This chapter contains a lot of mature material (as usual, nothing graphic) and some swearing. Read, review, and enjoy. :)

(Like, actually... I braved the rain and mosquitoes to get a better internet connection today, and, because the internet still sucked, posted this line by line because I love you guys. The one downside to that for you is that I really did not have the patience to edit, so please excuse anything that's a bit messy.)

The Past

"Killian, I have a present for you!" Liam's voice boomed through their small rented flat.

With a groan, Killian leaned his head back against the seat of one of their living room chairs.

Several months had passed since Ciarra's death. In that short amount of time, much had changed. One more of Killian's relatives and loved ones was now buried under the cold dirt of the graveyard Killian had slept in nearly fourteen years ago. At least Ciarra was now with her parents, and, if there was no afterlife, at least she could sleep happily nestled between Gavin and Sari's graves. Killian had moved in with Liam, unable to stand the thought of returning to the home he might have had with Ciarra and their child. Giselle had moved in as well, which, while annoying, at least allowed Killian to keep an eye on her. He had turned twenty-one. He had also more or less stopped shaving, unable to find the motivation to even do such a small thing. Instead, he sat in Liam's flat like a madman, composing throughout the day and often the night.

He knew Liam worried about him, but found that he was unable to find the motivation to change his ways. Just getting through the day was too difficult, and sometimes it felt like his music was his one tenuous tie with sanity.

Liam, while concerned, understood that he was grieving and gave him time. Giselle was another matter entirely.

"Killian, it's high time you got on with your life," she snapped one night, when she woke up to relieve herself and found him frantically scribbling away by candlelight. "She's not coming back. Accept it and move on. Don't just sit here like some sort of phantom and ruin our lives."

"You have no right," Killian said coldly, "to make any comment about my current state. If it wasn't for you, Ciarra would still be alive."

In the dim candlelight combined with the pale moonlight from the window, Giselle looked deceptively unearthly; her white silk nightgown seemed to glow. If only she were a ghost, rather than a murderer living under the same roof as him. "I may have contributed to ending Ciarra's life, but you're the only one who's ruining yours," Giselle told him firmly.

"I'm being perfectly productive," Killian muttered, not even lifting his head. "What on earth is so ruinous about composing?"

Giselle gave him a dirty look. "You have no idea how often I'm beginning to wish that Ciarra had just pushed her conscience aside and offed you."

"At least we can agree on something," Killian retorted.

With a final scowl, Giselle turned up her nose and turned back to the bedroom. Her hand paused on the door handle, though.

"I didn't mean that."

"I did."

"I know," she sighed. "And I am sorry, Killian... you know it was an accident."

"Accident or not, she's still dead." It was funny how the words didn't even seem to affect him anymore. It had become the center of his existence, a mantra that pulsed through him with every beat of his heart. She's dead. She's dead.

Perhaps that was why Liam's "surprise" meant so little to him initially.

"Didn't you hear me, brother? I have a surprise for you."

Killian grunted, eyes still focused on his manuscript. She's dead. She's dead.

"It will involve you leaving the flat," Liam continued. "I think you'll find it worth the trouble, though."

Killian doubted it.

Nothing really seemed worth the trouble anymore.

It seemed that this death, finally, after all of the others, had become too much. Or rather, these deaths. He hadn't forgotten about the child.

The truth was, he was angry. At least some of the time. Ciarra had chosen to leave. She had chosen to take her life - and their child's - without consulting him. She had chosen him to live. She had taken the easy way out. She had quit, rather than trying to find a solution, rather than telling him the problem, rather than trusting that they could get out of it together. She had given up. She had killed their child.

Other times, he felt guilty for being angry. She had given up her life - and their child's - for him, after all.

Then, he just felt sad. She had given up her life, as well as their child's. He would never get to meet his child, to teach him or her to walk and talk and play the violin. He would never gather him or her onto his knee, tickle the child senseless, or tell the child about his own parents. He would never be kept up all night by the child's wailing. He would never spend hours rocking him or her to sleep. He would never crawl into bed in the early hours of the morning next to his beautiful, loving wife, and kiss her on the cheek without waking her, mindful of her own exhaustion. So, really, what was the point now? He'd lost the product of months or even years of dreaming and hoping, and the result was a horrifying emptiness that Killian didn't think could ever be filled.

"Liam, give me my papers back," Killian growled as his brother pulled them away from his hands.

"You might have to shave, or at least tame that growth on your face-"

"I'm not going out," Killian insisted, yanking his music manuscripts back.

"It will be just you and me," Liam added, as though offering a particularly tempting part of the bargain.

As if he would even consider going out if Giselle was coming. The thought made him sick.

Killian scowled. "No."

Liam's face fell. "Please, Killian? For me? It's my birthday."

If Killian could care, he might have felt guilty for forgetting. "Why the bloody hell are you giving me a present on your birthday?"

"Because seeing my brother out of the house and having the chance to see him happy for the first time in months would be the best present I could receive," Liam told him matter-of-factly.

With a sigh, Killian looked into his brother's blue eyes. His face was fairly stoic, but his eyes were pleading. Killian knew these past months had been difficult for his brother as well. Perhaps he did owe him this.

"I can leave the house, but I can't promise to be happy," he said quietly.

Liam wrapped him in a hug. "That's a start."

That was how Killian ended up on the roof of an abandoned house in the middle of bloody winter, freezing his bloody face off.

"Champagne?" Offered Liam, pouring two glasses with a flourish. He fumbled one, and it fell off of the roof, crashing loudly on the stones below. The brothers watched it smash into millions of pieces that caught the cold starlight above them and reflected it just as coldly back. Killian considered teasing Liam about being so foolish as to bring something made of glass onto a roof (glass was ridiculously expensive in their land), but decided that it was too much effort.

"Well, I suppose it is my birthday," Liam joked, taking a swig from the bottle.

"What are we doing here, Liam?" Killian demanded, taking a drink from his own glass in an attempt to drive away the chill.

"We're right next to a performance venue, brother. I thought a musician and composer such as yourself might enjoy tonight's program."

Killian stared at his brother in disbelief. "You took me here to listen to a few amateur musicians torture their instruments? Why? Just tell me what they're playing. I assure you that it will sound much better in my head."

"Just wait. I think it will be worth it," Liam told him with a grin.

In the end, it was. Killian recognized the piece from the first bar.

"This is mine."

Liam nodded, taking another swig from the bottle. "It is."

Killian turned to his brother in amazement. "How did they-"

"Shh. I brought you all the way to this bloody rooftop, so you'd better damn well listen."

And he did. It was a piece for strings that he'd named "Sunrise". He'd written it for that day long ago in the woods, after Ciarra had nearly died, when he watched the dawn sunlight creep slowly along her face and marveled for one of the first times at how beautiful she was. It built slowly, before unfolding in a painfully beautiful climax, where it sat in its full glory for some time before fading out once again.

Then, for the first time since Killian had found Ciarra's suicide note, he allowed himself to cry. Tears slid down his face, catching in his now-much-shorter facial hair before dropping to the frosty roof.

It felt amazing.

"Thank you," Killian said thickly as it ended.

Liam smiled in response, refilling Killian's glass.

"A toast! To my brother the great composer, and to the champagne that my brother's composition purchased! And, of course, to new beginnings!"

Killian chuckled and tapped his glass against the bottle as the next composition began. The two brothers drank heartily, and, for the first time in months, Killian felt a little bit hopeful.

Of course, he shouldn't have, but he had no way of knowing that.

The next day, he bought a wreath from a street vendor and visited Ciarra's grave for the first time since she'd been buried. It was covered in a light dusting of snow that sparkled in the morning light. He said a soft prayer for the woman the headstone remembered and the child that was offered no memorial. Then, he said goodbye to them both.

Liam stayed by his side the whole time.

The Present

"Liam was a good brother, wasn't he?" Emma voiced her thoughts softly.

"He was the very best," agreed Killian with a small smile. "He would have fit in well with you hero-types."

"You loved him very much."

"Aye," agreed Killian. "He was more than a brother to me; he was a best friend, a mentor, sometimes even a father. He always tried to do what was best for me, and he always seemed to know exactly what I needed."

Emma filled in the words that he left unsaid: I miss him. She wanted to touch him, to comfort him... but that would be cruel, in a way. She didn't want to lead him on when she was going back to New York. Instead, she shot him a sympathetic look that caused him to look away in discomfort and clear his throat.

"Anyway, it had been a long time since I'd heard one of my compositions outside of my head," he said quickly.

"And the first time you heard it played by more than you?"

With a shake of his head, Killian said, "no, not exactly."

"Oh, yeah, you said that you sang some of your compositions with friends in the army," Emma filled in. "And your mom probably sang some of your compositions."

"She did. And my uncle owned a theatre, don't forget."

Emma stared. "He played your compositions? You didn't mention that," she said accusingly.

"I can't mention everything, Swan. We'd need to go back in time further to have time for that," he teased. "Besides, he didn't play them. He merely observed that I had a talent for composition-"

"How?" Emma asked.

The Past - 1809

"My violinist died."

Connor's voice was murderous as he came through the door. Killian wouldn't have been surprised if his uncle had killed the poor musician. Helena and Killian scattered to the furthest reaches of the room accordingly.

"How?" Demanded Helena cautiously.

"He was a deserter," Connor said with disdain. "Boiled alive."

The Present

Killian caught sight of Emma's face and his lips quirked.

"King Julian had no tolerance for deserters. As soon as he became king, he implemented the worst possible punishment for them. Most would rather risk death in the field of battle or on the sea rather than face that fate."

"That is actually sickening," Emma said.

The Past - 1809

"Boy."

Killian jumped.

"You read music, yes?"

He nodded.

"You're coming with me. Might as well put you to use."

After a moment of hesitation that had Connor already moving toward him threateningly, Killian hurried toward the door.

That was how he found himself in his uncle's somewhat rundown and smelly theatre among five to ten other musicians who eyed him suspiciously until he picked up his bow and played every note perfectly. Or, at least until a song for mezzo, bass, and soprano in the second act.

"What is it, boy? Are you sleeping? We open tonight. We can't afford to have you missing entrances," snapped the cellist.

"This doesn't work," Killian declared in disgust. "It sounds awful."

"What?" Roared Uncle Connor.

The Present

"You didn't!" Emma exclaimed.

Killian shot her dirty look. "It was absolute garbage, Swan. It's still burned into my mind."

Maybe it was her imagination, but Emma could swear that he shuddered. Emma shook her head, trying her best to hide her amusement.

The Past - 1809

"It's the most simplistic piece of music I've ever heard. I could've written better at the age of four." He had, but he didn't add that part. "Isn't this supposed to be the climax of the whole opera?" Killian added quickly. "What if we-"

By that point, Connor had reached him and had a chokehold around his neck.

"Not another word," he snapped.

The second he was released, Killian stepped out of reach. "What if one of the singers sang a countermelody? Or we played one? Or-"

Connor took a step towards him, but Killian dodged.

"Uncle, you have to admit that it sounds horrible," Killian added, now slightly desperately.

His uncle had now reached him, as had the back of his hand.

"He has to be able to play, remember," the oboe player remarked in concern.

Reluctantly, Connor stopped. "Just play the bloody music," he snapped.

With a scowl and a bloody nose, Killian went back to his violin. He played his own counter-melody.

That night, after the opera, Connor took off his belt and gave Killian a very long and painful beating.

"This," he grunted. "Is for disobeying."

Killian curled in a ball on the floor, wincing with each strike. When Uncle Connor was finished, Killian cautiously lifted his head to see his uncle eyeing him thoughtfully.

"You write music," Connor stated. "Lots of it. I've seen all those scribbles of yours."

With a groan, Killian gave a small, jerky nod.

"The other musicians think you have talent," he added, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I'm going to bring one of those scribbles to them. If they think it's decent, you'll write for me."

"Or?" Killian said mutinously.

Uncle Connor gave him one last strike that made him yelp in pain. "Or you'll be out on the streets, you little bastard."

And that was how Killian started regularly writing for his uncle's theatre.

The Present

"He wanted me to play sometimes, as well, when he needed another violin. He even tried to get me to sing, but I put my foot down there," Killian added with a frown. "He could find other little boys; singing was my mother's talent."

Emma didn't even want to know what the consequences of refusing were. "Was it worth it?" She asked instead.

The old pirate nodded. "It was something I was unwilling to touch; it was hers. Doing it would feel wrong, like I was infringing on something holy, or like I was stealing from her."

And Emma understood, in a way. In fact, maybe that was the real reason she'd kept the name "Swan"; to steal from the people who had wronged her by taking something that was inherently theirs.

"So, what happened next?" Emma changed the subject. "After Ciarra died, I mean."

"Well, then my brother died," Killian said with a shrug of faked nonchalance.

Emma felt a twinge of sympathy. What must it be like to measure your life with the deaths of your loved ones? She had a feeling that Killian had stopped counting years long ago, and instead thought of his life in terms of who was still alive, just as she had once measured her life in terms of what foster family she was with. Still, she felt almost selfish when she made that comparison.

The Past - 1822

Only a few months later, the kingdom was at war once again.

This time it was with the Southern Isles, Christine's childhood home. King Julian had wanted more land, and the islanders, much to his surprise, were unwilling to be annexed without a fight. Or rather, they proved to be a much more worthy foe than the king had anticipated.

Therefore, when Killian and Liam were summoned to the palace, neither were particularly surprised. Liam was called in first, while Killian waited in the hall outside of Lord Alasdair's study. His brother came out with self-assured grin. Killian wished that he could feel so confident walking in.

The wave of lavender that assaulted his nostrils as he walked through the door almost made him retch. Instead, he clenched his jaw and saluted.

"Sit down, Lieutenant Jones," Lord Alasdair drawled.

Killian sat down stiffly in front of the man who was responsible for the deaths of at least half of his family.

"Captain Jones named you as his second-in-command without hesitation," he stated, folding his hands together into a steeple.

"My Lord?"

"For the very important task he was just assigned. For the war and the good of the entire kingdom," Lord Alasdair explained, eyes boring into his grandson.

Killian tried hard not to imagine punching him in the face. It was extremely difficult. It was even more difficult with the knowledge that he, even more than Giselle, had killed Ciarra.

"I'm sure he shall give you more details at the appropriate time," added the old man with a painful-looking smile.

"Then why am I here, my Lord?" Killian asked before he could stop himself, trying hard to keep the insolence out of his tone and only half-succeeding.

Lord Alasdair chuckled. "Very direct, aren't you? You remind me of someone else who looked a lot like you who sat in that very chair many years ago," Lord Alasdair commented off-handedly. "A Christine Crewe."

It took all of Killian's willpower not to react violently to the name. As it was, he could feel the blood draining from his face.

"Of course, Crewe was a false name; she would have been the heir to the throne if not for King Clayton, God bless his soul. Obviously, she was a threat," Lord Alasdair continued.

"To?" Killian gritted his teeth.

"The kingdom. Law, order, stability."

Killian swallowed, trying very hard to ignore the pounding of blood in his ears.

"What became of this threat, My Lord?"

Lord Alasdair grinned a wolfish grin that reminded Killian of why he had called him 'the dog-man' as a child. "I fucked her senseless."

Killian froze. "What?"

"I. Fucked. Her. Senseless." Lord Alasdair repeated, relishing every word. "I promised to protect her, and she begged me to fuck her. And I did. And then I killed her."

Killian realized that he was shaking.

"She was a threat, you understand, and I deal with all threats, as is my job."

Breathe in, breathe out. Killian tried to focus on nothing but the pull of air into his lungs and the release. He would be arrested on the spot if he acted on his anger. Lord Alasdair was a liar. He was testing him, Killian knew. He had to pass this test to live.

Lord Alasdair leaned forward. "Are you a threat, Jones? Or are you loyal to me?"

"I am loyal to the king," Killian replied carefully. "and to the kingdom."

Lord Alasdair eyed him carefully. "And to me?"

Killian swore internally.

"Are you not part of the kingdom?" He asked quietly. "You claim that you serve it as well. By that logic, we are on the same side."

The words repulsed him.

Lord Alasdair eyed him carefully, his true thoughts masked behind dead eyes. "Indeed."

Then he waved his hand. "You may go."

Killian stood shakily and turned to the door.

"I suggest that you remember where your loyalties lie," Lord Alasdair added, as he left. "A man is worthless without loyalty."

Killian clenched his fists. "Of course, my Lord."

The Present

Emma shook her head in disgust. "He actually said that?"

"It would be beyond bad form on my part to jest or exaggerate about such things," Killian growled. "I remember every word."

The only times Emma could ever remember seeing Killian look so angry were whenever he had made an attempt on Gold's life.

"Wow. I am so sorry," Emma breathed, a little bit stunned.

Killian just angrily shook his head and continued.

The Past

Of course, Liam had noticed something off with Killian the second he had walked out of Lord Alasdair's office. Fortunately, Killian had been able to pass it off as stunned happiness at being chosen as Liam's second-in-command and worry about not being up for the task. Now that they were home, Liam was watching him with obvious concern, in spite of any attempts to hide it.

With a sigh, Killian finally gritted his teeth and asked the only question that would be able to bring him piece of mind. "Liam, when you went to the naval academy, you took mother's journal, didn't you? Do you still have it?"

Liam looked at him in surprise. "Of course. Why?"

Giselle eyed him with sympathy. So she was in on this, Killian thought. The realization did not improve his mood.

"I just thought that mother and father would be so proud of you-"

"And you," Liam cut in.

"Of course," Killian agreed with a forced smile. "It's made me miss them anew. There was so much of their lives that we didn't even know... I feel as though I'm drifting away from them, and I thought that perhaps reading a bit about mother's life would help to ease the feeling. I could use some of her wisdom before our task, and I realized that there may be something hidden in her journal, as well..."

Liam looked down at his hands, refusing to meet his brother's eyes. "I've thought of reading her journal before, but I always feared that it would be an unforgivable violation of privacy. However, I shall leave this to your own conscience."

Privately, Killian cursed Liam and his stupid self-righteous morals. "My conscience is clear; I want to see it."

With a slight frown, Liam slowly went to his room and retrieved the worn, leather book. Killian muttered his thanks and retreated to his own room, closing the door quickly behind him and sitting against it. He rapidly flipped through the pages like a man possessed, searching for mentions of Lord Alasdair:

"I'm torn with indecision. Edward's father is stalking me, I'm certain. He wears a mask, but his eyes are the same, and he reeks of lavender. I feel his eyes on me always, watching me. I'm frightened. I fear being alone, most of all, because that's when he mostly appears, although once he appeared as Edward was sleeping. He stood in the doorway and watched us for more than an hour. Of course, sleep evaded me for the rest of the night. I don't know what he wants, but I have a good guess. I am most terrified of changing or bathing, for he shows up most at those times. I want to tell Edward, in a way, but he would only become angry, and I fear that he would act rashly..."

"Today he kissed my neck. I felt so dirty that I almost confessed to Edward, but it's his father. How could he believe me?"

"He touched me. I am so frightened."

"I told Edward of my stalker, but not his name. Tonight he tried to kill me, I swear, but Edward didn't believe me. I was in the depths of despair, but a solution has presented itself. Edward and I leave on the morrow. I shall not have to hurt Edward with unwanted knowledge after all."

The Present

Emma opened her mouth.

"She was journalling when the guards came. She stuffed it down her dress and took it with her."

Emma closed her mouth.

The Past

"I want to die. I didn't think I could ever want to die, but I do.

Killian ran into Lord Alasdair today, and he threatened to kill my boys if I didn't come to the palace. What could I do? I went, and he raped me. I'm not sure if I can call it rape, though, because it was almost a business transaction; the life of my family in exchange for letting Lord Alasdair have me. I shall give no details because reliving it would be almost as bad as having to live it in the first place. I am a common whore.

I can't tell Edward. He'll hate me. Part of me wants to. I just want to tell him and cry in his arms until I die. Maybe he'd kill me himself. Heaven knows that I deserve it. I was unfaithful... me! I betrayed the man I love more than I love my life. I betrayed my whole family, and yet the only reason I don't kill myself is for their sake. I don't deserve to live.

I feel the heaviness of deceit upon me."

Killian closed the journal calmly and went to his bed. Then he grabbed his pillow and sobbed and shouted into it until he was too exhausted to think more than one, singular thought:

He wanted Lord Alasdair dead. Desperately.