Warnings: Death, angst

Notes: Thank you guys so much for your reviews, follows, and favorites. I couldn't do this without them! Chapter fourteen will be up on Saturday.

Chapter Thirteen

When the light faded, Emma came back to herself.

Silence.

As surely as the Dark One had been destroyed, the creature had disappeared, and the living water that was drawn out of the earth flowed down the hill, benign, soaking into the valley. The sounds of battle halted, a hush of confusion.

Everything, silent, save for the wet, labored noises Killian made as he died. Emma tugged Excalibur from his gut, and it faded away on the wind, quickly forgotten when he stumbled into her arms. She could feel his hand in her hair, his cheek rough against hers. When he fell to the ground, and she along with him, she could feel his heart beating beneath her ear, unsteady and faint.

Emma could not feel his mind.

Oh, how she had longed to be free of the darkness, but first before all else, she was aware of the loss of the power that allowed her mind to live alongside his. In that moment, she wished to take it back, to live out their unending days where nothing and no one could find them.

"No," she whispered. "No."

Killian only took a few haggard breaths before he passed. His heart stuttered and stopped, and she let out a terrible cry, loud and mournful. The world came back to life – the swishing of the trees, the song of the birds, the flow of the water into the sea, the dull and distant clank of armor, the huffing of the horses. Her parents, she knew, were safe, but there were many others, dead and dying on the battlefield. She could heal them, she knew this, but selfishly, she curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat instead. It glittered furiously, a bright and familiar red. Emma couldn't bear it, so she closed her eyes, and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

She startled when she felt a warm hand on her back. She turned, and saw her parents' faces.

"Oh, Emma," her mother said, reaching down to wipe at her tears. When her father tugged gently on her arm, Emma shook her head, violently. She turned back to Killian, dragging her hand through his hair, down the side of his face. She held onto him, until her father pried her fingers from Killian's coat, and lifted her into his arms. When she bit down on the inside of her cheek, her cry caught in her throat, he held her tighter.

"It's okay to cry, duckling," he said. "It's okay."

So, she did.

Time meant little to her, suffice it to say that it was still light when she could walk on her own. Her father led her through the battlefield while her mother ordered the soldiers about. As was customary, the physicians had carried two silk sheets with which to wrap the king and queen, should they fall. When her father had at last coaxed her away, her mother had demanded the very one meant for her, and it had been laid over Killian's body.

"I'm sorry," Emma said, roughly.

Her father held her tighter against his side as they walked. The ground was a mess, torn apart by the darkness. It was like a graveyard, desolate and gray. The grass was withered, and the trees were bent over with the weight of their own death. Yet another tear slipped down her cheek, dripping off her chin. Emma swiped angrily at her face.

"What could you possibly have to be sorry for?"

"I should have gone with the physicians. But I…"

"Loved him?"

Emma was too distraught to be embarrassed. She answered, quietly, "Yes."

Her father stopped, and turned to face her. He laid one hand on her shoulder, the other on the back of her head. When she looked up into his eyes, another tear followed, and she wondered if this was always to be her fate. To banish the darkness, to get exactly what she had wanted at the outset, only to lose what she wanted at the end.

"Please," her father said. "Don't say that you're sorry. Regina is here, the physicians are here…let yourself rest." He rubbed gently at her face, his thumb over her cheek. Emma hadn't felt quite so young, or so vulnerable, in years. "I don't know what you've been through, Emma, but I want you to know that it's okay to fall apart. Alright?"

She nodded, furiously, and let him lead her back to the forest, where a young soldier watched over their horses. The people, most of whom she recognized, laid their hands over their hearts as she passed. A few, ones she had known for several years, smiled, their faces falling when they caught sight of her expression. Emma was sure that her father was waving people away. She could hear startled noises, noises of sorrow, the adrenaline-soaked chatter of the moments after battle. When she passed close, the people quieted out of respect.

"Do you want your own horse?" her father asked, quietly.

Emma imagined she could simply will herself back to the castle in moments. But she knew it would be largely empty, save for her little brother, who would ask her what had happened to her pirate. She conjured up his eager, young face, curious to hear a firsthand account of war, as the young often were. She shuddered, and nodded, and when at last the bodies had been accounted for, the wounded healed, the remnants of the confused battle disbursed, the faint outline of the sun behind the low, yellow clouds on the horizon, Emma followed close behind her parents, and began to live Killian Jones' last moments, over and over again, in her mind.

Killian was nearly halfway to his feet before he realized that he was awake.

He could hear the echo of Emma's cries in his ears, an otherworldly sound that travelled strangely in the stagnant air. The pain in his gut echoed as well, but when he lifted his shirt and vest, the wound was gone.

"What the bloody hell is this place?" he wondered aloud.

He expected a response. There always was one in his mind, in one of many voices, all of which he had come to recognize well.

But then…nothing.

It was then that he remembered, the darkness had been destroyed. Though he had died in the process, his mind was clear.

"Emma!" he shouted, overjoyed, and turned, realizing the moment he did that she would not be there. That she would be in the realm of the living, he apparently doomed to the Underworld, if that's where he was. It was better, of course, that she was alive, but he ached to tell her, to see her, to hold her.

He could do none of those things, and so instead he walked, and painted a picture of her in his mind.

Whatever realm it was that he wandered, Underworld or not, it was not unlike Misthaven. The light was muted, and appeared to have no source. The trees were immobile, and as surely as there was no breath in his lungs, there was no wind in the air. It was as though it had all been carved from stone. Though, when he reached out to prod at the low-hanging branches, they wobbled. Specters, they were, or something similar.

Well, this is grim.

It was Emma's voice. Not living, like the darkness, but a haunting facsimile. It was ironic, Killian thought, that he was the one who had died, and yet he would be haunted.

This is the afterlife, little brother, there are no rules.

It was strange. When Killian had imagined death, or imagined what it would be like to be rid of the darkness, he thought it would be lonely, or empty. The darkness was an eternal chorus, singing the song of revenge. They knew it was the quickest way to bring him to his knees, to bend him to their will. But now that they were gone, he felt fuller than ever before. When he saw Emma in his mind, it was not accompanied by voices trying to wrench them apart, and it was not colored with shadows. It was only her, and her voice. He knew she was alive, he knew her family was safe, he knew he'd paid for the terrible things he had done. It was freedom, sweet and intoxicating, and though he mourned their parting, he was satisfied that she had lived on, while he had died, and that the red in the ledger he kept had faded away, quite literally.

Killian walked on, and kept this in mind. He supposed that, if this was death, if it was his punishment, it was not any scenario that he had dreamed, most of them hellfire and torture. When he came to a river, its waters flowed just like everything else in this place, calmly and without life. A shallow bend led him to a suite of undulations in the land, gentle ups and downs that spilled down towards a valley.

"I know this meadow," he said.

Several long strides brought him to the place where he had died. Only, it was not torn apart by darkness. When he looked to the east, he saw the sea, like a sheet of glass. It too was lifeless, by far the saddest sight he had seen thus far.

A terrible noise rent dully through the air, and Killian turned. He sneered when he saw Mordred stumbling through the tree line. He wondered if one could feel pain in the Underworld, rather hoped that one could, and moved to stalk towards the man. Only, long before Killian could reach him, the noise grew louder, and the ground tore open. A river like he'd never seen appeared in the crack, water sluicing up from deep within the heart of the realm. It was green, and moved more like air than water. When Mordred fell in, it was as unceremonious as his death. His seemingly corporeal form dissipated, and he let out an unearthly cry before the ground twisted back as it was, as if nothing had ever happened.

"Bloody hell," Killian whispered. He was caught, suddenly, by the thought that, perhaps he was no better than Mordred, that the ground would open and swallow him up. Frozen in place, he watched the ground, and wondered if that was his fate as well.

"You have nothing to worry about."

Startled, Killian turned on his heel. A man stood only a few paces away. He smiled winsomely, and inclined his head. Though there was no breeze, his robe – made of very fine fabric indeed – fluttered.

"Who are you?" Killian said.

The man's smile brightened, and he lifted the hood of his robe up over his head. His eyes twinkled, and he let his posture slacken. When he spoke, he put on a much older voice.

"Don't you recognize me?"

Killian's eyes widened. "You. You traded the Promethean Flame for wolf's bane."

The man nodded, and removed his hood. "I am Merlin."

Decades, Killian thought. The man must have been some sort of seer, for if what Killian suspected was true, Merlin had been setting the pieces into play for years. He'd brought the Flame to his castle, he'd cast the spell on the lost faction of Camelot. He'd known the sword would banish the darkness, and wrote it down where it could be found. Killian reached up, and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I imagine you have many questions," Merlin said.

Confusion and awe began to melt first into disbelief, and then into anger.

"Did you…know Emma would become the Dark One?" Killian said, slowly.

Merlin sighed, and his smile gave way to sorrow. "I did."

Killian sneered. "And yet you did nothing."

"On the contrary, I saw that you would play a significant part in banishing the darkness, and that she would be made whole again. I gave you the Flame so that you would be prepared, so that it would be as painless as possible."

"Painless," Killian echoed, derisively.

Merlin frowned, and considered him. Then, he gestured towards the forest to the north, where, in the realm of the living, Misthaven would bleed into Camelot's wilds.

"Walk with me?" he said.

Killian regarded him suspiciously. But, at length, he nodded, and followed the man into the woods. For some time, whatever time meant in this place, they walked in silence. Merlin was clearly deep in thought, and Killian supposed that, since he was dead, he could be patient. Still, his fingers dug into the palm of his hand as he waited for him to speak.

Did Emma go through all of this for nothing?

"Camelot was falling apart," Merlin said, when the light of the realm began to fade. "I had thought that Arthur was meant to fulfill the prophecy, to repair the broken kingdom. After so much strife, it felt good to mentor him, to teach him the ways of magic, to hope that, in just one more human lifetime, it could see prosperity once more."

"Judging by what I've seen of King Arthur," Killian said, "I would say you weren't successful."

"Quite the opposite. He wanted power, always more power, convinced it would help him save his kingdom. I watched the same sickness stir in his nephew, even as a young boy. When the Lady Guinevere fell in love with another, and was with child, I suspected I had read the future wrong. It is, of course, inevitable, but never before had a misinterpretation been so disastrous. I knew I had to do something."

"And so, you set your sights on Emma. Hadn't she suffered enough as a child?"

Merlin stopped in a small clearing, a dip in the earth where water gathered. A willow bent over the pool, its leaves hanging down like a curtain, dragging through the muck. He peered down at his own reflection. There was some manner of dissatisfaction there, frustration, perhaps even a touch of disgust. Killian knew the feeling well.

"I knew what was at stake," Merlin said. "As a much younger man, I had tried to change the course of the future before. It never worked. So, I facilitated as much as I could. I hid Guinevere, her family, and all those loyal to her in the northern wilds of Camelot. It was rumored to be cursed." He paused, and smiled, a secretive expression. "In the earliest days of the realm, it was called Avalon. From there, all magic was born. I suppose that was the source of the rumors. No matter, the people of Camelot did not venture near it. It served its purpose."

Killian thought of the Isle of Apples – or Avalon, as it were – and the spell that had been placed on its borders. It was more powerful than any spell he had ever encountered, enduring and terribly effective.

"But what does this have to do with Emma?" Killian said. "You could have taken the sword from Arthur, you could have done…any number of things."

Merlin shook his head. "I told you, the future is not to be trifled with."

"Of course not," Killian said, bitingly.

"I know you will never agree with me, but I did what I thought was right. I knew that Arthur would tie her to the darkness. When he was young, I gave Mordred a spell to track the whereabouts of the hunting dogs he so loved. Many years later, he warped that spell with the power of the lapis manalis and used it to cast a spell on a piece of Excalibur. Fearful for its own survival, cowed by the elemental magic living deep within the earth, the darkness recoiled. Thus...I knew that Emma would not succumb to the power of the Dark One."

Killian scowled, took one long stride, and nearly spat in the man's face. "Emma did not succumb to the darkness because of Emma, not because of you."

Merlin appeared to consider him. Then, "You may be right."

Killian seethed, but the longer he wore his anger, the more tired he became. With nothing to spark it into a flame, with several hundred years behind him, it sloughed easily off his shoulders. Though he had no real need, he took a deep breath, and stepped back.

"I gather Aldan is the one meant to repair the kingdom," he said.

Merlin tilted his head. "Indeed. Some of the work has been done. After all, when darkness meets light, what's broken will be remade. But it cannot be completed without her, without her family."

Killian closed his eyes, and leaned back. He imagined the lick of the breeze, one that would roll in off the sea, smelling of salt, and that sweet smell of living things. If he thought hard enough, he could almost feel it. When he looked back at Merlin, his ancient, knowing face seemed younger, sympathetic.

"I've had enough of prophecy," Killian said, quietly. "The darkness is banished, and my life is done. What happens next?"

Merlin nodded, and gestured for them to continue walking. Killian followed him deeper into darkness. Whatever gave light to the realm had gone, and night fell. Though it was a place of death, the night was not insidious. Killian had known nights such as this when he was alive. A curtain drawn over the stars, not a one to be seen. In winter, when nothing grew or sung or moved, and storms brewed in the clouds, his lonely mountain was much the same.

Curious, though, was how the Underworld changed as they went. As though it were a map, folded beneath their feet, the landscape passed in lurches. The climate changed quickly, and Killian blinked.

"Your life may be done," Merlin said, seemingly unaffected by the peculiar passage of both space and time, "but death has not quite begun. What say you to one last quest?"

Quest, Killian thought, distastefully.

The truth of it was, he'd rather death would simply take him. He was tired, and longed for Emma. His chest ached with it. Her lips were a phantom, pressed against his own. Though he had many regrets, the latest before he died was that he had not held onto her longer, that he had not kissed her again. Or perhaps before that, when he had made love to her, and she to him. Why had he not joined with her once more? Before they'd gone to the Enchanted Forest, or from there to Camelot's borders. In this strange realm, with no feeling or time, with no clear borderlines, he quickly began to forget the taste of her mouth, the texture of her hair.

"What do you want?" Killian said.

"When I passed, my spell began to weaken, but you see…" Merlin paused, and he looked shameful, casting his eyes to the ground. "…that was no simple spell. Spells die, they bend, they age. Lancelot and Guinevere, all of the people in Avalon...we shared a curse."

Killian blinked, disbelieving. "Bloody hell. You cursed them."

"I'm afraid so. A curse that reflects the darkness in one's soul. The price for keeping out those of malintent, is that those upon whom it was cast are bound to the land. It must be broken before they can venture out. Those who were born after the curse had been cast are unaffected, but the rest will be locked within until it is broken. It will not simply fade with my death, as they expect."

"And you didn't think to tell them this?"

Merlin stared off into some distance. "I would have, if I'd known. I was blind to the spell's power. I thought of their immediate safety and nothing else. I knew we would pay a price. That it would be so steep escaped me."

"And now they are...cursed."

Merlin sighed, regretfully. "Yes."

"And they believe otherwise."

"They do."

"Is this not a concern…" Killian trailed off.

Of the living, he'd meant to say. Then he realized, the living meant Emma. The battle at the borderline may have been won – or so he assumed – but the hostilities weren't guaranteed to stop. In fact, with such a leaderless faction, the people would loot, there would be a contestation for power. The very same chaos he'd left behind when he'd destroyed his own kingdom. If not for Emma's sake, then for the sake of not making the same mistake twice, Killian grit his teeth, and said –

"What do I have to do?"

Emma watched the night pass from her bedroom window. Though the breeze blowing in off the sea was cold, she let the glass swing wide open. Leo, sweet thing that he could be, had sat with her until he could no longer stay awake. He lay with his body sprawled over the windowsill, a knit blanket drawn over his shoulders, breathing evenly.

The night was a welcome reprieve. Four days had passed since Killian's death, and though the war had tapered off, there was still a heavy guard placed at the border. The game for the throne had begun, and the players had started moving their pieces. Given that Camelot was their neighbor, the contestation for power was sure to affect their borders, and Misthaven acted accordingly. As much as Emma strategized alongside her mother and father, there was only so much they could do. The people, their villages already in tatters, would suffer. She had cried for Killian, and she had cried for Camelot, until all of the tragedies seemed to meld into one.

Late in the night, at least, she could rest, and hold onto the sound of his voice, the way his coat felt beneath her fingers. His hair, and his smile, eyes bright, of a shifting blue, like gemstones pulled up from beneath the mountains.

"Emma?"

She startled, but Leo did not wake. Her parents, dressed in their shifts, peered into the room. Emma nodded, and they came inside, padding quietly across the smoothly hewn floor.

"You should take him," Emma said, gesturing to Leo, who slept peacefully through the noise. "Before he twists something."

Her father kissed her forehead before gathering her brother up in his arms. He was really too big to be carried, but her father carried him nonetheless. Emma wondered if they had imagined it too, another war tearing their family apart, robbing them of the chance to watch yet another child grow up in peace and safety.

"I know we haven't had many chances to talk," her mother said, sitting next to her on the lip of the window. "How are you?"

Emma sighed, and a shudder tore through her body. She was many things. The urgency of battle, caught in a state between war and peace, it was a distraction. But as much as the nights offered her the opportunity to remember Killian, it was also a chance to mourn him, and she wasn't sure that she was ready to do that just yet.

"I don't know," she said, quietly. "I've just…"

"Not had enough time?" her mother guessed.

Emma nodded, and leaned against the stone abutting the window.

"I…" She tried to stop it, pinched her side, and bit down on her lower lip. But still, her eyes grew hot, and the tears began to spill over. "He was so fucking stubborn." She looked apologetically at her mother, but she only smiled softly, and urged her to continue. "I bet he knew. I bet he knew that he had to die. Honestly, an ancient darkness tied to a sword? A part of me must have known too…so why didn't I just hold on tighter?"

"Oh, Emma." Her mother moved closer, until Emma could lean her head on her shoulder. Together, they watched the stars. They twinkled brightly, the sort of clear night that follows on a soft, evening rain. "There's nothing you could have done. I won't pretend to know him, but I will say that, if for nothing else, he gave his life because he loved you."

Emma sniffled. "How do you know?"

"That he loved you? Why, he told me. Or rather, I needled him about his intentions, and he confessed that he loved you, that he would never leave you."

Emma sobbed, once, and dragged her hand over her face. "But he did leave me."

"The people who die for us, they don't leave, Emma. It's the opposite, I think. They leave their mark, and are with us forever."

It was exactly the sort of thing one might expect her mother to say. A bright and hopeful speech. Normally, Emma might scoff. She had seen so much of the world, had watched the people of her own realm, and others, kill one another for land and power and wealth. Since she was a child, she had known these things.

But…she could feel it. She could feel him. Like he wasn't quite gone.

"That's stupid," she said, and her mother laughed. "But maybe you're right."

For some time, they sat together, and watched the night go by. The moon tracked over the sky, and the insects of the night came to life. Louder and louder they trilled, from the marshes near the port, and from the forest on the border of the castle grounds. Without the aid of the power of the Dark One, it was a meager sound. Soft, like she remembered. Emma wondered if Killian, wherever he was, could feel and hear the same thing, if the absence of the darkness, the gentle silence, were a comfort, or a terrible reminder. She supposed it didn't matter to the dead.

"Tomorrow is the fifth day since the battle," her mother said, when the moon had set, and a great streak of light filled the sky, like a celestial cloud behind the stars.

"I know."

Emma knew what she was saying. The fifth day was the customary day of burial and remembrance. The bodies had been treated and wrapped.

Bodies, she thought, another wave of sorrow churning in her gut. Not only for Killian, but for the great mass of death that had burst from the earth itself. She closed her eyes.

"I was thinking," her mother said. "We ought to hold a separate ceremony for your…"

"Killian?" Emma suggested. Her mother smiled, softly.

"Your Killian, yes. He was a hero."

Don't let them call me a bloody hero, Swan.

Emma almost laughed. His voice rang clear in her mind. It was unlike his thoughts, leaking from the outside in, just an echo that she conjured up on her own. But it was a precious reminder, all the same.

Why not? she thought.

It's unbecoming. I was a rogue, at most.

"He'd pretend to hate it," Emma said, fondly. "Let's do it anyway."

Stubborn woman.

Her mother nodded, and she remained at Emma's side. She took the blanket Emma had thrown over Leo and tucked it around her shoulders. Emma hadn't been home much in the past several years, but when she was, her mother would often stay up late, and listen to her stories. It felt…normal, almost, to do it again, though so much had changed.

"What was he like?" her mother said. Her eyes twinkled, and Emma could see all sorts of romantic ideas in the expression on her face.

"Dark," Emma answered, honestly. "But…I don't think I've ever seen anyone struggle so hard against themselves. He hated the darkness."

"When did you fall in love with him?"

Emma rolled his eyes. "You don't get to skip to the good parts of the story."

Her mother only smiled, and waited.

Emma sighed. "Well, it wasn't a single moment. I'm not like Papa. I didn't, you know…look at his hair, and instantly know I wanted to marry him. But, if you were to force me to pick…we had just boarded Jack for the first time. And he looked around at him…he was the Dark One, and he was looking at my ship like he'd never seen anything like it. He'd done terrible things, but he'd come back to himself, and look like he'd just joined the Navy or something, eager and wet behind the ears. And I…"

She shrugged. She thought of that journey, when he'd been so incredulous at the name, when he'd mourned Jack like he was an old friend. More tears slipped down her cheeks, but she stubbornly refused to wipe them away.

"I love him," she said, quietly. "I love him now. But I can't have him."

"I know, sweetheart." Her mother reached out, and rubbed her back. "What sorts of things did he like?"

Emma coughed, and spoke softly, hoarsely. "You mean…for the ceremony?"

When her mother nodded, Emma hesitated. She recounted every moment, a quick flash of memory, weeks rolling by with no censure. A flash of color in the darkness, bright little flowers like a river beneath the trees. She heard Killian's voice.

I could never make anything grow.

"Flowers," Emma said. "He liked flowers."

The next morning, Emma woke early. It was a strange sensation, to sleep after so long without. Though, she didn't sleep much. She dreamt of him, and it was too much, to wake without him there.

You should be with me, she thought. You should be feeling this too.

So, she slept lightly, and woke quickly. She dressed in fine, but practical things, and went to the war room, where her father was poring over a few maps. He sighed, and his shoulders slumped.

"Papa," she said, quietly.

He turned, and smiled. His eyes crinkled up, the way that she knew, but they were dull.

"I hoped I'd never have to do this sort of thing again," he said.

"Yeah, I know. Me too."

He looked pained, and shook his head. "You've been through so much, Emma. You're so much stronger than your mother and me. I wish I could have seen it all, watched you grow. We missed so much. And now I'm just thinking…how many other people are going through the same thing? It's heartbreaking."

"It's not your fault."

Her father leaned hard on the table, his palms flat against the maps. "I know. There's just so little we can do. We can't establish a government, we can hardly send aid. It's a rogue nation. If only we could find Guinevere and Lancelot. We can't do this without them, their knowledge and wisdom."

Emma winced. When first she'd returned to Misthaven's palace, she'd been certain that Guinevere and Lancelot would soon return to Camelot. The spell on the Isle ought to have faded. She didn't know whether or not Aldan had returned, but the return of her parents might have been enough…had they arrived. Her father had sent scouts, but they had been unable to find the Isle of Apples, mysteriously gone from where Emma told them it had been.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Her father smiled, and laid his hand on her shoulder. "How many times do I have to tell you? Don't be sorry. This isn't your fault."

Emma nodded, and rested in comfortable silence for a while as they looked over the maps.

"We need to establish a consistent line of communication," Emma said, at length. Her father smiled, a proud expression, and she tried not to flush. "Mother's birds hate me…so how about a scouting line? I know the way. It's not much, but it's a start. We need to know what's going on in Camelot."

"Brilliant," he said, and together they redrew the lines on the map.

It was a few hours of work, critical, and enough to distract Emma, until her mother pulled them away, and bid that they dress in their finery, ceremonial armor that gleamed in the morning light. It was a clear, bright day, warm and scented with hints of summer, the flowers fallen, buds giving over to fruits. She was intimately familiar with the ceremony, having attended several ever since she could remember. Several dozen had perished in the heat of battle, the rest taken by the darkness, nothing remaining but memory. Their graves had been dug in the cemetery upon the hill, a meadow that looked over both the port and the mountains behind it. Her mother spoke of valor, of loyalty and honor, while sweet instruments played a quiet tune. Her brother, unaccustomed to the ceremony, was bewildered. He wore his most serious face, but he watched the families of those who had fallen receive a silver crest, and a sealed promise of fair and prompt payment of their loved ones' wages, with a young and earnest expression.

"Was it always like this?" he whispered.

Emma answered honestly. "Yeah."

Later that evening, in the royal graveyard, no music, and no fanfare, Emma watched her friends and family gather around the grave of a man that none of them had known. Though she was surrounded, she had never felt quite so alone. As yet, there was no stone at the head, a perfectly symmetrical hole in the ground, with a simple, neatly carved and oiled casket. It felt unreal to her, like a dream. For all her whimsy, her mother bid that each of them drop flowers and flower petals into the grave, instead of a fistful of soil, as was customary. Her gut churned as she watched each of them do so, solemnly.

Listen to your gut, Swan.

No speeches were made, and evening slid quietly to night. She imagined that Killian wouldn't have minded such a ceremony. It would have been his preference, simple and quiet. Though he carried a good heft of bravado, he would so often demur under scrutiny, Emma wondered that he had managed to fool anyone.

Even so, it didn't feel quite right. It wasn't the ceremony itself that rankled. It was the finality. She knew that she should mourn, but the longer she stared down into the grave, flowers and their petals laying lank upon where his body lay, the harder her heart beat.

He's not done, she thought, wildly.

"What are you thinking, Emma?" her father said, when only she and her parents remained, well into the night.

She clenched her fists, looked her father in the eye, and said, "I'm going to find the Isle."

Killian picked his way over the ghost of Camelot's grounds. They were in ruins, the towers and keeps turned over on their sides, the forest creeping up and over the rubble. It was a fitting metaphor, if not a little bit on the nose for his tastes. He muttered darkly as he searched.

"True love can break any curse," Merlin had said. "Or so it is believed. One so powerful as this, tied to so many souls...I fear it will not be enough. But Aldan has not come here to break it, in spite of the prophecy. She believes that I and I alone have both the knowledge and the power to restore it. Though her people remain trapped within the Isle, its power will crumble, and they will be unprotected. She wants to protect her family, fight in their place if need be. It is her deepest wish. Help her to find her way, to choose the right path, and perhaps the curse will be broken."

Perhaps, Killian thought, disdainful.

Merlin had shimmered away not long after, claiming that he was not the waypoint of the journey, that he could no longer serve as its guide.

"Go to Camelot," he had said, and nothing more. The earth below his feet had taken a deep breath, and then he was little more than motes caught on the wind.

Frustrated, Killian had walked to the north, in great lurching stops and starts, until the castle appeared before him, its glory long since lost.

He didn't remember much of the castle, save for the fact that it was where Emma had first been taken. He remembered the crack of Arthur's bones beneath the weight of his magic, and he curled his fingers at his side.

When he'd searched the outer ring of the castle, he climbed through to its innards. Sweeping vines spilled out over the ruined stone. It seemed that, as he wandered, night again turned to day, soft and unknowable light spilling into a central courtyard. There, a great, and long dead willow tree sprawled out of the ground. It seemed to be caught in repose, reaching up towards the sky. Killian stepped carefully around it, stopping when he saw a young woman. Her hand lay upon the tree. She looked lost, a little broken, though her eyes were bright, and fierce.

"Aldan?" he called, hesitant.

The woman startled, and drew the sword at her side. Killian remained slack where he stood.

"Who are you?" she said. Her voice seemed louder than his own, or Merlin's, splitting like the crack of a bell through the air.

The voice of the living, he supposed.

"Aldan?" he repeated.

The woman only watched him, skeptical and unyielding, and though Killian could afford to remain unmoving for the rest of her days, he sighed, and gave in.

"Killian Jones," he said, giving a brief and cheeky bow. "I believe you might know me as the Dark One?"

She lowered her blade, stunned. "You are the Dark One?"

"Aye."

She hurriedly sheathed her sword, and stepped closer. She paused, then, and tilted her head, suspicion warring against hope. "How do you know my name?"

"We…" That is, Emma and I. He swallowed. "We were sent to find you. Your parents are looking for you."

Aldan looked chagrined. "Oh, I'm certain that they are. But I can't go back, not until I find a way to repair the spell that protects them. I was hoping you could help me."

Killian smiled ruefully, and scratched at the tender skin beneath his ear. "About that, lass…I'm afraid it's not a spell, but a curse."

She did not seem phased. "So?"

Incredulous, he leaned back on his heels. "So? Your family is cursed, and this…" He waved his hook in the air. "…changes nothing? You still wish to repair it?"

Aldan scowled. "The Isle is my home. I don't care if it's a curse or a hex or whatever else. My family and friends, they're safe, and won't have to fight in any war. Merlin had written that it would break, that we would repair the broken kingdom. But he also wrote that it would come at the cost of many lives. I won't see my parents die. I'll die, if I have to."

Killian mirrored her stance and her expression. The heir, she reminded him of Emma, casually reckless, and fiercely loyal. Her face turned upwards, and her nostrils flared. He tilted his head, and considered her quietly.

"The prophecy says that you are the true heir of Camelot," he said.

"I don't give a damn about any prophecy."

He smiled. "Well that's convenient, because neither do I."

"I…" Aldan appeared to deflate. Clearly surprised, her face softened. "You don't?"

"Merlin asked – "

Aldan reached out, and grabbed a hold of the sleeve of his coat, and he startled.

"Merlin?" she breathed. "Where is he? When I came looking for you, and couldn't find you, I found a way to come here. But now I can't find him either."

Killian sighed. "He was here in the Underworld. Alas, he...didn't stay."

She cursed. "I would guess that it has something to do with all these damn prophecies."

"You'd be right. He asked that I guide you to break the curse...but frankly, lass, I have no moral high ground. I will guide you back to the land of the living, if you would like, and from there you may do as you wish. You'll find that, if you know where to look, my castle has many things that can help you break a curse, or repair one."

Aldan hesitated, and turned to look back at the willow. She reached out, and tugged at one of its blackened fronds. For a moment, it appeared as though she might protest. But she was clearly weary, a living person caught in the timeless, often formless realm of those who were dead.

"I know the way to your castle," she said. "I'll guide you, and then you can show me where to look."

Killian grinned, and gestured vaguely to the north. "Lead the way, milady."

Emma had expected her parents to protest when she'd offered to find the Isle. After all, they'd only just gotten her back.

But then, perhaps they had been swayed by her fierce expression, or something else altogether, because her father had held her close, her mother's hand on her back, and they had asked –

"What do you need?"

Travelling by aid of magic for such great distances was exhausting, but with the warm cloak and provisions her father had helped her pack away, she was well enough to stay on her feet.

It was curious, having to consider things like food and drink and rest. She wondered if it was because it had been so long, or because Killian was not with her, that it all felt like ash in her mouth.

It was not quite dark enough to follow the stars when she first arrived in Camelot's wilds, and so Emma had found the nearest stream, and sat down to rest. She forced herself to swallow several mouthfuls of salted and cured meat, chasing it down her throat with cool, fresh water. So near to the Isle, she wondered if the fruits that Killian had loved would be growing nearby.

She did not look for them.

When the stars blinked to life, Emma pulled her cloak tight over her shoulders. The swan twinkled just over head, and she followed its path deep into the woods.

Without the curse of the Dark One, the forest was pleasant. The marshlands were not grim and dying, but soft, like a whisper. Life chattered away as she passed by. It was calming. Emma had always preferred the sunrise, before she had been bound to darkness. But now, she found that she preferred the night.

So, you prefer darkness then, eh, Swan?

"I do," she answered.

Many hours passed as she wandered, and though Emma knew that the others had had no luck in finding the Isle, still she pushed forward. She could feel its magic, rasping uncomfortably against her own, weakened and unpredictable, but still the central town did not reveal itself.

"Hello?" she called, several times.

She heard no answer.

Emma circled back towards the south when she found nothing, combing the forest all over again. She travelled until she arrived at a great escarpment that rose to the east. She recalled the landmark, and many others, as she passed. Each one a memory, a bitter hollow.

It was nearly morning when she walked from there down a slope in the land. Emma grumbled as she went, and let her fingers trail over the bark of the trees, a rough texture that tied her to her own shadow, enough of a grounding that, when she caught sight of the clearing, she didn't stumble.

Flowers, she thought. There were flowers everywhere, the very Dutchman's breeches she had tugged from a dying bramble.

These are quite beautiful, aren't they?

Emma recalled just the way he had said it, quietly, the man peeking out from behind the monster. He'd touched the flowers like they were the purest magic, like he'd never seen anything quite like them. She also recalled the shape they had made, sluicing like a river through the trees, but whether it had been a trick of the spell that lay on the forest, or some other magic, they sprawled across the entire slope in a beautiful, haphazard array. An odd breeze seemed to rise from the ground, stirring the cloak over her shoulders.

"Killian," she breathed.

"What's Arendelle like?"

Aldan spoke eagerly. When he had first begun to follow her, she was hesitant, and demanded only that he tell her enough to set her mind at ease. She asked after her parents, and the rest of the Isle. But the more questions she asked, the more it loosened her tongue, until every phrase from her mouth was a needling question. She was young, like a bright light, and it would have been charming, if her questions did not poke at fresh wounds

"Cold," he answered, shortly.

She gave him a look, and pushed ahead. "I would imagine so. What else?"

He sighed. "You'll have to see for yourself, lass."

"Once the curse is repaired, I doubt I will have much opportunity to travel. I'll be fighting a war, remember?"

"All magic comes with a price."

For some time, Aldan was silent, and Killian felt guilty. But he didn't know what else to say. She had made her choice, and it wasn't his place to comfort her. His wretched life had been lived, and lost. There was nothing he could offer.

"The woman you travelled with," she said, at length. "You loved her…didn't you?"

Killian found that he didn't have the energy to scowl, to refuse an answer.

"I still do," he said.

"Is that what changed you?"

He stopped. The light had once again faded to nothing, but still the escarpment up on the hill cast a long shadow. Aldan turned, and watched him with an open expression. Too open, he thought. She was all at once vulnerable and hardened. She reminded him not only of Emma, but himself when he was young, when he'd thought the Royal Navy would be his salvation.

"Changed me?" he echoed.

"I know what you did," she said. Curiously, she did not sound angry. "You destroyed your own kingdom...you sparked a revolution, drove the royalty out."

"And yet…you still trust the man who did those things?"

Aldan shook her head. "No."

Killian winced, and gazed down at the ground.

"I don't think that man exists anymore."

He dared to look back up at her, but found no censure. "Oh?"

"I read your journals."

Killian stood straight, alarmed. "You what? How? Those are protected."

Aldan wiggled her fingers. "I have magic. True love, and all."

He grumbled. "Of course. The trouble caused me by women bearing the mark of true love is just immeasurable, at this point."

Aldan said nothing, only pushed ahead, walking further down towards where the land sloped into a valley. It was a familiar path, one that Killian had walked before. The brush crumpled beneath his feet. Without the curse, it was a calm place. Though, in the shadows of the strange, unliving light, it was a bit haunting.

"We read your journal too," he said, when the silence had settled.

Aldan snorted.

"Dammit," she said.

Killian smiled. He meant to quip at her, when a breeze gusted through the wood. Chilly, and living, it carried a voice.

Killian.

"Emma?" He listened, but heard nothing. A few more steps down the hill, and the brush parted to reveal a sprawling meadow of Dutchman's breeches, bright and young and beautiful. He leaned down, and touched the petals. They were textured, and soft, halfway between living and not. He laughed.

"What are these?" Aldan said, reaching down to poke at the nearest bush. "Everything here seems dead. But theme seem as though they're…alive."

"I think they are, lass." He leapt to his feet. "I think Emma's here."

Startled, Aldan turned around.

"No, not here." He gestured up towards the canopy. "Here. In the forest, in the realm of the living. I wonder…"

Killian did not hesitate. Perhaps he would have, in years past. If nothing else, Emma had cracked him open, and poured hope where before there was only darkness. It was with that hope, then, that he slashed away at the bark of the trees.

Aldan eyed him, skeptically. "What are you doing?"

"Sending a message," he said. He stepped back when he was finished. "It will have to do."

"Killian!" Emma called.

She heard no response, but her heart thudded unevenly. She looked at the meadow behind her. It was as though she could feel him breathing at her neck. She wondered if she'd gone mad, when she turned once more, and caught sight of deep gashes in the tree just before her. Emma leaned forward, and traced the indent. It was a letter, she realized, the letter I. There were others as well. A C carved in a young beech, an R in a middling ash. Emma stepped back, and then to the side. Her stomach lurched when the trees all aligned, and spelled: IT'S A CURSE.

"A curse..." she said. "On the Isle? Oh, what the hell."

Spells could be banished, but curses were bound to blood. It had weakened after Merlin's death, but Emma suspected it was shared among many. To be so enduring, and so powerful, it would have to be.

She knew curses. Her mother had been placed under a sleeping curse, and her father as well. Her own mind had been cursed once, one of forgetfulness, meant to spread hopelessness when her people were still embroiled in a battle with the Evil Queen. And each time, they were broken.

"By true love," she whispered.

Her heart thudded once more, a painful lurch when she thought of Killian. She turned, and was grateful to be distracted by another row of trees. She stepped to the side, and again, the trees aligned: I HAVE ALDAN.

With such a clear and obvious reference to himself, tears gathered in her eyes. If Killian had found Aldan in the Underworld, Emma wondered if she would return the way she had gone, through the pool behind Killian's castle. It was a long way to travel by magic, but with such a powerful curse...she wondered if true love might not be enough. As it was, the Isle was hidden away. If Aldan wished to break the curse, she would need more. More time, more power, more help.

Once more, Emma turned, and a row of saplings spelled simply: CASTLE.

She did not hesitate.

Trust, she thought, in his voice.

Emma summoned all the magic she possessed, and disappeared in a cloud of white.

"You do not have me," Aldan protested.

Killian shrugged. "She'll know what I mean."

She grumbled, but led on nonetheless. She walked quickly, now, with purpose. The climes changed beneath their feet, from marshland to grassland, grassland to steppe. The mountains rose and fell in a flurry of noise. It was like a painting, still wet, dripping to a blur of colors.

"I hope I don't ever have to come back here," Aldan said, when she stopped to rest. "I feel ill."

Killian patted awkwardly at her back. "I would think this is an illusion of some kind. It's all quite unreal."

She huffed. "It feels real to me."

He nearly said, Perhaps it will be different when you die. But, curiously, he did not want to think of Aldan dying. Instead, he waited while she steadied on her feet.

"What will happen when we arrive at your castle?" she said.

"I'll show you where you ought to snoop. Emma will be there, in the realm above. She can help you."

Aldan frowned. "You're not coming?"

"I'm dead, lass. I doubt I'll be able to walk out of the Underworld's front door."

"And that's it? What if I can't find what I'm looking for?"

"You don't strike me as the sort to give up. I'm certain you'll find a way."

She flushed, and fiddled with the pommel of her sword.

"I've collected many things throughout my years as the Dark One, and even before that, when I wandered the jungles of Neverland. I've never personally tried to repair a curse before, but I have a few things in mind that ought to be able to help you."

Aldan's eyes widened comically. "You've been to Neverland?"

He smiled. "Aye. You are welcome to nose back through my journals, if you wish. There are more on the fourth level."

"Oh." She blinked. "You don't...mind?"

Killian waved her off. "I find I care less and less for the land of the living the longer I roam the land of the dead."

It rang false. Emma, he thought, a hollow in the pit of his belly. He bit down on nothing, and gestured weakly.

"Shall we go?" he said.

Aldan tilted her head, curious. She hesitated, but then nodded, resolute. "Yes."

She led them further to the north. The great seas were like puddles, crossed over in a stride. Small streams swelled to rivers. It was dizzying, often unrecognizable. Time had no purpose there, and so when they arrived in the north, it could have been hours, or weeks. It could have stuttered backwards, and he wouldn't have known.

Though his castle too was warped by whatever strange magic pervaded the Underworld, Killian could never forget the distinctive roll and wave of the northern isles, nor the lonely mountain that rose amongst the scrublands. The castle was in ruins, the doors broken, hanging from warped hinges. When he stepped inside, great, broken maws in the stone let the unnatural light pour in over the shelves. They were in terrible disarray, every item merely a shadow of its true self. The bottles and jars were all empty. No matter, it would serve his purpose.

"This is the ugliest place I think I've ever been," Aldan said, distastefully, stepping over a knot of broken stone.

Killian snorted. "It's seen better days in the lands above, I assure you."

"Yes, I've been there. It was still ugly."

He glared at her. "To each their own, lass."

She muttered quietly, and he elected to ignore her. He made for the shelves, but was caught off guard by the book lying at his feet.

"My ledger," he whispered.

"Your what?"

Killian did not answer. A familiar tremble began at the base of his spine, and his hand shook when he picked it up.

Only...it was blank. The blood magic, tied to his own life, had gone. Though he knew the same had happened in the realm above, he had wondered if the afterlife would keep a more careful record of his sins.

"Did you use invisible ink?" Aldan wondered, peering over his shoulder.

Killian shook his head, and let it fall, unceremoniously, to the ground, a cloud of dust kicking up in its wake. "It doesn't matter anymore."

Determined, he walked to the shelves, and studiously ignored every wretched thing he saw, save for one, small empty bottle. He followed the path of the enchanted stairs, Aldan behind him. She poked and prodded at the walls, picked up every curious thing she saw. Killian didn't protest, only set his jaw and kept moving forward, showing her any number of things that could possibly help her on her way – spell tomes and historical writings and bureaus full of awful, grisly things.

"Curses are a terrible business," he said, gently, at the look of horror on her face.

Aldan only nodded, and listened carefully as he described the purpose of each item.

When nothing else remained but to return to the realm of the living, she sighed. "Terrible business indeed."

Killian nodded, regretfully, and led her to the top level, where a pile of rubble spilled out towards the pool from whence she came. When they stood at the water's edge, he handed her the empty bottle he'd taken from the ground floor, and smiled softly.

"Uh...thank you," she said, confused.

Killian tilted his head. "There are two choices. This you know."

Aldan stood straighter. "I do."

"If you would still prefer to repair the curse, then so be it. I would warn you against the wards upon the things I showed you, but any spells I have cast would have gone with me. Besides that, I sense that you're much more powerful than I ever was." Like Emma, he thought. "To aid you in your quest, I hereby bequeath the castle and all its contents to you."

Clearly taken by surprise, Aldan's lashes fluttered. "...alright?"

Killian smiled, wryly. "Do with it what you will. I no longer have any need for it." He paused, then, and stepped closer, catching her eye. "Aldan…I cannot pretend to know you, but allow me to offer you a bit of wisdom, if I can call it that.

"Sacrifice is certainly a noble course of action. If you repair this curse, your family will be safe, and if you do fall, you will do so knowing that you gave your life in their stead. But I wonder...how will they react? Knowing they could have helped you...if only they were not rendered powerless. Trust me, lass, it is a terrible fate. Perhaps, if you broke the curse, and faced the threat as one, any tragedy you might bear would not be quite so bitter."

Aldan sighed, and looked into some distance, over his shoulder. Her brow knitted. She appeared to consider him.

"Do you think that I could?" she said, quietly. "Break it, I mean?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but if you change your mind...I have something that could help you...I think."

Killian reached up and plucked a hair from his own head. He lifted the cork from the bottle in Aldan's hand, and dropped it in.

She made a face. "What's this for?"

"When you arrive, ask Emma to do the same. If she feels as I hope she does, this might help you." He swallowed, and looked down at his feet. "True love may not be enough, but between your magic, and Emma's, and this...it's a start. You will find a way."

Aldan hesitated, and a fog began to roll in off the pool. A boatman appeared, a great stave in his hands. He rowed slowly through the water, the robes on his back flowing gently. Killian knew the pool was not deep enough to support such a vessel, but the threads of reality stretched and yawned here in the Underworld. So he paid it not mind, and instead watched, flushed, as Aldan impulsively threw her arms around him. It was brief, and awkward, but genuine.

"Thank you," she said.

"Please, lass, don't thank me. Just…think about what I said."

"I will."

And then she was gone.