Summary: Intending to return to Neverland after his quest for revenge comes to an abrupt end, Killian Jones finds himself in Duodenary, a realm whose existence allows Neverland, and the people therein, to live forever. After months of trying and failing to find a way to go home, a princess comes looking to him for help.
Notes: Thanks again to all who read/reviewed/favorited/followed! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Part Five goes up on Sunday.
They're wading through the pitch of night before they reach the castle. By his own winning luck, the Lady of Duo Twelve possesses quite the memory for maps. And though he knows the sea – the Bay and several of the harbors, the creatures they house and the people they support – he's not taken the same care with the lands of Duodenary. So he's content to follow her lead until they reach a stone edifice that crawls in crooked stops and starts towards the sky. It's all oak and marble, slate roof sloping sharply back towards the ground. It glitters in the wan light, and when they pass into the clearing that lay before it, Killian turns his head back to gaze at the sky. The stars here are different than on the sea, he notes, shining down on them in unfamiliar patterns, with unfamiliar colors.
"The curvature of this realm is absurd, Swan," he says, as they trudge towards the castle doors. "The constellations shift with only a few dozen nautical miles."
Emma scoffs. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Merely an observation."
She hums, but doesn't answer, as they come to the castle doors. There's a knocker in the center, forged from steel, filigreed with silver, or so it appears. It's decorated with apples, curiously enough. Emma reaches up, and takes it in hand, but she seems to hesitate, shifting back and forth on her feet.
"No time like the present, eh, love?" he says.
"It's really late."
"A proper excuse not to talk to the woman who tried to kill you."
She rolls her eyes. "I forgave her, remember? She's just…she's scary, okay? I can't imagine what she's like at one in the morning."
"No worse than you when you wake up, I should think."
Emma smacks him in the chest, and he nudges back. She scowls up at him, and he smiles down at her, at least until the doors before them groan, and swing open.
"It's insulting that you would think I wouldn't know you were coming," the Lady at the door says, matter-of-fact. She looks alert, dressed in red, with similarly adorned lips. Her stature is harsh, her hair is dark, and the way she favors her right foot suggests irritated boredom. But still, Killian knows a well-meaning heart when he sees one, and looks to find its gentle counterpart standing behind her, a man dressed in the colors of the forest around them.
"Sorry, Regina." Emma twists her hands, and Killian quirks a brow when she leans to one side until she's nearly pressed against him. "I know it's late, but – "
" – there's something wrong, I know," Regina says, not unkindly. "We've been waiting for you since we put Roland to bed."
"The crystal ball," the man says, and looks to Emma, smiling fondly, with familiarity. "Just the night before, we saw the state of the Rise. We thought to contact you, but you and your companion were already headed our way."
Regina nods, and beckons them in –
"So we can talk inside, like civilized people."
"I'll be sure to never speak to you outside again, my love," Robin says.
"Oh, hush."
– and out of the dark.
"Roland is his son," Emma says, quietly, as they follow the Lady and Lord through the foyer and back into the bowels of the castle. They trail behind when Emma tugs on his hook, lingering just out of earshot.
"His mother died…" She says, then pauses, wrinkles her nose. "…in a skirmish Regina started, actually."
Killian frowns.
"You're all quite the forgiving lot, aren't you?" he whispers.
"Again, it's a long story."
"You and your stories could fill a library, darling."
Emma rolls her eyes, and hurries ahead of him, tugging on his hook as though he were the one to pull them behind in the first place. When they're closer, she nudges his shoulder, gesturing vaguely at the man ahead of them.
"That's Robin Hood, by the way," she says.
"Ah," he answers, just as quiet, and raises his voice to introduce himself, as a bit of an afterthought, "I'm Killian – "
"Jones," Robin finishes, smiling back over his shoulder. "Also Captain Hook. Regina told me."
"Well," Killian chuffs. "It's awfully convenient to know everything, I'd imagine."
"Or to be married to someone who knows everything. I'm only told what I need to know."
Regina rolls her eyes at her Lord's joke, and leads the lot of them into a grand salon at the three o'clock wall. The windows are cracked open, letting the fresh breeze flow through. Even so, the fire roars hot, chasing away any thought of chill. The fireplace is something out of a storybook, the soft stone carved into the likeness of animals of all sorts. They're situated like the roots of a tree, arching up and over the mouth of the fire, into the central figure of a tree, whose branches arch up and out of the stone itself, leaves of metal and fruit of gemstones hanging from heavily from the sculpture. These too, it seems, are apples, and Killian wonders briefly at the choice of theme, before her Ladyship bids they sit on couches clothed with woven cotton.
"So," Regina says, when they settle in front of the fire, gesturing between he and Emma. "How did this happen?"
Killian blushes. "Nothing's happened, my Lady."
Robin shifts in place beside Regina, and smiles down at his hands, while Regina arches a pert brow.
"Well, first, that answers a question I didn't ask. Second, I mean, why are you working together?"
Emma shrugs. "He's an expert wrangler of magical creatures. Never seen anyone like him. I thought, if he saw the Rise, he might know something I didn't might be able to tell why they're leaving in droves. I know magic, but I don't know much about animals, to be honest."
Regina nods, and Killian shifts restlessly beneath the weight of the compliment, digging into the skin beneath his ear with his fingers. The Lady looks to him, then, and quite suddenly, he feels as though he should sit a bit straighter. He slouches instead, plants his feet on the stone floor.
"And what, exactly, have you learned?"
"Not much, your Ladyship," he says. "Only, the spirits of this realm are, for lack of a better word, quite spirited. Those in the Rise seem tired, much more so than I would expect, given they're off to a creature's paradise."
And a human's hell, he thinks, though he refrains from saying it aloud.
"I'm not sure if this is somehow connected," Robin says, "but we've been dealing with a problem of our own, of sorts. The trees in the forest are…dying."
The Lord looks positively mournful, then, and over trees, of all things. Then again – and Killian scratches compulsively at his beard – he thinks of the kelp growing mighty and tall at the bottom of the coastal seas, imagines it falling barren and lifeless. His gut twists.
"Dying?" Emma echoes.
"Yes. It started in spots. But now it's progressing in a sort of a path. I haven't had much time to follow it. The annual hunts are starting in the towns." At Killian's vacant expression, Robin elaborates. "Yearly festivities, of a sort, a celebration of the wood. I suppose I could postpone them, but then again, no better way to kill the mood than to tell the people the object of their celebration appears to be falling apart."
Emma seems distressed, and despite their audience, Killian nudges at her fingers with his, and to his surprise, she takes a hold of them, tight. The Lord and Lady hardly blink an eye.
"When did this start?" Emma says.
"As far as I can tell, exactly three weeks ago," Robin answers.
Emma swears, and leans back against the couch. She rubs at her eyes, and her shoulders slope, bearing days and days' worth of sleeplessness.
"I'm guessing this is when the Rise began to change," Regina observes.
Emma nods. "Yep."
"So what does this mean?" Killian says. "That this foul magic, whatever it may be, has infected all of Duodenary?"
Emma turns to him, clutches tighter at his fingers. "Or is just beginning to." She pauses, then, resting her chin in her other hand, and scratching at her jaw, before she says, looking hard down at the floor. "But why Duo Two? I mean, why would whatever the hell is going on concentrate here?"
Robin laughs, not unkindly, and looks fondly out the window. "There's a reason that there aren't many who choose to live here, Emma. There's a peculiar sorcery, here. Most of the magical creatures dwell in the sea. But here in Two…" He looks back at them, a warm twinkle in his eyes. "…it's in the trees. In their roots, stretching further down than even any miners can reach."
"He's right," Regina says. "There are rumors that the time from Neverland travels here first, before seeping out to sea in the groundwater. Just rumors, of course, but maybe there's something to it."
Emma sighs. "So if we can't find what's wrong…"
"It's possible Duo Two will be the first to suffer."
The lot of them sit in silence for a moment. The wind whistling in through the windows snaps at the fire, and plays with the false flora that hangs above them. They stare grimly as the floor, before Regina says, rather suddenly –
"I think you should follow the path."
Emma frowns. "What?"
"If Robin's instincts are correct, which they usually are – "
"Thanks, love," Robin says, quietly, at which Regina squirms, as though she hadn't been married to his Lordship for four years, as Emma had told him.
" – then it leads somewhere."
"Somewhere, like something that will be helpful?" Emma says. "Or somewhere like that time you tricked my father's Naval officers into sailing through a nest of krakens?"
Killian nearly chokes on aborted laughter. Regina rolls her eyes, though he knows enough about burying guilt and shame to see the tender yearning for forgiveness just underneath. The four of them fall silent once more, if only for a moment, Robin's hand falling over the Lady's. Killian spares a glance at Emma, who promptly looks away, takes a deep breath, and says –
"Will you come with us?"
At that, Regina does indeed look sorry, her eyes softening a touch. Killian wonders how a pair can go from murderous intent to vague fondness. Then again, he wonders how a man can go from villainous pirate to an aid in a quest to save a realm. Perhaps he and Regina aren't so different after all, snagged by a pure heart, driven by dogged determination.
"I'm sorry, Emma," Regina says. "We're leaving before sun up tomorrow morning to start the tour of the towns. For the hunt. It's more for morale than anything else – "
"Although I'm hoping to participate this year," Robin interjects.
" – and it would be strange if I weren't there. The people have a hard enough time looking at me like I'm not about to set them on fire."
"I mean," Emma says, "that's pretty fair."
To Killian's never-ending surprise, Regina smiles, though it's wrought with a fair bit of self-deprecation. She nods, and stands from her seat, followed quickly by Robin, then by Killian himself. Emma is a bit slower to rise, but there's a thoughtful expression on her face as she stares unseeing at the fire.
"So this path, then," she wonders aloud. "Where does it start?"
Robin points out the windows. "Straight towards the three o'clock. It's at its worse up here, but then it seems to taper off. It may be difficult to follow at times, but I imagine your magic will aid you there."
"But for the night," Regina says. "You should rest here."
Emma shifts on her feet. "You sure?"
"Of course. We have enough empty rooms to house a small village." The Lady grows thoughtful, then, and turns to the Lord. They share in a silent conversation, and Killian has the sudden urge to avert his eyes. "In fact, we've done that before, when the hurricanes off Clockwork Bay work their way up here."
Robin smiles, even as Emma laughs. "Now that sounds like a party."
"Point is," his Lordship says. "We have plenty of room. Emma, you're free to choose a wing at your leisure. I take it you're still familiar with the layout of the castle?"
Emma shrugs. "For the most part."
"We'll likely be gone before you get up," Regina says. "I'm sorry you didn't get to see Roland. He'll be sorry too."
She makes as though she's about to leave, then, but she hesitates. Killian watches her, and Emma, then back again as the Lady shuffles forward, and lays her hand on Emma's shoulder. "If you need anything…find a mirror. I'll carry one with me."
Killian looks at Robin, who looks back at him with a soft smile, as though he's borne witness to this halting tenderness before. Hardly a moment passes, though, before the Lady clears her throat, and retreats to the corner of the room, where a primly arched passageway – decorated with stone carved in the likeness of ivy and tallgrass – leads elsewhere.
"We'll ask the chefs to leave breakfast for you," Robin says, at which Emma nods her thanks, before the Lord and Lady disappear, leaving them alone with the dying fire.
"Killian."
"Swan?"
She looks up at him, and he's sure he's never seen anyone so weary. He longs to take his hand with hers once more, but she seems shuttered, and so he refrains.
"Everything is dying," she says. "What if I can't stop it?"
"Emma, love…" He tilts his head, and smiles as encouragingly as he can manage, here in the dead of night, where they both sway tiredly on their feet. "I've yet to see you fail."
To his relief, she smiles up at him.
It's with a heavy heart, though, that Emma climbs the stairs once all has been said, and once the Lord and Lady alike have bid them farewell. Emma chooses rooms in the midnight wing, two just across the hall from one another. They're exhausted, the both of them, though Killian wonders at how much sleep they'll actually manage.
"Will you wake me when you get up?" Emma says, when they stand with their backs to their respective doors, eyeing one another across the meager space in the winding hallway. "I'm not exactly a morning person."
He smiles wanly, nods at her request. "As you wish."
She seems to hesitate, then, hand reaching behind to fiddle with the handle on the door. Killian watches her intently, wondering if she'll ask what he's too afraid to wish for, what he's longed to feel again since she told him that she wanted him astride the bowsprit of the Jolly Roger. It's wishful thinking at best, though, and she bids him a quiet goodnight before she slips behind the door. He sighs, and wastes no time doing the same.
He does however, waste time removing his clothes. Though the windows are open against a pleasant breeze, and the silks and cottons on the bed appear freshly laundered, soft and welcoming, he almost doesn't want to sleep, wondering when the journey will end, when he'll have to watch her walk away.
All too soon, though, he's bare, leathers folded and draped on a velvet cushioned chair by an ornate fireplace. He shuffles over to the bed, and climbs beneath the covers, proceeds to gaze at the sloping tray in the ceiling, and the silver chandelier as it tinkles lightly in the breeze. Though he's no hope but to rest, wide awake, he still closes his eyes, and listens. To the nocturnal critters that scrabble up the walls of the castle, to the birds cooing softly in the canopy below, and to the creak of his door as it –
"Swan?" he says, rising where he lies, heart leaping in his throat.
"Yeah," she says, as she tiptoes across the roughhewn floors. He breathes out a sigh, and tucks his blunted wrist beneath the sheets. "Sorry."
"It's alright," he says. She comes to stand at his bedside, silken nightdress ruffling at her knees. She chews thoughtfully at her thumbnail, eyes wandering down his chest, at which point he's reminded of his nakedness beneath the sheets.
"You're naked, aren't you," she observes aloud.
"As the day I was born, I imagine."
She hums. "Do you want to put something on before I get in?"
Killian laughs, softly, even as he shuffles over on the bed, and Emma blushes.
"Sorry," she says, again. "I'm tired and I feel like my head's on backwards." She pauses then, and fiddles with the hair draping freely down over her shoulders. "Can I sleep in your bed with you?"
He considers her for a moment. Despite the fact that he's already compulsively made room for her, he wonders if it's the best idea, not only for her, but for him. Though he'd walled it off many years ago, his heart is still fragile, and more and more exposed the longer he stays with her. He imagines how holding her in his arms could crumble the last of his defenses. But it is what he wanted, what he desired so fiercely when she told him goodnight barely an hour ago, and disappeared behind her door.
"Aye," he says, before she can doubt whether he wants her, like he told her he did. "Aye, love, whatever you need."
Though she lifts her knee and balances on the bed, steadying herself on his shoulder, she still hesitates.
"What about what you need?" she says.
"Emma, if it were my choice, we never would have parted in the hallway."
She smiles as she clambers up onto the bed, careful not to lift the covers over his hips as she slides down in beside him. She perches on her elbow as he wriggles back down to rest on his pillow, so he can look back up at her, and twirl the tangled strands of her hair around his fingers.
"Well, why didn't you say anything?" she says, still smiling. "We could already be asleep."
Killian shakes his head. "You're impossible."
"You love it," she accuses.
He doesn't deny it, only beckons her closer, entreats her to lay her head on his chest. Breathing deeply when she does, he watches as she pulls herself closer still, rising and falling with him, her hand laying gently over his belly. Though he's no saint, he only has to count to twelve to will away the blood pooling down between his legs. He wonders if Emma feels the same, if her skin is flushed, if her toes are curling the way his are while she flexes her fingers against his skin. But she must have a better poker face than he, for she only shifts to make herself more comfortable, to tuck one of her feet between his.
"Will you do something for me?" she says, once she's settled. Killian turns his face against the top of her head and nods.
"Aye."
"Will you tell me a story?"
He huffs against her hairline, presses a smile into her temples.
"About what?" he says.
"I don't know…about you? When you were young."
He chews on his lips, worries the rings around his fingers. For a long while, longer than he thinks is polite, he thinks on his younger days. He doesn't recall much before his father sold he and his brother to an unkindly master. Afterwards…there's nothing that would lull her to sleep. But then he thinks rather fondly of his brother, of the languages he can speak, of the sense of duty and honor they'd instilled, with their rank and order and –
"Did I ever tell you I was a sailor in the Royal Navy?"
Emma laughs, as he thought she might. "Uh, no. Seriously?"
"Aye. Lead there by my brother, a pigheaded excuse for a man."
Emma curls tighter into his chest. "You had a brother?"
Killian sighs, a knot twisting and twisting in his chest, where all the love and loyalty he held for his only family once lived.
"Indeed," he says. "Liam was a much better man than I. Working harder, longer…he was always convinced there was something more."
"More than what?"
He frowns, realizing he's revealing more than he meant to. But he can hardly help but to answer, especially when her fingers crawl up over his skin, drawing his fingers between her own before she settles them back over his stomach.
"More than the life of a servant."
They're both quiet for a moment before she says, quietly, "What was it like? In the Navy?"
"Bloody awful, at first. Up before the break of dawn. For the first year, I spent more hours in the library than at sea. We – that is, all sailors – were required to have a proficiency of languages, of sciences and history, before we were given our posts. I believe I have a permanent crick in my neck from my hours spent studying."
Emma laughs, though it sounds tired, much more so than before. He turns his head, and catches her eyes falling shut.
"Poor you," she slurs.
"Aye," he answers, softly. "Poor me."
"What else?"
He thinks for a moment, searching his many years for a memory that will rock her to sleep. Then, "My brother and I – once passing our examinations, and being given our posts on the same ship – we were charged with delivering a message to a prince in a land in the southern reaches of our realm, where the sun burned hotter than I'd ever known possible. The valleys were fertile, but the uplands held more sand than droplets of water in the sea."
Emma hums, and her fingers fall slack around his own. Even so, he whispers the tale into her hair – of the tides that swelled like vortices every morning and evening, of dust storms that coated the town entire in a bleak shade of red. And of the people, how he'd stumbled through their mellifluous language, once accidentally trading his bicorn for a lumbering horse of an animal with sloping hills for a back. Not even halfway through the wonders he'd find beside his brother, he drifts to sleep beneath her, for the first time thinking only fondly of his brother, without the souring rage he was certain he'd never shed.
"Goodnight, Swan," he says.
He dreams, as he always does, of half-faded memories. Of Milah and Liam, of the feel of the Jewel of the Realm beneath his feet, when he was a boy. He squirms, caught in nightmares, but when the starlight fades, and the sunrise starts, Emma turns heavier into his side, and from then on, he dreams only of clear, cool seas.
The morning is an awkward affair, if only because Emma has managed to snarl the blankets around every spare bit of her flesh. He, of course, is used to chilly nights on the water, so when he wakes to the two o'clock sunshine streaming through the open windows, completely bare to the winds, he reminds himself that he's slept through much worse. The rub comes when she tries to rise, and he helps untangle her, despite her protests.
"You sleep as though you're engaged in battle, Swan," Killian says, as he gently pries her foot loose from a loop of fabric. "Do you go through this every morning?"
She grumbles incoherently, which he takes as a yes. Once she's loose, he buckles his vest back into place, and dons his coat, swishing it twice for good measure as he makes certain that every toggle is in place, every button twisted to his liking.
"Do you do that every morning?" she says. "Strut around in your clothes like you own the damn place?"
"I beg you to consider which is more mortifying. My strut, or your inability to simply rise from the bed."
She huffs all the way down to the breakfast table.
As Regina and Robin had promised, they're long gone, though the table is covered with all sorts of local fruits, warm breads, and cold meats. Though she's clearly not an early riser, he hides his grin with a yawn when she piles enough food to sustain the both of them throughout the day on her plate, eating in silence as she stares unseeing at the murals on the castle walls. He sits as close beside her as he dares, tries not to recall the sensation of her hair tickling at his nose, of her breath running warm and damp over the hair on his chest, and of the brush of her nightdress between his legs.
"Stags," she says, after a prolonged silence, licking salt away from her lips.
"Pardon?"
"The mural on the wall." She points, looking a little less worse for wear, spine stretching straighter as the hot, sugared drink in her hands appears to do its job. "Those little stags are on it."
He hums. "Right you are. Although it appears they're being hunted."
Emma frowns down at what little is left on her plate, including a bit of meat. She purses her lips and looks up at him. Once again, he finds himself trying not to be amused by the expression on her face, but in such close proximity, he can't hide the smile on his face. To his relief, at least, she smiles back, wanly.
"Not one to look your meal in the eye, eh, Swan?"
"No."
"Time to go?"
"Please."
Given what little they'd come with, it doesn't take long for them to gather their things – only two satchels between them. When they reach the door on their way out, Emma hesitates when the great, oaken passageway swings open. She turns to look up at him, and not for the first time, he finds her expression unreadable.
"What is it, love?"
She chews on her bottom lip, shifts slowly from one foot to the other before she says, haltingly, "Are you sure you still want to do this?"
He frowns. "I made a promise."
"I won't hold you to it."
Killian sighs, and he's careful to watch her face as he shuffles closer. He takes her hand in his, places it gently over his chest where his heart beats, at the moment, for her and her quest.
"But I will," he says. "And not out of a sense of duty. Although I like to think I have a code, I'm doing this because I want to."
She watches him, carefully, before she flexes his fingers, and he can feel her nails scratch lightly at the hair revealed by the deep V in his shirt.
"Okay," she says.
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
She doesn't let go of his hand until the castle disappears behind them, and they're swallowed up by the forest once more. He keeps quiet as she walks, stops and breathes deeply when she lays her hand on a tree here, a shrub there, looking for the path of decay Robin had described to them the evening before. Out on the sea, where the sun rolls along its endless path, Killian keeps decent track of time, decent enough for someone not of this realm, but here in the forest, he feels lost. Or at least he would, were Emma not there to lead him.
"Anything?" he says, when her steps grow longer, when the hesitation falls out of her step.
"I think it's just up ahead."
Sure enough, not even half a league brings them to a bit of a clearing, only a clearing by virtue of the trees before them, laying on their sides. Old, red earth is turned over beside them, pulled up by their ancient roots. A man could live in the resulting caverns, dips in the soil where the trees once drew their water and lifeblood.
"They were right," Emma breathes, looking sullen. She walks along the edge of the clearing, brow drawing tighter with every dead and dying tree that she finds. "Killian, they're dying. Everything's dying."
Killian steps up behind here, where she's stopped to mourn a sapling, where it bends unnaturally at the trunk. He's close enough that if he takes a deep breath, his chest would brush over her back. Often since he's met her, he wonders if he's too bold, too quick, but she reaches back to curl her fingers around his hook, so he banishes the thought.
"What next, Emma?" he says, right by her ear.
She sighs. "Follow the path."
"Can you feel where it leads?"
She pauses a moment, then, plucking a leaf from the sapling before them. It crumbles to dust in her hand, floating back towards the eight o'clock before it falls to the ground.
"Towards the Bay," she says.
"Towards the Bay," he echoes. They stand together a moment longer before she lets go of his hook, and steps neatly along the path she's set in her mind. Killian looks to the scene of destruction before him, wondering if perhaps the sea faces the same fate, creatures fathoms below the surface suffering the death and decay he sees before him. The thought tugs at the pit of his stomach, and he takes a deep breath before he turns to follow his Swan, back into the heart of the wood.
"The winds are in rare form this fine morning," Killian says, once they're near to shore.
Emma barely hums in acknowledgment, stepping carefully along the path of decay. The trees creak and groan. Not like the Jolly Roger, which clicks at him in all of her enchanted fits of passion, but like a leaning edifice, made of driftwood. It smells of salt and rot, now that he thinks of it. Even the ground beneath their feet seems to sink, overtaken by red muck. He follows her lead, not trusting his own eyes to wonder. He has to admit, some of the trees and brush around him are downright despairing. But, for all that he enjoys a good metaphor, he can't see the trees for the forest, a relatively dull sea of green, one that he can hardly enjoy, given that he's down on the ground, the sky cut into pieces by the canopy.
"I don't know how you can tell where you're going, Swan."
She tosses a curious look over her shoulder. "Can't you feel it?"
"'Fraid I'm not attuned to the forest."
"Follow your nose, then. It reeks like stupidly dead trees."
"Stupidly dead," he echoes.
"Yes, stupid. Because, honestly, how did I miss this? You'd think I would know when dark magic is in Duodenary."
Killian frowns, jogs to catch up with her. He nudges her fingers with his, reaches up to curl his fingers over her shoulder.
"You don't have to carry every burden, love. At least, not alone."
She looks at him, and the stubborn press of her lips suggests that she disagrees, that she's prepared to fight him on it. And so he concedes, though he remains close behind. He counts it as a gain, at least, that she doesn't protest when moves to help her over a fallen log or two. Likely he's the one in need of helping. Land feels uneasy beneath his feet, especially that cast in shadows. But he helps her nonetheless, a silent show of support.
It seems hours before the path changes. Trees and trees and trees swirling in his mind, Killian would surely be lost without Emma. All the same, all encased in various stages of rot, needles of all sorts crunching under their feet. He knows, like any good sailor, when they approach the shore, for the trees thin, and the earth underfoot begins to shift, not with muck, but with sand. He perks up, and breathes deep when the sweet tang of salt fills his lungs.
"The Clockwork is close," he says.
She sounds unhappy when she answers, "Yeah."
Killian lengthens his stride, until he trudges beside her. "You seem vexed."
Emma shrugs and sighs all at once, though she too seems heartened when the rush of the waves begins to break through the tree line.
"I was hoping this would be it, that we'd come here and find it."
"It being the source of this decay."
"Yes."
She's quiet until trees give way to sand. He recalls the expression on her face just the day before, marveling at the sand beneath her feet, grinning at the eclectic wildlife. Oh how time does wreak its havoc. Now, he watches as she scowls at the horizon. She twists the fabric of her shirt in her hands, making a mess of the pressed fabric.
"Where does the trail lead?" he asks, quietly.
She doesn't answer, only crouches down to press her fingers against the sand. A faint pulse of magic glows beneath her fingertips, and zips down the beach, into the water.
"Into the Bay," he says.
"Yep."
"How far?"
She presses both hands into the sand, falling onto her knees.
"Now that I can see the decay," she says, quietly, to herself, "I can just…"
Emma flexes her fingers, and longer, brighter trails of magic flow from her hands. Her breathing labors, and Killian shuffles closer, leans down to press his fingers over the base of her spine. She relaxes, or seems to, although moments later, she falls back into his hand, and curses, colorfully enough to set the tips of his ears flaming red.
"What is it?" he says.
"It's in the fucking Gear. Whatever it is. We were closer to it out at sea than before we hiked all the way to Regina and Robin's castle."
Killian hums. "Nice to have fine sheets, at least."
She blushes, studiously ignoring him a moment before she says, "If we sail there – "
" – we shan't be sailing back, aye."
She curses, again, and Killian helps her to her feet. She shifts again and again, digging the heels of her boots down into the sand. Her hands return to her shirt, until he's certain she'll have to borrow one of his from one of his chests in the cabin –
In the cabin, he thinks. He chews on his lips, and thinks on the treasures, there, one in particular…
"You know," he says, and he taps at his chin as he imagines his scheme going into play, on how terribly harebrained it is. Then again, he'd vowed to help the woman beside him. He thinks of how she'd turned in his arms, of how she slept with her mouth open, how her hair tangled beautifully throughout the night. He thinks of how, in slumber, at least as far as he could see, she seemed to revel in a rare bit of peace. Fingers smoothing over his beard, rasping down along his neck, he thinks on how it would be if she were always that peaceful.
And so, possibility of death considered, and thrown casually into the wind, he turns to her, and repeats –
"You know, I think I may have something that will get us where we need to be."
Emma smiles up at him, as though she were just privy to his train of thought. He almost wishes she were. It would save him the trouble of trying to get the gears in his mouth to spin when she looks at him like she could never look away, and be content.
"And what's that?" she says.
"Why, pixie dust, of course."
"Seriously, though," Emma says, for perhaps the thirteenth time. "Pixie dust?"
"Haven't you heard the stories, love?" he answers, as he rifles through the chests beneath the floorboards of his cabin. It's been some time since he's needed it, and many of his treasures are hidden even far too well for him to find. He cries out, triumphant, when he snatches a familiar pouch of powder.
Emma smiles when she catches the expression on his face, but still wonders, "What stories?"
"Pan? The Lost Boys? Pixies and faeries, fantastical beings of all sorts?"
She shakes her head. "Most of our stories are about dragons and horses…and bears?"
He laughs. "Are you asking me or telling me?"
She throws her hands up in the air. "I don't know, I didn't like stories that much. Why hear a story when you can live a story?"
"Fair point, Swan."
"Just tell me about the stupid dust, already."
Killian huffs, feigning exasperation as he leads her back up on deck. When they stand just beneath the four o'clock sun, he opens the pouch, and innumerable shards of light pour out, great shafts that stretch out into the sky, colors unnameable filling the space between them.
"Pixie dust," he says, "is a good magic. Unlike many that I have seen, it will take us where we need to be, no price to be paid."
"How?" she says, breathless. Killian smiles, and takes her hand with the curve of his hook, entreats her to wriggle her fingers over the light.
"Holy shit, it's warm," she says. Her fingers dance in the light, and the light dances alongside them, more brilliant than he's ever seen. She too is a good magic, he knows. He wonders if that's why.
"How," he echoes her earlier question, and she looks up at him. "Why, we'll fly, of course."
"You're kidding."
"Certainly not."
Emma considers him a moment, and he's admittedly disappointed when she doesn't immediately start jumping up and down. Then again, he can't quite picture Emma Swan doing such a thing in his mind.
"We'll have enough for both ways?" she says.
"Of course."
Another moment, and then she smiles. Smiles like he's never seen before, and this must be the equivalent of leaping up and down, for it garners the same reaction. That is, he kisses her, and she kisses back, and while it's little more than a mash of lips and teeth, it still creeps warmly down to his toes.
"So what's the plan?" she says, against his mouth. "We sail along the trail, fly over the current, and into the Gear."
He hums. "Aye. And we find whatever's causing the trouble and put an end to it."
Emma pulls back, though her hands remain in his hair, on his face. "You make it sound so easy."
"One can only hope."
He sets to work. Truth be told, despite the rather sinister, mysterious nature of their quest, Killian feel good, ebullient even, and the ship easily responds.
"Like your Captain in high spirits, eh?"
A stray wind rocks the ship from side to side, which Killian takes as a yes.
When the anchor's aweigh, he stands ready at the helm, and turns to Emma.
"Do we have a heading?"
Emma seems to think for a moment, arms crossed over her chest, before she turns to the railing, and sits astride a crate by gunwale. She reaches over, and Killian, helplessly curious, leaves his post to peer over the edge, and down the keel. He watches as she flexes her fingers, and pure, white tendrils of benevolent magic twist down the wood. The ship remains still beneath Emma's touch, and Killian wonders, not for the first time, who the Captain of this journey truly is.
"What are you doing, love?" he asks, quietly.
"You'll see."
And in seconds, he does, the magic erupting when it touches the water, racing along the water, and lighting up a path inwards towards the Gear. It ripples alongside the waves, and despite his misgivings about magic in the past, Killian beams.
"You're bloody brilliant," he says.
She blushes. "Yeah, yeah, there's your heading."
He concedes, and returns to the helm. From then, it's a simple matter to follow along the path. The winds, as he'd said earlier in the day, are in fine form. Though he expects a bit of trouble in the Gear, he perishes the thought until they cross the current of Clockwork Bay, instead electing to watch Emma as she watches the sea creatures in turn. For a portside woman, she'd spent little time at sea, very little in Clockwork Bay. And so it's with considerable delight that she watches the dolphins spin alongside the hull, colored in all hues, dancing seemingly for her pleasure. Flying fish join the parade, and by the time they near the current, he's memorized the sound of her laughter, and the smile she wears when she's truly happy.
"So how do we do this pixie dust thing?"
Killian shrugs. "Sprinkle it on the ship and believe."
She frowns, thoughtful. "Believe?"
"Aye. With all your heart. I've told you that this will work, Swan. Now ask yourself, do you believe it?"
"In the dust? Or in you?"
He scratches at his jaw with his hook, to the point of pain, and when he looks up at her from beneath his lashes, she looks awfully pleased with herself.
"Either?"
Emma hums. "The dust…mostly. You? Yes."
His heart swells, and he places the pouch gently in her hand, at which she balks.
"Wait, why am I doing this?"
"You're a magical creature, Swan. I imagine the power of your belief would turn us higher than I ever could."
She sighs, and for a moment, he wonders if she'll refuse. But when he smiles encouragingly at her skepticism, she bites hesitantly at her bottom lip, pinches a bit of the dust out, and throws it up into the sail. Killian holds his breath, and for a second or two –
Three and a half, she'd likely correct him.
– it seems as if nothing's going to happen. But then, with a huff, she throws out another, this time towards the helm, and the Jolly Roger, she trembles, and begins to rise.
"There you go, Swan!"
She laughs at his glee, and joins him at the helm when the ship gives a mighty, and rises fully from the water. Without the sea beneath dragging at the wood, the ship flies quickly through the air. The wind turns hard into his face, making a mess of his hair, and a tangle of his shirt, as he attempts to steer.
"Where's the path," he shouts, over the racket. Emma seems to snap herself from a daze before the rushes towards the edge. She peers over, carefully, and answers –
"Two o'clock," she answers.
Killian turns the wheel with a heave. They sail faster with the wind just behind them, and he's certain he's bound to blow away when the ship begins to slow, and he feels the water beneath them once more. He breathes a sigh of relief, and drapes himself over the wheel. He smooths his fingers through his hair, or attempts to, before he catches on untenable tangles and gives it up. When he turns to Emma, she's in just as dire straits.
"That was fun until it felt like my face was about to blow off."
He laughs. "Aye."
He and Emma alike rest for a moment before they turn back to the task at hand.
"True to course?" he says.
"Yep. Straight ahead. Or dead ahead." She shrugs, and he thinks on how so simple a gesture can be quite so precious. "I don't really know sailor language."
"Much like regular language, darling, only with much more creative curses."
"So is arse tainting codfish a sailor curse, then?"
Killian blushes, and changes the subject. "How much longer until we reach the end of the line?"
She regards him with a smile before she turns back against the now meager – bloody godsdamned gyres – winds. They're hardly crawling, but she still judges, rather accurately by his accounts, that they're only –
"Eight minutes and eleven seconds away."
"Any inkling as to what awaits?"
She gestures vaguely before she drops her hands and answers, simply, "No."
He laughs, weakly.
"Hopefully nothing that kills us, I guess."
"Aye."
They wait out the last several minutes of their journey in silence. The creatures of the Gear are much like this outside of its boundary, only larger. A whale, bright green, whose baleen shimmers black against the five o'clock sun, breaks through the water just behind them, turning back in with a great splash. Another pod, these much smaller, with skin swirling like smoke, pop up for nary an instant before they disappear underfoot. Emma watches with interest, smiling when curious eyes ripple beneath the water, though she seems subdued. He can hardly blame her, a knot twisting down deep in his belly. He leaves the helm when their time is up, and joins her at starboard, where the light borne of her magic simply…stops.
"Well this is anticlimactic," Emma says.
"To say the least."
They watch the water for several long, dull minutes. Seven of them, by Emma's unbearably accurate estimation. Yet nothing happens, aside from the curious absence of the critters they'd picked up since crossing the current.
"Maybe it's like a…" She waves her hands around, as she often seems wont to do. "…decoy or something.
"Aye. Maybe we ought to – "
Ought to leave is what he means to say. But then, quite without warning, the water beneath them turns, and the ship begins to rock. He leans even further over the edge, and the chaos in the water begins to coalesce into a familiar pattern, a whirlpool of sorts, a –
"Portal!" he shouts, and he rushes to the helm. But there's little that can be done, as he well knows. In his desperation, he pulls at the wheel of the ship, but it doesn't budge, turned hard to starboard. So instead, he means to rush to Emma, to gather her in his arms and hold as tight as he can manage. But before he can follow through, before he can even see her, the Jolly Roger gives a terrible, rending creak, before it turns on its side, and falls into the water.