Never trust me when I say I'll have something done by a certain date. I tried, I promise. Then I didn't get it done, felt very sad about not getting it done, felt too sad to get it done, and then life got crazy. However, in saying that... I'm going to Europe for three weeks starting February 4, so I'm really hoping to be done by then!

Comments, favourites, and reads are all appreciated. Thank you to everyone who continues to read this and/or comment. It's tough to continue with such a mega-huge project, but your encouragement really helps. I know I haven't responded to comments for months, but I will as soon as I'm finished this last chapter. I read and appreciate them all.

Happy New Year... I hope you enjoy! As always, thanks to Trish Tavor, my beta who makes everything wonderful and turns my ideas into something decent. I always want to gush about her here, but I don't have the words to fully communicate how amazing she is!

I split the last chapter into two. I'm really hoping that I can finish this in one more chapter. I'm afraid that everything always turns out longer than I expect it to, though, so it may be two...

Thanks again!

The Present

"Spit it out, Swan."

Emma glanced behind her at the pirate with their kidnap victim easily slung over his left shoulder.

"Do you want me to carry her for a while?"

From the look Killian gave her, Emma could tell that her avoidance tactic had failed.

"You could at least switch shoulders," she added quickly, hoping it would add legitimacy to her question. In truth, while she did feel a bit bad that Killian had been carrying her for almost an hour already, he seemed remarkably untroubled by the added weight of the unconscious woman. When he'd first picked her up, Emma had protested feebly, but Killian had simply said that he was used to navigating the forest, while she would probably hit the woman into every tree and branch. She could barely keep herself from tripping and crashing into them, he had pointed out with a smirk. As tempting as it was to argue, Emma could see his point. At her hesitation, Killian had added that he was used to carrying heavy things. He had been very confused by Emma's snicker; younger Killian's drunken exclamation of "I've carried rum barrels heavier than you" was still on her mind.

It was a bit of a bad subject change, but she figured that you couldn't blame her for trying.

"Not if I want to be able to defend us if we come across any trouble," Killian said, gesturing at his sword pointedly.

Oh, right, Emma thought somewhat sheepishly. Killian was holding the woman in place with his wooden hand rather than his hook, and a wooden hand would be useless when it came to grabbing a sword. It was something Emma wouldn't have thought of, had their situations been reversed. Then again, as a pirate from fairytale land, he was probably used to needing easy access to a weapon.

Considering that he was Captain Hook, it was remarkably easy for her to forget that Killian only had one hand; he functioned so well. Things seemed easier between them today, Emma realized. Yesterday, she would have been nervous at the faux pas she had just made. She'd never really gotten the sense that Killian was overly sensitive about his missing hand, particularly based on how he joked about it, but she'd been tiptoeing a bit around him ever since her latest major mess-up. It had felt as though their relationship - whatever it was - was on fragile ground.

Today, things weren't back to normal, exactly, but they were closer. Killian had insisted they get some rest after he recounted his escape from prison, but Emma hadn't gotten the sense that it was because he regretted opening up to her again. In the morning, her hunch was confirmed by the celtic-sounding tune he was softly singing under his breath and the smile he shot her when he saw that she was awake. Then, he had teased her about having a hidden pirate-y side when she knocked out the mystery prisoner she had saved. That light-hearted teasing was something she'd missed.

The biggest sign that things were easier between them, though, was what Killian had said as they watched Emma's parents. He'd said that having difficulty accepting romantic feelings ran in her family.

True, he hadn't mentioned the idea of New York that hung between them like an almost physical barrier, but he had mentioned - yet again - the possibility of something happening between them. He had more or less called her out on the fact that she felt something for him, but that had been it; he hadn't pushed her. It had simply been a statement, and one that Emma hadn't been able to refute.

The thought made something in Emma's chest flutter.

Of course, she had completely ignored the statement at the time, shoving away uncomfortable feelings as she tended to do. If she hadn't, Emma would've had to deny having romantic feelings for him, or worse, admit that he was right. That would mean that she actually had to do something about it. For once, though, she'd actually been tempted to. Killian had seen her at a moment of weakness - in tears over her parents falling in love - that would normally make her embarrassed to death. True, she'd been embarrassed at first, but Killian had quickly assured her that it was fine, allowing her to be vulnerable without judgment. He'd even understood why she was crying without her having to say a word. She'd never been understood like that before or felt quite so safe being vulnerable.

She'd always cared for him on some level, but she'd never wanted to delve into it. Now, though, she was having more and more trouble ignoring whatever feelings she had for him. Killian had proven time and time again that he would do anything for her. He supported and understood her like no one else ever had, and his acceptance of her seemed to be unconditional. This trip to the past had only shoved it all into her face.

In spite of this, she stood by her decision to shove away whatever she felt. Now wasn't a good time to worry about it. They were still stuck in the past, which meant that she should leave difficult thoughts and decisions for after this particular problem was solved. Forcibly, she dragged her mind back to the present.

Emma bit her lip, deciding that she might as well risk asking what had been on her mind ever since the night before.

"You said that one of your three regrets if you died was that you would never be a father. Did you ever have..." She trailed off, then blurted, "Why didn't you and Milah ever have kids?"

After a moment, she allowed herself to glance behind her. Killian's face was carefully blank, which only filled her with more curiosity. She'd guessed that this might be a bit of a sore point for him, and it seemed that she was right.

He swallowed hard. "Ever since Ciarra passed away... well, I suppose I'd toyed with the idea of being a father even with Lyanna, when I thought of taking her away from her parents. But Ciarra's pregnancy gave me a taste of what could have been."

Emma nodded. That was easy for her to relate to; she had tried her best to avoid thinking about the "could have beens" after she gave Henry away. She'd been largely successful, but she'd still thought about him more than once. However, this past year in New York had given her a taste of what her life would have been like if she'd made a different choice, and it was painful to know that her entire "reality" had been a lie. Even before, when she first met Henry, the possibilities of the life they could have had together had hurt.

Nevertheless, she'd accepted during her pregnancy that, logistically, she couldn't be a mother. She was in prison, didn't have her life together, and... well, she knew nothing about being a good parent. But if she had been ready, and it was something that she had wanted, would giving up Henry have been even worse? She wasn't sure.

"Even if I wanted it, though," Killian continued, keeping his voice carefully lighthearted, "a pirate ship is hardly a good environment for a child. I was willing to give up that life in an instant if we had one, of course, or even if we went back for Milah's boy. But, as there were two of us in the relationship..."

Emma nodded, the pieces falling together. "Milah didn't want a child."

"No. It turned out that her first bout with motherhood was enough to make her certain that she never wanted another go at it."

She paused so that Killian was forced to walk beside her instead of behind. There was no bitterness on his face that she could detect, but rather just a quiet sadness... and something almost haunted.

Something didn't seem right. Her lie detector was going haywire. It wasn't about the words themselves, but something else. She had a feeling that he was lying not by what he did say, but what he didn't say, which made her all the more determined to pry. "So you never had a kid?"

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. "No, Swan. I don't have scores of children hiding around the Enchanted Forest, if that's what you're asking. I have to say that the idea dropped far down my list of priorities after Milah's death."

For a moment, Emma felt incredibly dense. Based on how single-mindedly he had focused on avenging Milah, it now seemed rather stupid to imagine him running off and having a child. Still...

"From your stories, I don't get the idea that contraception was great in the Enchanted Forest, though."

"Contraception?" Killian's brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed. "Ah. I suppose you mean preventing conception."*

The fact that the word was unfamiliar to him only confirmed Emma's suspicions.

"So, you could technically have a kid floating around somewhere, couldn't you?" While she had never really discussed Killian's sex life, "keeping him busy" a few nights ago had only confirmed that it was likely quite active.

"No," Killian said. "By the time I... indulged any carnal desires I may have had after Milah's death, enchanted items for... contraception," he explored the new word with a delight that amused Emma, "had become quite common. You know, necklaces, talismans, potions, that sort of thing. Magic was more of a myth than a reality when I was young. It took some time for belief in sorcery to become widespread."

"Was Milah ahead of her time, then?" Emma asked.

To her surprise, Killian winced. "No, not exactly."

He stopped to readjust the woman on his shoulder. It caused him to fall behind and avoid Emma's eyes, which told her that she was definitely on the right track.

"Then how did you manage to not have kids?" Emma prompted. She would have guessed that Killian was embarrassed because he was infertile or something, but considering that he'd already knocked up one woman, that seemed unlikely.

"I suppose," he began hesitantly, "I should clarify that Milah never told me that she didn't want anymore children... at first, anyway."

Emma was intrigued.

"How did you find out, then?"

Killian was silent for a moment. Emma could almost see the memories flitting across his eyes. "She took matters into her own hands."

"How?"

The Past - 1824

The door to the captain's cabin opened with a quiet, drawn-out creak.

Familiar scents filled Killian's nose: the soft floral scent of Milah, the sharp spicy scent of rum, and, underneath it all, blood.

Milah's lips were pale enough that they were almost indistinguishable from her wan, translucent skin. She was as white as the moon shining through the window over her head, so white that Killian briefly wondered if she had died after all and he was only looking at her ghost. Dark circles ringed her eyes as she leaned against a mound of pillows. As the door opened, she glanced up with equally pale eyes. Killian usually adored those eyes. They reminded him of the silvery colour of the ocean on a cloudy day or mist hanging over the city where he'd grown up. Today, they made him shudder; he saw only the silver of ghosts staring at him.

At first, Killian couldn't bring himself to move. He knew he should be running to Milah's side, but a cold fist had taken hold of his heart and seemed to have frozen his feet as well.

Their eyes locked, and time seemed to freeze as they stared at each other, each reluctant to start the conversation that was inevitable.

"I suppose you're angry with me," Milah said, breaking her eyes away to look at her hands.

Killian's forced his feet to move out of the shadows, face still expressionless.

"No, I'm not angry."

Milah looked up sharply, surprise vivid in her eyes despite her obvious exhaustion. "You're not-"

"I'm furious."

His words were so cold and clipped that he barely recognized his own voice. It was as though someone else were having the conversation, and he was just floating through the room and watching. The lack of control he felt would have been frightening if he could feel anything besides dull rage. As it was, he could only observe with a detached calmness.

Wincing, Milah hurried to speak. "Killian, I know I should have told you that I was pregnant, and I definitely should have told you that I didn't want any more children, but-"

"But you thought that sticking a knitting needle up your-" he gestured vaguely in her direction "-would be a better decision?"

The Present

Emma felt her stomach drop to her toes at the thought. "You're not serious."

No wonder Killian hadn't wanted to bring it up, Emma thought with some guilt.

He nodded grimly.

"Did she even knit?"

She felt stupid as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Of all the things she could have said, she had to ask if Milah knew how to knit.

She was curious, even if the timing was horrible. Somehow, Emma had difficulty imagining Milah, the free-spirited lover of a pirate captain, doing something as domestic as sitting down and knitting. Besides, if she had knit anything, Emma was fairly certain that Killian would have kept it, and she hadn't seen anything that looked knit (not unless she had knitting needles the width of sewing needles, anyway, which Emma imagined would not suit the purposes of a self-administered abortion).

"She used to before, when she was still attempting to be domestic. She was bloody awful at it."

Emma felt less stupid when Killian huffed a small laugh at the thought.

"So..."

He sobered immediately. "She bought knitting needles at some port, thinking she might try to be domestic again. They sat forgotten in a drawer for months. She never did use them for knitting. "

The Past

Killian's hands were clenched almost painfully.

"Not in hindsight," she admitted, turning her head so that her face pointed towards the ceiling. "But I wasn't thinking straight."

"Aye, Milah, that much is obvious," he bit out, angrily pulling the desk chair closer to the bed and sitting down.

When Milah refused to meet his eyes or react at all, Killian found himself dropping his head in his hands. Various thoughts were going through his head at the speed of lightning, combining with everything else to make him quite nauseous.

"Was having my child really so repulsive to you?"

He spoke into his hands, which was just as well. The question made him feel horribly exposed, and Killian didn't want her to see him like that. The words themselves made him weak enough. This was the second child he had lost, the second time that he could have been a father.

Once again, he found his mind wandering to his old dreams of fatherhood. He could picture his child. She still looked a bit like Lyanna, but this time she had Milah's dark curls. He could see himself rocking her, carrying her on his shoulders, reading to her, watching her fall asleep, and countless other things that sounded so little, but felt so huge. Despair filled him once again as he realized what he'd lost.

"You know how I feel about being a mother. It had nothing to do with who the father was," she said, voice flat.

The despair was quickly replaced by anger.

"Did you ever consider," Killian said in a dangerous, low voice, "that the child had more than one parent? And that I might have felt differently?"

"Once you saw how terrible of a mother I was to our child, you wouldn't have loved me anymore." For the first time, Milah's voice broke. "I couldn't let that happen."

Rather than invoking pity, Milah's words had the opposite effect. For the first time, Killian saw something that he wished he hadn't seen; Milah was selfish. He had always known that she wasn't perfect, but had accepted without question that she was perfect for him. The realization that she had no faith in him and no regard for his own feelings in such an important matter jarred him.

Milah continued to stare at the ceiling, eyes glassy. "Are you going to leave me?" She whispered.

With a sigh, Killian closed his eyes. God, the scent of blood had been subtle at first, but it now seemed overpowering. He wasn't sure if it was because he was closer to Milah or simply because his mind was focusing on it, but he could barely think through the heavy odour. For a moment, he thought that he might actually be sick.

Thinking back, Killian had always wondered at how different his life would have been if he'd left her. Would he have run into Rumplestiltskin at all? Would he have died instead of Milah, if he had run into him? Would he have found another woman and grown old with her and their children in a distant land? Would they have all died at the hands of the king's assassins? He would always have more questions than answers.

His younger self knew none of this, of course. He hadn't even known how pivotal of a moment this might have been, had he chosen differently.

Instead, he felt each wave of anger course through him, eyes fixed on the woman he loved. She looked pitiful lying there, defeated and desperate, perhaps as vulnerable as it was possible to be. At that moment, Killian hated her. He hated the way that she was able to invoke pity in him even when she didn't deserve it. He hated the way that she was able to turn wronging him into something about her. Most of all, he hated that he loved her.

Killian had done everything that it was possible to do for her. He had saved her from a life that was destroying her. He had gone out of his way to make her happy. He'd sent her husband away, killed for her, showered her with gifts, and loved her with every part of himself. She had thrown it all in his face because she was a coward, just like the husband she had despised. Milah was a coward. She would rather go behind his back and destroy something that she knew Killian had always wanted, just for her own selfish purposes. She knew that he trusted very few people and loved even less. Even though she knew this, Milah had betrayed him. It hurt all the more because she knew him so well. She had known exactly what she would do to him if he found out; she knew how badly he'd wanted a child. She had also risked her own life, all the while knowing that Killian had lost everyone. She was one of two people he had left, and she had risked her life on a selfish whim. She had betrayed him in every way, thrown his trust into his face, and, worst of all, was completely unapologetic. Perhaps she felt some regret for what this might mean for her, but did she regret it for the sake of Killian? Yesterday, he would have answered that of course she would regret hurting him. Today, he wasn't sure.

"I don't know," he answered finally, voice tight.

Milah pressed her lips together and nodded once. She was too proud to cry, but her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

The sight made Killian feel even worse. He shouldn't care if she was upset, but he loved her. It was unfortunate, but it was true. Did she deserve his love? Probably not. Clearly, he had a lot of thinking to do.

He stood abruptly, the scrape of the chair sounding thunderous in the quiet room. "However, it would be bad form for me to throw you off of my ship while you're ill, so you can stay for now."

"Killian..." Milah whispered, imploring.

He ignored her and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

The Jolly Roger was eerily quiet. The entire crew obviously knew what had happened, and were sensibly making themselves scarce by hiding in their quarters or in whatever taverns were in this ridiculous town. The only person on deck was Owen, who hastily scrambled to his feet at the sight of his friend and captain.

"Mallory. Watch the ship."

Owen's eyes widened. "You're going somewhere? How's Milah faring?"

Killian shot him a glare. "That was an order, not an invitation for discourse."

"Where are you going?" Owen persisted, hurrying alongside him. "I'm sorry about what happened, Killian-"

He abruptly broke off as Killian grabbed him by the front of his shirt, dragging his face forward until it was inches away from his own.

"I said," he growled, "watch the ship."

The unfortunate pirate almost fell to the deck as Killian shoved him away, continuing to stalk down the gangplank.

He had expected that getting off of the ship would provide him with some much needed space to think. Rather than feeling his thoughts slow into something comprehensible, they only seemed to speed up and run together.

Someone crashed into him, and he was suddenly thrown back to what felt like a different lifetime, when a certain old, lavender-scented man always managed to walk right into him. His temper flared once again.

"I apologize," the man said dismissively, moving to continue on his way.

That was a mistake. Killian grabbed his arm and landed a fist square in his face. Adrenaline rushed through him, leaving his mind blissfully focused on the unfortunate man who was now at his feet.

"I suggest," he snarled, kicking him when he tried to get up, "that you learn to watch where you're going."

"I'm sorry," the man blubbered, attempting to scamper away.

Killian followed him easily, punching him a few more times for good measure. When he was finished with the unfortunate man, he was breathing heavily. He glanced at his knuckles; they were bloody and scraped. And his mind was blissfully clear.

Without another word or even a backward glance, he stalked towards the nearest tavern. He hoped the man had friends who he would enlist to try to beat him up. After the first fight, Killian was itching for another. In the meantime, he ordered some rum. When he tired of it, he goaded some drunken idiots into a fight. He ended up with a bruised cheekbone and jaw, but it provided him with the distraction he craved. More than that, it provided him with some affirmation; he wasn't just a fool to be taken advantage of, but a pirate captain who was more than capable of leaving destruction in his wake.

By the time the moon was beginning to set and a line of orange had appeared on the horizon, Killian was on the deck of his beloved ship, a bottle of rum held loosely in his hands. His head was leaned back against the rail, and the cool sea breeze was rushing softly over his face. Some seagulls were crying in the distance.

Killian was exhausted. He felt hundreds of years old, not twenty-four.

He had finally come to a decision, and it had taken much less time than he'd anticipated.

He had wanted a child more than anything, once. In a way, he still did. But he wanted Milah more.

Over his life, he had lost almost everyone. There were only two living people he cared for in the world, and one of them had almost died. He was angry about the loss of his child, certainly, but Killian realized something important that night. He realized that he was angriest over almost losing Milah. She almost became another name on the huge list of people he'd lost, each death hitting him harder and harder than the one before.

The difference was that she hadn't died.

God, what he would have given to have any of the people he had lost survive. He would have sold his soul for a second chance with them. He had one now with Milah, and he had come close to throwing it away. It was true that what she had done had disillusioned him, but he could see why she acted the way that she had. After all, he was all that she had too.

It would be difficult, but they had a chance to try again. And Killian knew without a doubt that he had to take it.

He went back to his quarters eventually. The pale sun was shining through the window onto Milah's face, illuminating raw cheeks and puffy eyes.

Killian brushed his lips against her forehead, then resettled himself in a chair by her side to wait for her to wake up.

The Present

Killian's voice stopped, making the snapping of twigs and their footfalls suddenly distractingly loud.

"And?" Emma prompted.

"That's it for that tale."

A lie, of course. Emma imagined that the tale of them rebuilding trust was a long one. However, Killian had already let her into a story that was private even compared to the other stories of his past. Perhaps, Emma decided, it was only fair for some private moments to stay that way.

"So, what happened after you escaped from prison? You kinda left me at another cliffhanger." She was certain that her topic change was far from seamless, but Killian seemed to appreciate it nonetheless.

"You know that I lived, so it's hardly a true 'cliffhanger'," Killian reminded her.

Emma rolled her eyes. "But I don't know what happened."

The Past - 1827

As bad as the waves had been from his cell, they were even worse outside of it. He hit the water with what felt like the force of a cannon, only to be thrown by the raging sea before he could even recover his breath. The waves dragged him forwards, backwards, and under as though he were as light and flimsy as a feather. For a few minutes, Killian was certain that he would drown or be dashed into pieces upon the rocks that he grew closer to with every swell of the ocean. It wouldn't be a terrible death, dying at sea. In fact, it was quite fitting for a pirate captain.

That didn't mean that Killian wouldn't rather live.

Keeping above the waves was exhausting, so Killian dove under and swam towards the open sea, knowing that the waves would be less strong once he got away from where they were breaking; hopefully, once he was no longer in danger of being slammed into a cliff, he would be able to find a suitable place to go ashore. Being under the waves was still a struggle, but at least he could make some progress away from the cliff.

Killian wasn't sure how long he fought the waves. He covered any distance excruciatingly slowly. By the time he made it to an actual beach, he felt tired enough to consider just laying there and dying after all.

Only the knowledge that soldiers would be looking for him sent him staggering to his feet.

The evening and night were spent in small, painful steps. Killian was shivering, feeling the nip of the fall air through his thin, wet clothes. He wasn't wearing enough to be warm even if he hadn't gone for a swim in the ocean. His bare feet were coldest, but it may have been a good thing that his feet were numb. At least he didn't have to feel the various cuts and aches from the rocky, uneven ground.

By the time he reached a coastal village, his feet were both bloody messes. A few of the gashes littering his body likely needed stitches, and he definitely needed the warmth of a fire. The only problem was that he most certainly looked like an escaped convict, and the likelihood of being arrested was high. One thing was plain: he needed to get to his ship.

Killian approached the village cautiously, keeping to the shadows. Once he was close enough, his suspicions were proven correct; soldiers seemed to be everywhere. If Killian had a sword, he may have stood a chance, at least if he could sneak up behind them and kill them quietly one by one. As it was, he wasn't certain he could take that risk.

Where would his ship be? It depended on if Owen was working for Jacques. If so, he was sure the ship was far away. If not, there was at least a possibility that his ship would be close to the prison. Even so, there was only half a chance that he was going in the right direction. He could ask around nearby ports if there had been any sightings, but wasn't that where he was expected to go? Soldiers would surely be there too.

Despair flooded Killian's heart for only a moment.

The only thing left to do was the unexpected. At any rate, it would be unexpected to most everyone except, perhaps, Giselle and Lord Alasdair, and they were both dead. Everyone else would never expect it; it was too obvious, too stupid.

Of course, he may die of hypothermia on the way, but it would be worth it.

Jacques had a mother in this land, Jacques had told him. She had moved from her own country when a civil war had broken out, and she now lived on a farm further inland. It was likely that Jacques would be there and, if he wasn't, his mother's death would be punishment enough.

Killian turned away from the village and began his journey.

The Present

"Oh."

Killian glanced at Emma, whose brows were furrowed in thought. He raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

"I was expecting you to go find your niece," Emma admitted.

A shadow passed over his face. For a moment, she thought she'd made him angry.

"I probably should have, but I'd already reached a point where revenge was more important than most anything... except for Milah." His face twisted again into something that resembled disgust.

Ah. He was angry with himself. Perhaps she should have been relieved, but instead she just felt sad for him. She also felt strangely proud of him. Revenge had been such an ingrained habit, but look at him now. He'd actually told Rumplestiltskin that they'd "buried the hatchet" in the future. Sure, Killian didn't like him, but how could he? Sometimes Emma wanted to wring his neck herself.

Killian was looking at her oddly, and she quickly pushed her small smile away. He probably thought she was mocking him. Of course, Emma could have explained that she was excited for him and the man he'd become, but those weren't words that would easily slip out of her.

Determinedly, she forced her gaze back to the trees ahead.

After a moment of perplexed silence, Killian shook his head and continued. Maybe he could tell that her expression wasn't malicious or that he wouldn't get any answers if he asked about it. Either way, Emma was extremely grateful.

The Past

Once he reached the closest village, it was easy to ask for the location of Mrs. Moineau. Even if they didn't know her name, they knew the woman with the strange accent.

A smirk slid across Killian's face as the little wooden cottage came into view, the smoke billowing out of the chimney revealing the presence of at least one person.

"You should come join me and my mother for tea," he had said multiple times, even showing him the closest village on a map. Milah had urged him to go more than once, mostly because she wanted to go ("I want to see if she's as odd as her son!"). Killian had come close once or twice, but he'd always decided that it would be too painful for him. It would only remind him of what he might have had, had his own mother survived.

The idiot had told him where to find his mother, then betrayed him. In fairness, he would have guessed that Killian would be dead within the next month, and maybe he would have left if someone had bothered to tell him that he had escaped but, pardoned or not, Jacques was still an ex-convict; the soldiers wouldn't care enough about his safety to tell him the news.

Killian couldn't have planned it better himself.

If he'd had the chance to obtain a sword, it would have been slightly better. He would have loved to see Jacques' face when Killian appeared like an avenging angel and cut down his mother, closely followed by him. He might drag it out a bit to make it more painful, but that would be assuming that Jacques was so off his guard that he had no weapon. Killian was fairly certain that he would beat him in a fair fight, but it was clear that Jacques didn't believe in good form, so a fair fight was unlikely.

That left option two.

Killian laid back and waited for night to fall, hidden among the trees and brush around the corner from the cottage. Everything hurt, and he was still chilled, even if he'd managed to steal some new clothes on the way to the cottage. He was marginally more comfortable, especially after another acquisition. A traveling merchant had been bragging about his wares to an earlier village, including a magical hip flask that would never be empty. It was quite stupid of him; no one in the village would be able to afford it. Killian had been happy to relieve him of it when his back was turned.

Stars broke through the canvas of the sky one by one. He sat under them for an immeasurable time, ripping apart his ruined old clothes – freshly cleaned by a nearby stream - to wrap around his feet.

After enough time had past, Killian crept towards the cottage, arms full of dry twigs and brush. Silently, he began the tedious process of setting it around the building. After that was finished, he took out his flask of unlimited rum and began splashing it over the wood.

The Present

Oh no, Emma thought, feeling sick at the thought of what she knew was coming.

The Past

The final thing Killian did was bar the door.

He lit the fire there, then moved back a few meters to watch.

It caught quite quickly, but the screams didn't start until later. The door shook, Jacques' voice and an unfamiliar woman's shouted for help hysterically, but no one came. Eventually, the screams and coughs fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the snapping of burning wood.

Killian turned away in grim satisfaction. It was gruesome, certainly, but necessary. Now, to find his ship.

The thought of being reunited with Milah and his ship, combined with the knowledge that justice had been served, put him in a cheery enough mood to sing quietly as he put his back to the blinding glow of Jacques' pyre:

"Where Lagan stream sings lullaby

There blows a lily fair

The twilight gleam is in her eye

The night is on her hair

And like a love-sick lennan-shee

She has my heart in thrall

Nor life I owe nor liberty

For love is lord of all."**

*The word "contraception" wasn't coined until 1886.

*Text from "My Lagan Love", Irish Trad.