

Her parents' general approached, and waited at a respectful distance as Emma pulled away. Her mother joined them, and left Killian behind. He wore a fierce expression on his face.

"It would be foolish of us to try and convince you to go back home," her mother said. "I know that you have magic, Emma, but be careful."

"I will," she answered.

They turned back to the general, who bowed respectfully, her helmet under her arm. She gripped the pommel of her sword, tightly, the metal stretched over her gauntlets creaking with the strain. Killian appeared back at Emma's side, his hand wandering over her back. He was so close that, when he breathed, she could feel it on her neck.

Are you afraid? she thought.

Bloody terrified, he answered.

"I…honestly don't know what to say, your majesties," the general said. "That man is unhinged. I can't say for certain whether we've arranged a stay of conflict or not. He's not made any demands, and now he's just…standing on neutral ground, doing nothing. I would guess that he means for there to be battle, no matter what we would offer him."

Her parents nodded, and looked to Emma. They held their hands over their hearts, and Emma mirrored.

"Be safe," she said. Her parents both nodded, and ordered the general to the front.

Fifty-nine, Emma counted back.

One minute, she guessed, from there to the front, where the spearmen and their horses waited, the latter of which snorted, stamping hard at the ground.

Fifty, she thought, and she grabbed Killian's hand, dragging him back into the forest.

"Swan," he protested.

Forty-two, she thought, and she pressed him against the nearest tree, a thin barrier between the two of them, and the world. It felt final. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it felt like the end. Emma buried her fingers in his hair, and leaned against his body, from chest to knee. It was a body she knew, and she begged the gods to let her know him again, and again, for as long as they lived, to the end of much older days than this.

"I don't give goodbye kisses," she said, and he nodded, clearly bewildered. "Not until now."

Thirty-one, she counted, and she kissed him. She opened her mouth, and spoke to him silently, her tongue stroking against his. He kissed her back, fiercely, his hand fisting in her vest, his hook looped in her belt.

Twelve.

Emma pulled away, but Killian chased her lips, and kissed at the corner of her mouth, her jaw, and her neck, before returning to her lips, opening his mouth wide, and breathing wetly into hers.

One.

She pulled away.

Killian was still panting when he heard a telltale shift in the field behind him. He wondered if he could, by sheer will, force the moment to last forever.

"Emma," he breathed, against her mouth. She pulled back, only far enough to tug at Excalibur, wrenching it from her belt and handing it to him. He faltered, and nearly dropped it on the ground.

"Take it," she pleaded. "I have my own sword, I don't want that anymore."

He nodded, and pulled her closer. He rested his forehead against hers. As much as he longed to turn time back, it rolled on, as steady and unyielding as ever. The horses began to walk, a sound like thunder, shaking the very earth at their feet. Emma let him go, and his heart thudded, the sense of loss unbearable.

That's what we're here for, dearie. You don't need anything else, anyone else.

Killian scowled, and tore his cutlass from his belt. He let it drop to the ground, and put Excalibur in its place.

"Come back to me," Emma said, and he tangled his fingers in her hair, and kissed her just one last time, his lips lingering on hers.

"I love you," he said.

For the first time, the chorus of impending battle behind her, light in her eyes, and a gentle, discordant smile on her lips, she answered him, "I love you too."

Killian followed her into the sea of armor. Though he longed to wear a mask, to treat the battlefield like just another hindrance, he didn't allow it. The darkness churned in his gut.

You want for blood? he taunted it. You'll surely have it.

He walked apart from the ranks, Emma just ahead. The land sloped up before it led down to the valley. On another day, perhaps, it would have been a beautiful sight. Thrushes in the meadow, delicate flowers spilling down along the hillocks, a braid of pits and knots that offered a lovely vantage of the forest to the west, and the sea to the east. As it was, Mordred stood tall at its center, and he held something in his hand, a light of sorts. Whatever wretched magic was eating away at the land, it began to stir, the ground trembling. Two armies approached him, his own from behind, and Misthaven's from ahead, but still he remained.

"What the hell?" Emma said, and Killian echoed, watching as the man raised up his arm, and let go of the light.

"The charms," Killian said. "Both of them."

One around Mordred's neck, and the other, hovering over him. A beat, and then it began to rise, far above the valley. The soldiers became agitated, the horses as well, and the general shouted above the noise, commanded them to form and keep ranks, frissons of fear and apprehension disturbing their rhythm. Killian watched in morbid fascination as the earth itself shifted, like the wind rolling through a sail. The ranks began to pick up speed, the horses moving from a measured walk to a trot, a trot to a gallop. They stumbled, but they did not fall, and just as one army met the other – a crush of bone against bone, blade sinking into flesh, an uproarious clash – both charms pulsed, and the ground in the valley began to grow wet.

It was like water, swimming with oil, slick and smelling of rot. Distracted, Killian nearly did not see the soldier ahead of him, and he only just leapt out of the man's path. Rage, as terrible as whatever magic boiled at their feet, grabbed a hold of Killian's heart, and without thought, he drew Excalibur, and plunged it into the soldier's gut. When he wrenched it free, blood and flesh spilled upon the ground. The dark magic seeping from the ground appeared to consume it.

"Killian!" Emma shouted, fighting battles of her own. Her sword clashed against her opponents', the chaos of war and putrid magic all around. It was a chorus with which he was familiar. "It's some kind of darkness...the seer warned us. The magic in the charms – "

"I – " Four more soldiers rushed him, and the darkness reveled in their swift deaths, the magic in his fingers twisting down into their bones, and wrenching their spines free of their skulls. " – know, Swan."

The magic rose from the soil, seemingly benign, sloshing at their feet like pitch swimming in water.

But then – and it was like the earth itself expelled a hot, punishing breath – it coalesced. The water itself burned away, leaving behind a terrible and viscous abomination. The soldiers, of Camelot and Misthaven alike, stumbled away, the battle half-forgotten as they watched it become first a wide pool, the size of many ships across. It swallowed nearly a quarter of the battlefield before it took form. Like the magic torn from Excalibur, when it had been reforged, it had a distinctly human-like form, long and wispy fingers rising into the air before they fell back to the ground. Killian watched with unbridled, abject horror. Whatever living thing the monster touched, it breathed its last. The grass shriveled and bodies withered away as, like a half-rotten corpse, it dragged itself across the field, consuming all in its wake. Dozens of soldiers fell, and though Mordred stood nearby, shouting madly at the creature, it did not heed him.

"Oh gods," Emma whispered. "Oh gods."

The battle itself became half-hearted. Steel yet rang out against steel, but wherever the monster appeared, the fighting disbursed.

"Never in my days," Killian breathed. "Never have I seen anything like this."

Emma cried out, pain and fury, as the monster destroyed first the valley, before dripping up along the hill, where her parents were surely fighting among the rest. She paused, just long enough to reach out, and drag her fingers down Killian's jaw, before she ran through the fray, pushing soldiers aside. Oh, how he longed to follow her, for as long as he lived.

He supposed, in essence, he would.

She will lead you to the end.

And now, here he was.

"Mordred," he growled, when he appeared at the man's side in a cloud of red magic.

Whatever madness had taken Mordred, it seemed to wash away in the wake of so much death. The valley reeked of it, blood and entrails and a darkness born of a corrupted magic, torn from the very soul of the realm. Killian reached out, and grabbed a hold of the man's armor. Pain lashed at Killian's fingers, the charm around Mordred's neck flashing bright, but he did not let go.

Killian snarled in his face. "What have you done?"

"Power leads to prosperity," he said, chanted it like a verse. "Power leads to prosperity."

Livid, Killian pushed, and Mordred fell to the ground. It jarred him from his trance.

"What have I done?" he echoed. "I don't know, I don't know. It should follow my command."

In the wrong hands, that power is unpredictable, the seer had said.

"You cannot command this magic!" Killian shouted. "You're a bloody fool, a disgrace." He paused, and weighed Excalibur in his hand. "You know, Emma would never allow such a thing. I'm sure she could talk some sense into me." He leaned down, breath stirring the lank hair that fell over Mordred's face. "But alas, she is elsewhere. What's one more sin, alongside so many others? If it stalls this wretched magic, good, if it doesn't, so be it."

There was nothing ceremonious about it, quick and surely painless, but satisfaction still surged through his chest when Excalibur arced down through the air, and removed Mordred's head from his shoulders, the charm around his neck rolling to Killian's feet. He spared little time to let it sing through his blood. He looked up, the other charm gleaming brightly, rising above all else, like a star hanging just there, right where they could reach. Mindless with fury, trembling with fear, he grabbed the charm at his feet, the chain dangling from his hook, and ran to the nearest hill. It was devoid of battle, lonely, a few trees swaying peacefully at his back. He tried to ignore the bodies beneath him as he went, most sapped of life by the wretched thing that poured along the landscape.

Take it, the darkness in him urged. Take it for your own.

Don't trifle with me, Killian growled.

It could be an asset.

It's uncontrollable.

"In the right hand," Killian intoned. He nearly laughed. In the right hand, the seer had said. "It can undo all of the darkness."

He let Excalibur fall to the ground, and he thrust his right hand up towards the other charm. With all the power he possessed, he tugged it from the sky. The stone of death, at his left side, the stone of the waters of life, at his right, corrupted by malintent. The darkness within, it shrieked, and the creature ahead of him echoed. It dissolved back into the valley, before it burst back out of the ground, towering above him, wispy fingers clawing at the ground below.

Killian. Emma's voice was soft in his mind. Killian, what are you doing?

You wanted to be rid of the darkness, he answered. Here's your chance.

No!

You and I both know there's no other way.

"I can take it with me," he said aloud. He dropped the charm in his hand, picked up Excalibur, and held it aloft. Like a great beast, the presence before him cried out. Killian did not know if it would work, but still he gripped the sword.

Help me, Swan.

He could feel her light, even as the terrible, viscous darkness pooled at his feet, the creature drawing closer. It was unlike anything he had ever felt, pain in reverse, the sharp tug bearable at first before it gripped hard at his flesh, and he screamed.

Just a little longer, he thought.

The creature writhed, sinking back into formlessness as it succumbed to the light magic that poured first form Emma, and then through him. Down, down it went, swirling around and around the blade in his hand. Until at last, it lay trapped within. The Dark One roared in protest, as though apart from him, and Killian panted. Pain, and sorrow, and regret, all of them together an overwhelming chorus.

You're doing the right thing, little brother.

Killian laughed, a mournful noise. He heard his brother's voice, clear as day. Not once, in a century and a half, had he heard him speak, his memory abandoning him to darkness the day Killian took his vengeance. Emma appeared before him just as the tears began to gather in his eyes. A confused battle still raged down over the hill, muffled by the distance. He looked to Emma, held out Excalibur, and begged –

"Please."

Mindless, and terrified, she dropped her own sword, and took it from him. It trembled in her hands. She looked lost, and Killian could hear the darkness whisper at her, relentless. It faced death as it did its unliving life, petulant and insidious. Despite its throes, he felt serene. He realized that, as death waited for him as well, he was glad to accept it. For decades, he'd sought atonement, never quite succeeding. The red in his ledger bled out onto everything that he did. So he looked to Emma, and tried to catch her eye while she wrestled with the darkness in her hands.

Love, she thought, wildly.

And Killian answered, "Love."