Chapter 39

The first thing Emma Swan saw was the stars.

They were unlike anything earthly or mortal. Picked out in luminescent brilliance against a carapace of velvet blackness, burning white and gold and violet, iridescent fistfuls of fire. The stars, in fact, were all that was getting through; she couldn't process the rest of the world. Nothing was working properly. She was clumsy and slow and stupid, the commands from her brain taking an age to reach her petrified extremities, as she struggled to sit up, sand shedding from her hair and shoulders and skin, glittering crystalline, sharp enough to draw blood. This place, this fucking place, what was she even –

Neverland.

Emma froze as it began to rush back, in wave upon paralyzing wave. She stared out at the horizon, trying to understand how she could be alive – she remembered being stabbed, she remembered that very distinctly, the scorching pain of the blade biting through flesh and bone and sinew. She touched her heart gingerly. No, that definitely hadn't been a dream, but she wasn't supposed to sit up from that, she wasn't supposed to be alive. She felt weak and shaken and watery, but indisputably not dead, and her last memory before losing consciousness was of total mayhem, of Pan – Henry – stabbing her, Lost Boys swarming everywhere, Neal and Gold trying to fight them off and Killian fleeing in desperate search of –

David. Emma lurched to her feet. She was unclear on the precise details, but she didn't need them. All she knew was that her son was out there somewhere, in the fiendish grasp of the mermaids, and she needed to get to him, needed to find him, needed to save him. She was going, she was going right now. Until it became apparent that her legs weren't moving at all, that she was as stuck as if she was mired knee-deep in tar, and her balance gave out and she fell.

Emma landed hard, knocking her wind out. Her head ached, her ears rang, and she could feel more blood trickling from the wound in her chest. Whatever infernal magic was woven in Pan's blade was clearly not meant to kill her outright, but it had stolen all her strength, and she could feel her memories flitting like exotic birds in her head, scattering to the winds even as she struggled to hang on. No, she couldn't let them get away from her again. Not her parents, her mother and father, her home, her family, her life, everything that she was or ever had been. Could not let Neverland take it from her. Not when the lost girl had finally been found.

She blinked hard, struggling to bring the world into focus. Could see two figures sitting further down the beach – one large, one smaller – and a dull, desperate hope seized hold of her. Gasping in pain, crawling on all fours, she dragged herself down the sand toward them.

As she drew nearer, she realized that it wasn't David or Killian. It was Neal. He was cradling Wendy Darling in his arms as she gazed up at the night sky with a serene look on her face, the dazzling stars reflecting in her eyes. "It's beautiful," Emma heard her sigh. "I never noticed that before."

"Wendy." Neal's voice cracked. He sounded like a twelve-year-old boy again, desperate, pleading, furious. "You can't die. You can't."

"Nonsense," the old lady said faintly. "Where else would I? I always had to come back here, you know. And so did you. It's all right, Bae. It's all right."

Neal clearly did not think that this was the case in the slightest. He bent over her, saying nothing, until at last he mumbled, "It's not fair."

Wendy smiled faintly. Her gaze moved to Emma, still crawling toward them, and she managed to reach out a thin, trembling hand. "Ah, my dear. Tell Killian. . . tell Killian that I always wanted the best for him, won't you? For both of you."

"I don't understand." Emma's voice was thin. "Where's H – Pan? Where are the Lost Boys? What just happened?"

"They're gone." Wendy coughed. "After he stabbed you. . . Pan couldn't endure it. You and he were always connected, he always had his existence in you. You created him, Emma. You always did. When you had forgotten who you were, he lived in you, a phantom of what you had been. To drive that blade into you was to drive it into himself."

"He. . ." Emma couldn't process what she was hearing. "He's dead?"

Wendy did not answer, and in that silence, Emma could hear herself insisting to the dubious doctors that he existed, that he was real. How could he not be? Henry – he'd come to her, wanted her to come with him. But that memory of giving birth to him had only been created when she had lost every knowledge of her past, in the badlands of delirium, in a coma after eating the poisoned turnover. But now she'd regained her memories, she'd come back to herself, she'd. . .

She felt as torn and numb as if someone had reached into her chest and ripped her heart out. She just sat staring at her hands, unable to utter a word. Henry. She had never known him, but the loss was as terrible as if she had. Finally she croaked, "But the Home Office. . . the people attacking Storybrooke, we have to get back, they still could get through and. . ."

"No, dear," Wendy said gently. "Don't you see? Home Office. . . it was them. Pan and the Lost Ones. It was them all along. It started here, and was spread between the realms by anyone who was interested in the profits. All of it was meant to one end, to find you, and to bring you here by any means possible. They thought they would have to attack Storybrooke to do it, that they would have to go up against the curse, but then you came here of your own volition instead. Cora, Mordred, all those unpalatable sorts. . . they want power, your power, and they thought that you would destroy Pan and unleash the true dark heart of this island's magic."

"But I did." Emma's voice was an agonized whisper. "If what you said. . . when he stabbed me, it destroyed him as well. . . then I did exactly what they wanted me to."

"No, dear," Wendy said again. "You didn't. They wanted you to destroy him in vengeance, in anger and hate, poisoned past all recognition. That's why they worked together, why they had to plant Home Office spies from the Enchanted Forest to Earth, any way they thought they could catch you. Pan wanted you here to belong to him. Cora and Mordred and the others wanted you here to release the full wrath of Neverland. But you did neither. You loved, Emma. You loved, and you trusted. Even if you barely realized you did. You didn't stop him. You. . . you were strong, and you did it. . . by. . . yourself. And that. . . that means. . . everything."

Wendy smiled, clearly content that this explained it. "So you see," she concluded. "It wasn't the darkness you unleashed after all. It's changing. All of the magic. Everything. They're gone. They can't stand it. And Storybrooke is safe, I promise."

"But. . ." Emma stared at her, close to panic. "How do we get out of here? How can we leave?"

"You. . . will know. But it's time. Even here. For. . . me."

Neal clutched at her. "Wendy? Wendy!"

"Shh, Baelfire," Wendy Darling whispered. Her eyes were wider than ever, her face utterly calm. "All children must grow up. And all of them must die. It's the only way of things. It's all right."

With that, she smiled up at both of them, her fingers closing light as a butterfly around Neal's, as she settled back more comfortably and sighed in contentment, as if a great victory had been won, as if in the silence of the night, she could hear a far-off music, the first baby's laugh shattering into a thousand pieces, the brightness of sea and sky and stars, sand running softly through a glass. And then, in the ultimate and perfect defiance of the land that never let you grow up, never let you heal, never let you move on, she quietly closed her eyes and died.

Neal let out a howl of grief. Emma watched him awkwardly, not certain what she should do. She did not feel any particular inclination to move closer and comfort him; there was too much sordid, unmended history between them. She wanted to ask him about the marijuana setup back at BC, why he'd framed her and run – and wondered suddenly if it had something to do with August Booth, who'd said he had something to do with the reason why Neal had left. But this didn't seem like the time for that conversation, or the place. His father, a dread dark sorcerer, was still out there somewhere; plainly they had parted on bad terms, and if Gold was in Storybrooke, and August wanted her to go there, and Neal didn't. . .

Emma thought she might be facing a sudden epiphany, one that felt as if the bottom was falling out of her stomach. It makes sense, she realized, numb and stunned. It all makes sense. Some of it she didn't yet know, other parts she was only guessing at, but all she wanted now was to try to find some way, any way, to put her family back together. Break the curse and make her parents remember, finally bring an end to the ignorance and fear and darkness. Make something new. And if it was true in the least degree what Wendy had said, that Neverland had changed because of her, because of what she'd done. . . she'd created Pan when she forgot herself, and snuffed him out of existence when she remembered. . .

At that moment, however, her meditations were cut joltingly short as she caught sight of a tall dark figure moving closer through the moonlight, carrying something small and pitiful, a bundle of rags, in its arms. It – no, he – took every step as if it was his last, as dead and aimless as if he could see no point to it, could have been going anywhere, doing anything. And –

Emma's heart turned over. She registered dimly that there was an actual sound to the world crashing down around your ears, that it was driving her to her feet and making her stagger down the beach beneath the blazing stars, heedless of her wound or her exhaustion or anything but them. Until she reached Killian, his black leather soaked and dripping with saltwater, and his blue eyes like hollow wounds in his face as he stared at her over the lifeless body of their son.

"David." Emma's voice sounded ridiculous to her own ears. Too flat, too faint. She reached out a hand, as if touching him would somehow make it real, or would make her wake up. "David."

"I'm sorry." Killian's voice was even fainter. It sounded as if he was only barely holding himself together. "Emma. . . I'm sorry. . . I'm sorry. . . I'm sorry. . . I was too late."

Emma didn't answer. Her eyes couldn't leave David. Her kid. Right there, in Killian's arms. Returned to them at last. Too late. Her son. The exuberant, uncontrollably energetic six-year-old, the kid who loved Peter Pan and Neverland so much. Had heard Killian confess (albeit in jest) to being Captain Hook, and been utterly delighted. I always knew you were real. The kid who wanted to be a pirate for Halloween, who loved playing baseball with his friends. Was she supposed to sacrifice him too? Lose Henry and David as the price for regaining her memories, changing the magic of Neverland, realizing the curse, ending the darkness? Too much. I don't want to pay it. Too much. No. No. No. Her skull was starting to echo. She shook and staggered. She felt as if the world was falling out from under her. She felt as if it was already over.

"David," Emma whispered. Her voice cracked on a sob as she reached out for him, her arms wrapping around him, Killian still holding on as well, the three of them enfolded in the first family hug they'd ever shared. Their foreheads rested together, both of them drawing those short, jerking breaths where your chest ached too badly to get enough air. Her bones were liquefying, turning to nothingness. She could not imagine anything, ever, being all right again.

As Emma and Killian stood there, holding each other up, she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye, casting an unearthly glow through the dark tangles of jungle. As it drew closer, she realized it was a woman, dressed in green and gold and leaves like Pan had been, blonde curls spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes were soft and sad, her face somehow familiar. She stepped down onto the beach and padded to them without a sound.

"Who." Emma couldn't get the words out. They were stuck in her chest like a ragged hunk of shrapnel. "Who are you?"

"It's me," the woman said quietly. "Tinkerbell."

Emma did a double take. Killian glanced up, face the color of old bones, the rest of him barely looking better. "Tink?"

"Yes," the fairy said. "Neverland's dark magic had reduced me to what I was before. You. . . you freed me, Emma. Returned me to who I am. You did it."

"I don't care!" Letting go of her son's lifeless body at last, Emma spun around, eyes overflowing with furious tears. "I don't care about this fucking place and its magic or whatever it was! It killed Henry, it killed David, it killed Wendy, it's torn all of us apart! I want it. . . I want things to go back to the way they used to be, I want. . . it's too late, and I. . ."

"No," Tink said, speaking low and quickly. "No, it's not. Here. Quick. Take this. Use it."

Emma stared bleakly at the small glass vial, filled with what appeared to be grey ash, that the fairy was pressing into her hand. "The hell is this?"

"Lass. . ." Killian had caught on quicker than she had, was staring at Tink. "Are you. . ."

"Take it, Killian," the fairy repeated stubbornly. "Or I'll go throw it into the sea. You have to believe, both of you. It's hard. I know it is. But you have to."

"Believe in what?" Emma couldn't imagine wanting to.

"In yourself. In each other. In him." Tink nodded at David. "You love him, don't you?"

"Of course I love him!" Emma almost screamed, calmed only by Killian's good hand cradling her head against his shoulder, drawing her closer to him, a bulwark against the storm. "He's my son, I lost him, I. . . I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye, I. . ."

"Do it, then," Tink whispered. "Say it."

Emma's throat folded in half. She knew the words wouldn't come, couldn't possibly come without breaking her, so she didn't try. Instead, she leaned down and quietly, simply kissed David on the forehead, her tears falling thick and fast into his tousled dark hair.

And then, it happened. An invisible reverberation shuddered across the black horizon, shaking the dreamworld to its foundation. She saw Tink flick the vial, and felt the ash – the dust – fall on their shoulders, illuming her and Killian alike with an unearthly green glow. Felt a wind that was no mortal wind sweep them, all five of them, and then, as when the shadow came to find them in London, her feet leave the earth. Clung onto her family tighter as they began to rise into midair, as the dark island rapidly dwindled away beneath them, as the eastern horizon flushed with a violent stain of rosy sunlight, as the sky broke apart and the light fell on their faces, as a rainbow poured through a cloud and a frozen waterfall began to run free again, as they could see light and strength and glory pulsing into Neverland again from all sides. They were soaring faster as the clouds were torn apart, fairy dust still sparkling in the new morning, away over the trackless face of the waters. Saw it, and felt it as well.

Neal muttered an awed curse. Killian seemed struck speechless. And then, in her arms, Emma felt something, as she'd felt that first movement inside her, a flutter, an awakening, a new beginning. Against all odds. Against all probability. Against all death and darkness.

David Swan Jones grimaced, coughed up seawater, and squirmed, squinting against the burning sunlight, as his father made a desperate gasping sound and clutched at him, as his mother began to shake. He stared down at the awe-inspiring vista below, and his jaw dropped. But then he twisted his head around, saw Emma's face, and frowned.

"Hey, Mom," he whispered. "What's wrong? Don't cry."

The wind blew harder, rushing across the face of the deep. The sky burned, the stars fell. The daylight came. They had to go.

And Emma Swan, at last, began to sob.

Leaving Neverland was not like entering it. Coming had been like falling, twisting and turning forever down a depthless dark chasm, and going was as fast and strong and visceral as if launched from a cannon, whistling and tearing through fathoms and fathoms of space and time, David in her arms as she pulled Killian with her and Neal rattled along behind, still holding onto Wendy. As Emma felt her ears popping, the great sick swoop in her stomach, as all kinds of cosmic detritus came and went, battering them from every side, until suddenly the world began to shudder back into its accustomed dimensions, like a piece of gum that had been stretched too far and finally broken. Then cold rain was pebbling their faces and shoulders like a sweet wet breath of life, and they were swooping out of the clouds as the grid of London unfolded beneath them, the iron-grey band of the Thames and the twin gothic towers of Westminster Abbey just a few hundred feet below. Then they were rocketing back into the fog, and just minutes later, drifting toward the open window of the Darling mansion in Kensington, alighting as gently as a leaf on the wind of all hallows. Returning the way you always returned from Neverland, in the stories, with the second star to the right shining in the morning sky.

Emma took a few running steps to regain her balance, still holding David tightly. They fetched up against the bedpost, and she hugged him again, lifting him off his feet as he wrapped his arms around her neck. "I'm glad you found me, Mom," he told her. "I always knew you would."

Emma, tears still spilling down her cheeks, sucked in a real breath and grinned at him, smoothing his hair. "You sure that wasn't too much adventure for you, kid?" she managed weakly.

"Nah," David said. "I wasn't scared. But. . ." He glanced over at Killian questioningly. "I saw you. Right before the bad guys threw me into the. . . the thing. The green whirlpool. You were trying to stop them. And you came to find me too. That was really nice of you."

"I. . ." Killian exchanged a glance with Emma, and must have read her answer in her eyes. It clearly took every drop of courage for him to say what he did. "It's. . . not about being nice, lad."

David looked confused. "It's not?"

"I. . . no. I'm not a nice man. I'm not a good man. When I told you I was Captain Hook, back at Thanksgiving. . . I wasn't lying. But I had to come for you. I. . ." Killian took a shaky breath, and Emma wondered if it was the first time in three hundred years that he had been terrified. "David. I should have told you earlier, but your mum didn't want it. I'm. . . I'm your father, lad."

There was a long, towering silence. Neal glanced away, a dark, troubled expression on his face. Emma held her breath, still holding onto her son, running her fingers through his hair, terrified that he would pull away, shout at her. Then David, slowly, started to grin.

"You're my dad?" he asked. "Really?"

"Really." Killian's voice broke.

"I. . . have a dad? Captain Hook is my dad?"David turned around in Emma's arms to stare. "But why. . . why would you ever want to leave us behind?"

A convulsive shudder ran through Killian's entire body. Then he walked forward, dropped to his knees, and took his son's two hands in his one. "Never," he whispered. "Never again. Not so long as there is breath in my body. Not so long as there is time on this earth. Never so long as the stars are in the sky. You and your mother were taken from me once. Never. Never again."

David looked at him a long moment, then nodded solemnly. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

Killian heaved another heartbroken breath, then got to his feet and turned to Neal. "Bae," he said quietly. "Let me take Wendy to her family. Please. At least let me say goodbye."

Neal flinched. "Don't call me that."

"I. . . Neal." Killian swallowed. "Please."

Another hideous, living silence. Then finally, Neal jerked his head. "All right," he said curtly. "If you bring the kid with you. And if I get to talk to Emma."

Killian paused, then nodded, strode across the floor, and lifted Wendy's body into his arms, beckoning David to his side. The boy trotted over, and they vanished through the nursery door, which swung closed behind them. And then, at last, Emma had no defense. She turned to look at her ex-boyfriend, the one to whom she had always imagined having so much to say. Accusations, demanding explanations, anything. But as she looked at him, nothing came to mind. Nothing at all.

Finally, Neal was the one to break the silence. "So," he said. "In Neverland. When you were talking to. . . to Pan. You said. You said you were his mother."

Emma had been afraid of this. She briefly debated denying it, then decided that it would be a travesty to Henry's memory, whoever and what he had been, however and wherever and for what time he had existed, in this world or any. Silently, she nodded.

"Is he. . . was he. . . was he mine?" Neal's voice roughened. "Damn it, Emma, was he mine?"

"I don't know what he was!" Barely checked, her tears started to fall again. "He was created somehow, when I was in the hospital after I lost my memory. I ate a poisoned turnover and I forgot everything, and when I woke up, I was convinced that I'd had a baby. Everyone else said I hadn't, but I knew. He came to find me, eventually. In Oxford. He said his name was. . . was Henry, and he only existed in Neverland, with the rest of the lost boys, the unlived children."

"You. . . you were in the hospital?" Neal blinked. "I didn't. . ."

"No," Emma said coldly. "You didn't know. You set me up for your crime and you left me, and you didn't try to say a word to me for ten years afterward. I didn't even know if you were still alive. You didn't know anything about it. Don't pretend you do. There's nothing left of us, Neal. There's only the past. That's what Neverland does. It doesn't want you to grow up. It wants you to stay that broken child forever, that lonely, abandoned, lost , you know what? I didn't. I remembered. I defeated it. And I'm not going back."

"I. . ." Neal's face was pale. "Emma, I'm sorry, all right? I'm so sorry for what I did to you. It was the biggest regret of my life. But it was that August guy. He talked about the curse, about you. And I. . . my dad, I couldn't have faced my. . ."

"Save it." Emma turned on her heel. "I'll forgive you, eventually. Maybe. But that's all."

"Wait! I just. . God damn it, Emma! Did I lose a son? I see you with that David kid, with him, and I. . . fine, I can't change that. I just want to know! What there was! What we lost!"

Emma took a shaking breath. "Yes," she said at last. "Henry was yours. But it doesn't matter now. He's gone. It's over. I'm sorry for your loss, and for Wendy as well. I hope you have a good life, Neal Cassidy. I hope you find your own happy ending. It's not mine. It's not with me."

And with that, not looking back, never looking back, she left.

Everything after that was a blur. There were the Darlings to deal with, arrangements to make, confused explanations to tender, and her all-consuming need to get back to Storybrooke and see if Wendy's dying promise had been true, if the so-called Home Office was gone and the town was all right. Emma didn't know where Gold was, if he was still in Neverland, or was still looking for Neal, or where in the future he might reappear. She didn't trust that he'd stop trying to hurt Killian, or that their little family could ever truly be safe, but that was a fear for another day. For now, against all odds, they'd found each other. They were together.

She wanted all the time in the world with David. She wanted to grieve for Henry. She wanted to spend hours, days, months in bed with Killian, learning him, whether anew or for the first time. He, for his part, insisted on taking her to the hospital to have them see to the stab wound Pan had given her, and Emma grudgingly agreed. She had no idea how to explain how she'd gotten it, however, and had the feeling that the doctors suspected she was involved in some kind of organized crime; at least they didn't call the Met on her. But there wasn't much they could do for it, as it was knitting itself, healing at a speed that was quite unnatural, and she ended up checking out after a few hours so they didn't get even more suspicious. Then she and Killian returned to the Darling house, whereupon they received quite a surprise. Granny Wendy's last will and testament had left him something: something, in fact, to the tune of several million pounds. She desired that he use the money to purchase a rowhouse in Kensington, just a few doors down from this one. At the bottom, in her spidery, old-fashioned handwriting, she had added something else. After all, if anywhere, that is where he will find you.

"Where . . . where who will find us?" Emma repeated blankly. "Killian. . . how much did Wendy know about us? About Neverland, and. . . and Pan?"

"I. . . don't know," he admitted, looking rattled. "But I imagine it was a great deal."

Emma drew in a deep breath, still dazed by the fact of this, of money, of provision. Enough to buy them a real place to live. Enough to make good on what he had promised her, on that Thanksgiving morning in the snowbound cabin. I love you, Emma Swan. Marry me. Let's take our son and go home. She knew that both of them were hearing it now.

Throat too tight to speak, she put a hand on his arm. "All right," she whispered. "All right. But one last thing."

He met her eyes. "Storybrooke."

"Yes." This was it. This was everything. "Storybrooke."

They left London that evening. Wendy's funeral was in a week, and they planned to return in time, but first, the Swan-Jones family had unfinished business to attend. They caught a cab to the Thames waterfront, David holding tightly to the hands of both his parents, as they walked down the pier in the deepening twilight. To the pirate ship that was still moored up, rocking at anchor, at the end.

"Oh wow!" David's eyes went round. "Is that the Jolly Roger?"

"Aye, lad." Killian looked unutterably fragile as he smiled down at his son. "Look like what you imagined, does it?"

"It's cool," David said proudly. "Does it have cannons?"

"Aye," Killian said again, and then added at once, sternly, "But you are not allowed to touch them, or I'll skin you bloody alive, hear me?"

David looked quite taken aback at this, glancing to Emma for support, but she only raised an amused eyebrow. "Sorry, buddy," she said. "Around here, what he says, goes."

The three of them went on board, and Killian and Emma got ready to set sail (the Roger's enchanted ability to take care of much of this herself was of endless wonderment and delight to David, who made an utter nuisance of himself running around deck and trying to catch the ropes). But when they were ready to cast off, Killian held up his hand. Then he took a deep breath, reached over, and unclicked his hook from its brace. He stared at it a long moment, then whipped his arm back and threw. In a glittering silver parabola, it flew out to the darkness. Then, with barely a splash, it sank beneath the surface.

Killian took another long, shuddering breath, then turned to them. "I couldn't keep it," he said in a rush. "Bloody couldn't. I'd rather be a one-handed man, I'd rather be Killian Jones as he is, than risk turning back into him again, into Hook. After what I did to both of you, after what I did to myself. . . I. . . I know I'm damaged goods. I just hope you won't – "

The rest of his speech was resoundingly cut off as Emma took two swift steps across the deck, pulled him into her arms, and kissed him so hard that they saw stars. He gasped into her mouth, and she whimpered into his, as they rocked together, as they toppled against the mast, as she held onto him as fiercely as she'd never held onto anyone in her life and he clutched her back, as they touched noses, browsed lips, kissed and kissed and both shook silently with sobs, until David began to make loud noises of disgust and they broke apart. "You know, lad," Killian said, wiping his eyes. "You're going to have to get used to me kissing your mother at every bloody opportunity. Now and for the rest of my life."

"Whatever," David said, looking so arch that both Emma and Killian had to laugh. "Can we go? It's getting cold. And besides, if you don't have your hook, how are you going to steer?"

"Funny you should ask." Killian turned to him. "That's what you're for, mate."

David paused a moment longer, and then grinned. "Aye aye," he said cheerily. "Cap'n."

Once they were well out in the Atlantic, and the Roger could tend herself the rest of the way, Killian and David came below to the cabin, where Emma was sitting on the bed waiting for them. She didn't say a word, just held out her arms, and both of them came to her, all three of them curling up together under the heavy quilt. She felt as if her heart would break with joy, and grief. She couldn't stop seeing Henry's face in her head. Couldn't stop wondering what might have been. Didn't know if that poisoned thorn would ever come out. Just knew she had to keep at it, somehow. Keep living. Keep hoping. Keep holding on.

David fell asleep quickly, cuddled between his parents, and Killian and Emma just lay there, side by side, listening to him breathing. After a while, they began to kiss quietly above his head, over and over, light touches in the darkness, pressing their faces to each other, simply in awe. She never wanted the night to end. She wanted it to end. She wanted the dawn. She wanted the morning. She wanted so much that it hurt her. As if she too was coming to life at last.

Both of them dozed off, eventually, and woke when the light turned grey. Careful not to wake David, who was still out like a rock, they climbed up to the deck together, Emma steering the ship while Killian checked their headings on the charts. According to his calculations, they should be nearly on top of Storybrooke, but Emma's pulse began to pick up as she stared along the empty, desolate New England coast, nary a town in sight. "It's here? You said it was here!"

"Supposed to be," Killian admitted, a frown creasing his dark brows as he used his mouth to pull his telescope open and scan the rocks. "But we didn't have the compass, we can't be sure of finding our way back through the. . ."

And with that, suddenly, his frown deepened – then turned thoughtful, hopeful, true. "Love," he said. "Kiss me."

Emma stared at him. "What? Now is not the time for – "

"Oh, bloody hell. Just do it. Trust me."

She hesitated, but only for a moment. Stepping forward, lashing a loop of rope around the wheel, she took his face in his hands and looked into his eyes, nearly unable to stand the deep, aching burn of joy in her heart and soul, and how neatly they fit together. After all the days apart, the years. The empty nights, the lonely mornings. How it seemed impossible that they should have found their way home, to here, at last. Here. Together. Now and always. Home.

And then, leaning in, she kissed him.

She could sense it, as their lips met. The same sort of wind that had torn through Neverland when she'd kissed David, the sense of the world come undone, a power greater than evil and death, than time itself, taking hold. It swept through them, rocking and snapping the sails of the Jolly Roger, glittering like the fairy dust, shining through the clouds even brighter than the sun. Startled, Emma pulled back and stared at him. "The hell was that?"

Killian was grinning, but tears were standing in his eyes. "That, lass," he said, very softly. "That was true love's kiss."

She opened her mouth to say something, but then she utterly forgot. Something was happening. Something was peeling back the skin of the sky in great strips, as if a painter was filling in the world. Something was shattering, groaning, coming undone. Falling apart, crashing, as they held onto each other and stared. As Storybrooke, Maine, sketched itself into existence on the coast where a moment ago there had been nothing, as the Dark Curse breathed its last and broke, once and forever, into oblivion.

Emma turned to Killian, shocked. He only kissed her on the forehead and whispered, "Go wake David, love."

Still too stunned to say a word, she went belowdecks, shaking her son awake gently and scooping him up to carry back topside, as Killian was guiding the Roger into the docks, as people were emerging from every house and shop and street to stare, to shout, to look for each other, to run to each other's arms, or to tell each other they hadn't forgotten. Some great chaotic mess she didn't know anything of, and momentarily felt terrified, that old urge to turn and run. But as soon as it came, it went. This was it. This was her life now. This was her place.

Killian berthed the Roger, tied it fast with Emma's help, and the three of them stepped ashore, up into the street. Neither of them were entirely sure what to do, where to go, although David wanted to know what had just happened and why everyone seemed to be crying. Neither of them could answer. All they could do was look, and look, and look.

Emma, of course, saw them first. Emma was the one who remembered. Who saw David and Mary Margaret Nolan running toward her as fast as they could, who had to stop dead in her tracks, who felt her heart break. Who almost went to her knees, who could only see them, see her parents, could only hear the word, the name they were calling. Just one word. Hers. Her name.

Emma. Over and over. The most beautiful thing on earth. Emma. Emma. Emma.