A/N: So I recently checked, and I was pleasantly SHOCKED to see that this story has 50 followers. I have never had this many followers on anything (well, except instagram and facebook, but my friends are kinda socially required to follow me, so that doesn't count).

Also, this chapter will officially conclude part one of this story (I'm looking to have three parts to it, with the second part probably being the shortest).

Those two things combined mean that I think it's time to celebrate, and I'm doing that by this:

In this chapter, I have (accidently) paraphrased a quote from a very popular movie. (Credit will be given to that movie at the beginning of the next chapter). At first I didn't realize that I did this, but when I did, I came up with this idea.

Whoever can comment the quote and what movie it's from first, will get two rewards.

Those rewards are: 1) I will PM you that you've won, and you will get to ask me any one question about this story; if the answer isn't too much of a spoiler, I'll post it in the authors note of the next chapter. 2) You will be given a (roughly) 24 hour preview of the next chapter (via PM), containing the beginning 8,000 characters of the chapter.

Rules: The quote and it's origins must be posted in the comments, so that it is known who got there first. Also, any spoilers the winner learns must be kept to themselves until they are revealed in the story.

Other than that, enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 7: Life And Death

The world is dark, but memories are flashing across my mind.

First a melody floats back, a lullaby, hummed by a beautiful, soothing voice. I remember the feeling of drifting off to sleep. Then the music and sensations fade, and my surroundings change,

I'm perhaps four years old, so young that I can't quite remember all the details of that day. Tor and I sit next to each other, leaning back against a wall, and I curl into him; it's freezing cold, and our clothes are worn and thin. My older brothers has his arm around me, trying to keep me warm. After a while my stomach growls loudly, and Tor hugs me but has no food to hand over. It's only aouple minutes later when we see a man standing in- I remember now, it was an alley- in the exit of the dead-end alley. The man stands there, watching us, and Tor and I jump to our feet, my brother pushing me behind him and drawing the only item he has from our birthplace: a curved dagger with a single sapphire set into it's pommel. For a minute, we all just watch each other.

Then the man walks towards us. Tor points the knife threateningly, and the stranger stops and hold his hands out to the side, to show that he's unarmed. It does little to assuage our fears; even unarmed, a full grown man of his size could just as easily kill a four and seven-year-old. The stranger doesn't try to come closer, though.

"Where be your parents?" the man asks.

"They went to get a room at the inn, an' they'll be back any minute now, so just move along." Tor bluffs, his voice sharp and threatening. The stranger is unfazed, and he strolls closer; my brother brandishes the knife when he gets within five feet, swiping it warningly and startling the man enough that he jumps back. The stranger recomposes himself and crouches down, putting him at eye level to us. This close, I can see a kind face and fatherly blue eyes, but it doesn't help his case; the most successful criminals are the ones with faces you trust.

"You two are skinny as beanpoles. What would you say to a good dinner?"

Tor backpedals, taking me with him. "We have nothin' to pay for it with." Then he remembers his bluff and adds, "And our parents won't like us wanderin' off with some stranger."

The man's face is gentle as he speaks. "I have some chores you could do to pay it off, lad. And in regards to your parents…" He gives us a sympathetic look. "I've seen you two around town every now and then. I know you've got no parents. Now I know that you don't know me, but if you don't come with me the guards'll haul you off eventually."

Tor and I shift nervously; the guards are required to turn any streetrat over the the orphanages, and the orphanages around here are notorious for having little food and little humane supervision. After a second, my brother makes up his mind.

"Dinner would be nice, sir." he says respectfully. The man smiles, but Tor adds, "But if ya try anythin', I'll cut ya open.", hoisting the knife pointedly. The stranger chuckles.

"Noted, lad."

The stranger turns to leave, looking over his shoulder at us, and we fall into step behind him, Tor still clutching the knife but letting it hang loosely at his side.

"What's your name, sir?" Tor asks as we walk; he's turned respectful since we're getting a meal out of the bargain.

"Darius Jones. What be yours, lad?"

"Tor Pellinore." he responds, wincing at his surname; he'd told me, when I'd asked once why we didn't have parents, that we're something called 'bastards'; which I've taken to mean from his reactions that there's something wrong with our last name. "This is my half-sister. I, uh, don't know her name."

Which is the truth; he's called me 'sis' all my life up to this point, refusing to call me by the name I gave him.

"How do ya not know her name?" Mr. Jones asks, sounding concerned. Tor shrugs.

""Er mum didn't have time to tell me."

I decide that it's time to pipe up. "I toldja, my names som'n' like Faolan."

"'N I told you that there's no way your mum named ya something like that." His young face goes stony, and he adds, so soft that Jones doesn't seem to hear him, "That'd be a cruel joke."

After a while we reach Darius's home. A boy stands in the doorway, awkwardly balancing a toddler on his hips.

The images fade again, shifting to something different.

The four of us are gathered in a small meadow, just outside town. The sun is reaching it's peak overhead as Tor and Will go at it with weighted wooden training swords. Will is losing drastically to the boy a year and a half his junior, while I, now eight, wait for my turn by watching a six-year-old Ian climbing a tree.

Across the meadow, Tor is shouting taunts.
"This's pretty sad for a boy o' twelve, Liam!" My brother ducks easily under a wild swing. "You're gonna need better form than that if you want'ta make it in the navy!"

We live in a medium-sized port city, and our father works at the docks, loading and unloading cargo and going on the occasional two-week voyage. He and his two blood-children all share a love of the sea, and William has been dreaming (aloud) about joining the navy and sailing around for acouple years now.

Tor Pellinore-he opted to keep his last name, even when I was officially dubbed a Jones- tires of toying with our older brother, and knocks the sword from his hand with one solid swing.

"Your grip's atrocious, mate." Tor says, picking up the wooden weapon. William, being nearly an inch taller than the victor, scowls down at him.

"How'd you come by all this, anyway?" he asks, motioning to the swords though referring to the skills (the swords are a gift from Uncle Dorian, the captain of the local guard). Tor smiles but doesn't answer, to Will's displeasure; the two are close, and it seems to be an annoyance to our eldest brother when Tor keeps things from him.

"Ellyn, want ta spare wit' Liam?" he calls, and I race over to them from beneath Killian's tree. My blood brother tosses a weapon to each of us, and we take up our positions.

"Beat 'em up, Ellie!" Ian hoots from a nearly-horizontal tree branch, his legs swinging less than five feet from the ground.. Tor has been teaching me what he knows- really teaching me, not just goofing in the meadow- and I'm fast, if not strong, enough to hold my own against my thirteen-year-old older brother.

Tor counts down from three, and when he reaches zero Will and I leap for each other, swords flashing.

I duck under his swing and whack him gently on the hip with my training blade, dancing back as he tries to retaliate.

"Ya missed, Will!" I taunt. Annoyance flashes in his eyes, and he looses a flurry of blows, which I parry as he speaks.

"I told you-" Whack "My name-" Whack "Is Liam!" Whack whack.

I block each blow deftly, though my arms jar from the force-he's getting a little worked up.

"Sorry ta tell yah this mate, but yer name's William."

I smile as I see him getting angry again; it's true that he was given the name William Jones, but for some reason he hates the name; though I can't prove it, I get the sense it has something to do with his mother, the same way I sense that Tor's moodiness on his birthday has to do with his mother. It's something that's always escaped me, because I don't remember my own. Nevertheless, everyone calls him Liam, the only exceptions being our father, who calls him by his given name, and me.

"Whatever, Davey." he sneers, drawing out his nickname for me. Pops named me Ellyn Davina, and Will always jokes that I'm the odd ball out in a group of all boys; hence the masculine nickname. I tolerate it the same way Will does his name: with mild annoyance.

We spend the acouple hours in the grassy clearing, playing and sparring. The day isn't all that different or extraordinary from those childhood years, but I guess that's what makes it special to me. It's my favorite memory.

My surroundings fade to black again before coming back into focus.

I'm ten years old, hunting in the moonlight next to Tor. A bow is something only the two of us seem to be able to handle, and when we tire of fish or paying for beef, Tor and I go hunting. We're almost always successful; the woods are our domain.

We creep along the shadow of a fallen hickory, and a deer suddenly eases into the middle of the game trail in front of us. Two arrows are fired into it's heart at the same instant, and my brother and I glance to each other, grinning from ear to ear. We stand and stroll to our kill, and as we cover the distance we pass into a patch of moonlight that shines through the canopy. Tor stops in it, and I turn to watch him questioningly. His eyes are closed, a small smile on his lips, seeming to soak in the light. When he opens his eyes, they're no longer the same dark brown as mine.

They're gold.

I look at him more closely, concerned, wanting to know if he's sick; that's the only reason I know of for a person's eyes to change color.

Tor looks at me and smiles gently.

"I want to show you something, Ellyn. But you've gotta promise not ta get scared."

In the back of my mind, I wonder if he'd be scared is he knew the thing I want to show him.

Curiosity overrides caution, and I nod. "Promise."

As I watch, my brother changed into a wolf.

I don't know quite what to do, how to react; this thing only happens in legends. The silver wolf-Tor- is as tall as I am, and he cocks his head to the side inquisitively, waiting for me to react.

You can't get scared, I remind myself.

"You're huge." I finally say. Then I crack a grin and add, "I could ride you into battle, mate."

Tor pulls his lips back from his teeth in a wolf's smile.

Now's as good a time as any, I think.

"If we're sharin' secrets and stuff, I've got something you need to see." I say. Tor lowers his haunches to the ground, sitting there alertly and watching me with interest. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the side effects. Then I hold out my palm and concentrate; a flame flickers to life, twice the size of a fist and cackling violently. Tor's wolf eyes go wide.

Then I slump forward onto my knees as a wave of dizziness and exhaustion sweep over me. My brother's there instantly, his giant head next to mine as he looks at me with concern. I pant for breath.

"At first I could just make leaves smoke, and only when I was mad." I explain in between pants. Tor looks at me knowingly; most of the time when I get mad, it's because of a group of local kids who think they can pick on me. I get into a brawl with the males of that group almost every other day, but have refused Tor or Will's help. "I've gotten better at it. Still takes alot out of me, though."

Tor shifts back, and once I regain my strength, we set to hauling the deer home. On the way, he mentions, just once, that I need to tell him when I start to be affected by the full moon in acouple years.

Though I don't fear what my brother is- he's not a beast, and he obviously has control over himself, even on this full moon- I find that the thought of makes me nervous. I'm apparently going to meet the same fate, and I don't know how well I'll take to it.

But that's a worry for the future, and at the minute, I'm simply elated. Everyone always talks so fearfully of magic and of sorcerers, but my brother accepted it without question; given, he can't say much about me being weird when he can turn into a giant canine, but still, I'm happy.

That defining night shifts and comes back into focus; I lay on a cot, the room dim; the bottom deck of a ship doesn't receive much lighting, especially since the torches have been put out. For a minute the gentle swaying of the ship almost puts me back to sleep; I might prefer the forest, but the sea does have it's advantages, and a sleep aid during calm weather is one of them.

Tor has been much less happy with our current situation than I am. He gets seasick when the ship rocks to much, and he hates being wet; a combination that does not make for a happy sea voyage.

Why are we on this voyage, anyway? In the back of my sleep-addled mind I try to remember what prompted us to pack up our things and hop on a merchant ship, and as I think about it my thoughts are drawn back to a dream I've been having, of the grassy cliff where the townspeople picnic and a bone handle knife flashing in the moonlight.

Then Pops is there, kneeling in front of my bed. I prop myself up and blink the sleep from my eyes.

"Everythin' alright?" I ask, slurring slightly, my body still not awake enough to speak correctly. Across the room, exactly opposite of me, Tor mirrors my posture, obviously already awake and watching us with sadness, his eyes gold; the moon is full, and because I'm now thirteen, my beast blood has awoken, and I feel it's pull as well.

"Everything's fine, lass." He says gently, his voice soft so as not to wake my other brothers, who sleep on their beds throughout the little room. "I'm going to be gone for awhile, and I need you to take care of your little brother for me. Can ya do that?"

I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes as I nod. "'Course, always do." A thought strikes me and I ask, "Why're you telling me this?" Whenever our father's had to gone away on trips in recent years, an almost-seventeen-year-old Will has been in charge of the household; when he's unable to get time off from his Captain-he joined the navy a year ago-then Tor's in charge.

Pops smooths my hair back from my face. "William is going to be called away again sometime soon. As for Tor-" he glances over his shoulder with a small smile, "Yer brother's not cut out for life on the sea, and he's got a restless spirit. He might not always be able to stay on the ship with you."

Something about those words strikes me wrong; might not always implies something I don't like. "How long are you gonna be gone?" I ask.

Pops smiles gently, his eyes sadder than I've ever seen. "Awhile, lass. A long while." He wraps me in a hug, and I cling onto him for dear life. "Goodbye Ellyn. I love you."

Sadness and fear sweeping over me; this goodbye seems final. "Love you too Pops."

The man who has been my father rises from me and goes to Killian's bedside, brushing the boy's unruly dark locks from his face and pressing a kiss to his forehead. I hear his lips move, but I cannot hear the words. Then Darius Jones swing a bulging backpack onto his shoulder and leaves us.

We never see him again.

The next day we find a note on his bedside table. Will picks it up first, and his expression goes from confused to grief-stricken. He refuses to talk aloud, looking like something's choking him, so one by one we pass the note around and read it for ourselves.

In Darius's handwriting, the letter tells us that he can't come back for us, that he's running for a crime he didn't commit and that he can't bring us into that life. That this is goodbye.

Ian cries for hours, curled into me on my cot. When he falls asleep that night, exhausted from emotion and lack of food, the ship's captain convenes a meeting with my older brothers and I. It is decided that Killian and I will be allowed to remain on this ship- provided we do some chores and earn our keep, that is.

When I return to our quarters and curl up with Ian, who still lies on my bed, he rolls over to face me.

"I'm scared, Ellie." he whispers. I know what he means; scared of change, scared of having to face life ourselves, scared for the future we're going to have as orphans. I hug him tightly.

"I know. But it's going to be okay. I'll protect you."

When he drifts off to sleep, I add, "To my last breathe."

The scene distorts, shifts, but as new surroundings come into focus, the lighting doesn't improve; the tavern-inn is just as dimly lit as the ship. Tor and I hover near the doorway, scoping out the place; it's packed, and finding seats isn't going to be easy. My blood-brother has been absent for several weeks, having split from us at a port city and met up with us here, and I need some place away from the crew and from our younger brother to be able to talk freely.

"Think the boy's gonna notice we're gone?" I ask. Ian fell asleep below deck about a half-hour ago, and I don't want him to feel left out; it's been less than a year since I was orphaned for the second time, and my younger brother isn't quite healed from it yet. It'll be a while before he does, I wager to guess. But the crew loves him like one of their own, and that coupled with finally being able to sail the seas means he's slowly inching back to normality.

"No." Tor answers shortly, evidently spotting a seat, as he shoves forward and wades through the crowd of people. I follow close behind, being acutely careful to not touch anyone, my nerves spread thin.

As we sit down, I quickly find out why the small table is untaken. It sits in the corner, far from the bar, and right next to a window; meaning a reduced access to alcohol and a cold seat. Tor waves a waitress over and orders two glasses of rum. I arch an eyebrow at him.

"It'll help ya calm down." he says, and when our drinks come he has me down mine. "Now, what's got ya so riled up?"

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. "It's my magic. I can't- I'm having trouble turning it off." My brother looks at me quizzically, and I explain further, "I can't control it when I get worked up. When I intend to do it I can, but when it's an accident… I just can't turn it off."

Tor runs a hand through his hair. "Alright." he says slowly. "Just how bad is it?"

I look away. "I woke up from a nightmare and nearly fried Ian."

Tor's shoulders tense as his calm demeanor leaves him. "What'd'ya mean, nearly fried 'em?"

"I mean the lad almost took a fireball to the head, and I couldn't stop makin' flames for a half hour."

My brother is quiet. "That's a problem." he finally says. I snort.

"No, really? I had no idea." I say dryly. Then the energy leaves me, and I put my head in my hands. "I'd do anything to protect him, Tor. If this is putting him in danger…" I trail off. It already is putting him in danger. So where does that put me? Should I leave him like our father did? Everything in me screams out against the idea, but if I hurt him, there'd be no choice. I'd rather us both live with a second abandonment than to see my little brother dead at my own hands.

Does that make me selfish or selfless?

I don't know; all I know is that, with all my soul, I want to be able to control my powers; I want to be able to stay with Ian.

"We'll figure out something, Ellie." Tor says, but I doubt those words. He and I, you could say we're a resourceful pair, but not when it comes to magic; that's far out of our area of expertise. I rest my head on the table, staring down at the wood grain, and I hear Tor rise and feel him pat my shoulder.

"I'll go get you something to drink." he says, and I pick up the sound of his feet retreating. It's only acouple seconds later when someone sits down heavily in the seat across from me.

"That was qui-" I say, looking up, only to find that the person sitting across from me is not my brother.

The stranger is clad in a dark traveling cloak, the hood thrown up to throw shadows over his face. Even so, I can still make out features; the stranger has an average, almost fatherly face, and eyes a similar color to mine. Under the table, my hand goes to the bone-handle hunting knife Tor gave me for my eleventh birthday.

"That seat's taken, mate." I say warningly, mixed emotions making me fall back heavily on the accent of my hometown.

"My apologies. I was under the impression a fellow magician would be more welcoming." the stranger says; his voice is deep and gravelly, reminding me slightly of Uncle Dorian.

His words take a moment to register in my mind. "Fellow magician?" I ask. "You know magic?"

The stranger smiles. "That I do." he says, and he nods to his left, where a drunken teenager is fighting his way back to his table. He goes to sit down, and out of the corner of my eye I see the man make a motion with his hand. The boy suddenly finds himself on the floor, his drink splashed all over him, his chair having moved back a good half-foot. I grin at the dumbfounded look on the kid's face.

"That's'a cruel trick ta play on a man in 'is state." I say, smiling all the while. The 'fellow magician' grins back.

"Perhaps. What can you do?" he asks.
I blink owlishly. "What'd'ya mean?"

The stranger makes a non-commital motion with his hand. "What magic do you know?"

"Uh… flames. And some telekinesis."

The stranger cocks an eyebrow and fights down a smirk. "Really? You don't seem so sure of that." I cross my arms over my chest, lifting my chin in an I-can-to posture, and the man adds, "But by all means, feel free to prove me wrong."

I glare at him for several seconds before looking away; at the moment, I don't trust myself to be able to control even the simplest of flames. A demonstration's out of the question. The man chuckles.

"Ah, control issues. We've all been there." he says; my head snaps back up.

"You've gone through this?" At his nod, excitement flares to life in my chest. "Then you can teach me! You can show me how ta turn it off!"
The man holds up his hands. "Slow down. I'm not teaching anyone anything."

My excitement wavers, dampened by a mix of fear and desperation. "I just need to know how to turn it off." Resolve crashes over me like a wave. "You need to teach me how to turn it off."

The stranger studies me for a moment. "I don't take students for just a lesson or two. You are proposing an apprenticeship."

"So be it." I say instantly; I don't have any particular desire to excel at the craft of magic, but if a full-blown apprenticeship is what it takes to give me control- to give me the assurance of Ian being safe around me- then I'll learn all the stranger has to teach.

It takes a minute for the logical part of me, the part that vaguely remembers my time as a street-rat orphan and clearly remembers that I'm the adult of the family now, to wonder what the cost of this apprenticeship will be. The fair usually differs depending on the teacher; the local Duke's kennel master had charged a monthly fee, and I remember hearing that one of the better blacksmiths in our hometown had required a percentage of his student's earnings for two years after they went independent.

The problem with this is that I have no money.

"And what be the cost o' the apprenticeship, pray tell?"

The man leans back in his chair, seeming to contemplate something. He apparently makes up his mind, because a second later he begins to speak.

"I'm in no need of gold, but there is something else. You see, I make my living with deals. Someone wants something done, then I and my magic can do it- for a price. There's a man in this town who's refused to pay up."

"So, what? You want me to rangle some coin out of 'em?"

The stranger chuckles, a dangerous, mirthless little laugh, a sharp smile coming to his face. For the first time, something about him sends a chill down the back of my spine.

"Of course not, dearie. I want you to kill him." He waits only a heartbeat before adding, "The bloddier the better."

I blink acouple times, but I gather myself quickly. The idea isn't all as out-of-the-question as it should be to me. If you had told a relatively-innocent, wide-eyed, four-year-old me to kill someone, I would've objected that it was illegal. But things have changed since then. I've been hardened by bullies and abandonment and having the responsibility of a parent; I've watched my brother and myself turn into beasts and tear apart unfortunate creatures with far more blood than was necessary; I've seen the only man who has ever been a father to me turn and walk away; and above all, I realized something about myself.

Wolves are protective of nothing and no one like they are their pack. And my brothers are the only pack I have left.

Beasts kill all the time; doing this for my brother would be nothing new.

Still, Will has tried to impose on Ian and I a sense of morality, and I don't say yes right away.

"And who be this unfortunate bastard?" I ask. Seeing that dangerous, creepy smile making it's appearance on the stranger's face, I add, "I'm not saying yes, mate. I'm saying maybe."

When the stranger smiles, it's in an amused way. "Well, if you decide to take my deal, the man's name is Per." Seeing the look on my face, he adds, "I see you've heard of him."

Per was, according to his fellow townspeople a cruel brute of a man. I knew of him only because he was the local drunk; the cook back at our ship warned me to steer clear of him. Apparently, this is not the first time the ship's been through this port, and the last time they were here, Mr. Per was being accused of a capital offense.

The minute I hear the man's name, I know that of all the men I could possibly kill, this one would leave me with the least guilt- that is to say, none.

Pops always said that rapists are closer to animals than anything else. And I've been hunting animals for acouple years now.

"Yeah, I've heard of 'em." I contemplate the offer for a minute. I could continue to have a happy existence with my brother; all it would take is the life of someone who already deserves to die.

The choice is simple.

I hear myself say, "He'll be dead by mornin'." I look up, meeting the eyes of the man across from me. "You've got yourself a deal, mate."

The stranger gives a pleased smile and extends a hand across the table. I shake it without hesitation.

"Ellyn Jones." I say by way of introduction.

His smile grows. "Pleasure doing business with you, Ellyn Jones. The name's Zoso."

Another memory flashes across my mind next, of Zoso and a cripple and a little town situated near a warzone, and this too I am forced to watch. The memory seems to go by faster than the others, though; perhaps because I've been thinking of it often, as of late.

When that one fades, I still find myself standing in a forest. My surroundings slide into focus.

I'm walking briskly along a game trail, following a plainly-dressed man and his son through the Camelot pines. A sound comes to, seeming almost like a roar, and it takes acouple seconds for me to recognize the sound of water rapids.

Several minutes pass, and the pair of commoners stop abruptly in front of me. I look over their shoulders to find that the forest has ended; with no discernible warning other than the now-louder sound of rushing water, the trail we stand on leads to the edge of a cliff.

I step up to the edge, peering down. Perhaps a hundred feet straight down, a cluster of rocks jut up from a river, and the water drives against them angrily.

"This is where he died?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

I'd been so close, so tantalizingly close to finding Tor. I'd followed my brother's scent across this wretched little kingdom; followed it right to our birth father, who'd directed me here.

And the locals had told me that he's dead.

"Yes." my guide says. "My son was with him. Weren't you, Jacob?"

Jacob nods. "Aye. We were tracking a beast, and he suddenly seized up. Jerking and shrieking like he'd been possed."

"And then he fell over the edge." Jacob's father finishes, motioning to the cliff. Something in my stomach twists.

I look over the edge again. I could survive the fall- and by 'survive' I mean my heart would eventually start beating again- but no mortal could. Tor couldn't.

I'd heard Jacob confiding with one of the locals about the event- that's how I knew to hire him and his father as my guide here- and something he'd said is racing through my mind.

When Tor starting seizing, Jacob had claimed that his eyes had been gold.

The change from man to wolf, if that was the cause of his 'seizing', shouldn't have been; it'd never taken either of us that violently.

A phrase echoes through my mind, one I know the meaning of but refuse to believe applies to Tor's death. This refusal comes from something Tor told me once, in what was a dark moment for him.

Our family is cursed, Ellyn, and someday it's going to catch up to us. It'll take me first, because I'm oldest. But it's in your blood too. You and I, we're going to meet the same fate. I'm not going to let it reach you, sis. I"m going to stop it if it kills me.

The name of that fate, the one whispered throughout my father's kingdom of Listenoise, dances around my head.

La Bete Glatisant.

I turn the thought away. I may not know why my brother died, but he died himself.

That's the lie I tell myself as I turn and walk away from the only blood-relative I've ever called family.

I'm still walking in the next memory, hurrying towards the Jolly Roger. Word had spread throughout the city, and I'm racing back to my brother, praying I wouldn't find Milah dead, praying I wouldn't find what I know that would do to him.

I dash up the gangplank of the familiar ship and stop short, my eyes locked on my brother. He stands above me, behind the wheel of the ship. Both hands rest on it, but metal flashes in the sunlight. When he looks down at me, I see it in his eyes.

They say it happened only acouple hours ago, but already they're calling him Captain Hook. And now I know why; before, he'd been a pirate in every sense of he word, but his greed had been for treasure and women. The look in his eyes, underneath the raw pain, is greed for blood. Revenge. It's powerful and merciless and self-destructive bloodlust.

In that moment, I know I've lost my little brother.

I have an idea of what he's going to do, who he's going to try to kill. I try to talk him out of it. I say that it's suicide. I say that revenge isn't going to bring her back.

I say that he has no way of killing the Dark One.

We argue, and for the first time Ian is trying to use his words, our pasts, to cut. To win. I storm off.

My last words to my brother, to the little boy I've raised and protected, is that if he's going to get himself killed, I'm not hanging around to watch.

When I've calmed down acouple hours later, I go back to try and reconcile. But the Jolly Roger is gone, along with the only family I have left. I assume Killian set sail for the next port, and I don't try to follow; I can't continue to watch what the Dark One has made my brother into. Maybe once some time has passed, and the pain has dulled, I"ll be able to reconnect with him.

It's the biggest mistake of my life.

The last memory is of me, thirty years older, walking into a bar and taking a seat across from a man with gold skin. Then nothing.

Darkness swirls around me for a long time. My mind is slow, foggy, not awake but no longer close enough to dead to watch my life flash before my eyes. I swear I hear a person speak, a deep tired baritone sighing out the annoyed words, "Oh, you again.".

Then I return to the world of the living.

I wake screaming. You'd think that after how much I've done this, I'd be used to the pain by now, but I guess not. So I scream because my insides, my very blood is being set aflame as magic burns away the remnants of death from my body.

I suck in ragged breaths as my senses come back to me, the agony fading slowly. I cast my mind back to the soonest point I can remember; I hate this aspect of my curse. I hate the pain the most, because that's when I'm weakest, but I also hate the disorientation, the inability to quickly ascertain where I am and what has happened.

Where am I? I think; my eyes haven't open yet, but the scents are not familiar, and that sets me on edge.

Someone touches- more accurately, pokes- my shoulder, and I react instinctively. The bone-handle hunting knife that always sits on my right hip is instantly in my hands, put there by magic, and I lash out with it wildly, throwing myself to the right and to my feet, holding the knife defensively in front of me. Someone cries out in surprise and pain, and it's that sound more than anything that snaps me out of the state I'm in and lets me register my surroundings.

Rumplestiltskin stands in front of me, a cut on his cheek dripping blood as he watches me with both curiosity and annoyance. For just a second, the barest flash of a moment, the only thing I associate the man with is Zoso dead and my brother nearly so, and my hand tightens around the knife as grief flashes through me.

Then I remember every that's transpired in the last few days. My breathing, which has been coming faster and frantic sense I was-I shudder at the ridiculousness- poked, starts to slow to normal. I wave my free hand and call my magic, and the cut on Rumple's cheek shimmers gold and closes over.

"Apologies. I should've warned you about my skiddeshness when I wake."

"No harm done, dearie." he says, brushing it off, then adds, "I was just about to bury you, little wolf. Your heart stopped beating."

I sheath my knife. "Yeah, the pesky organ does that sometimes. Just gotta give it a day or so, it always starts back up again."

As I regain more of my senses, something feels off, and after a moment I realize it's because the weight of my blade on my hip is absent. "Mind telling me where the hell my sword is?"

The Dark One smiles devilishly. "Nope." he says, making it into two syllables- closer to 'ny-ope' than the formal word- and saying it in a tone that sounds, to me, similar to when he makes those ridiculous giggles. I fight down an amused smile and sweep my eyes over the room; a long dining table sits in the center, with cabinets of cutlery and various scattered artifact to my right, and a spinning wheel behind me and slightly to the left. The ceiling is high, as are the windows set into the walls. It reminds me of a 'Great Hall', as my biological father would call it.

"Nice place." I say as I spot my sword leaning against the wall next to the wheel. I hold out my hand, and the blade zips obediently into it at my spell's call. "You got those cuffs off you, so I'm guessing you borrowed her. Strongest blade in the realms- she can break through those magic-sucking manacles like they're nothing." For a minute I'm proud enough of my possession that I almost forget to add, "Don't do it again."

"Oo, is that a threat, little wolf?"

I scoop up my scabbard, which sits against the couch I was passed out on, and slide the blade home, fastening them back onto my sword belt.

I ignore the imp's comment. "If I'm not mistaken, you owe me a favor, Dark One."

When I look up, Rumplestiltskin's face has gone stoney.

He hops up to sit on his dining room table, one leg crossed over the other and his fingers interlaced around his knee.

"And what would it be?"

I smile my wolfish smile, and a piece of paper appears in my hand. I unroll the short contract and produce a quill pen from nothing, releasing both objects to float in the air.

"Just sign on the dotted line."

Rumplestiltskin hops from the table and snatches the scroll to him, eyes darting over the page as he reads it.

"If you want the basics, it says we help eachother out. No questions asked, no delays. An alliance of sorts, and we both have to sign it."

"So I see." He says, glancing at me over the paper. "Though you have more to gain from this bargain than I do."

I narrow my eyes at him. "If you're saying that I'm weaker than you, I'm more than happy to go acouple rounds."

Of course, I know that I wouldn't win, but I'd like to think that I wouldn't be a pushover, either. I was trained by a Dark One, after all; that, plus decades of practice, should put me at at least Zoso's strenght. Granted, I can sense that Rumple is more powerful than he was, but I hope that I'd be a somewhat-close second.

"No thanks, dearie. I don't care for wolfskin pelts."

I stick my tongue out at him, to which he replies with a sneer.

I feel compelled to add, "And don't act like it's not an advantage to you. If nothing else, it'd add to your reputation."

"That it will." he concedes, a dangerous smile flashing across his face and revealing his teeth.

Then he plucks the pin out of the air and turns to spread the contract out over the table, signing his name on one of the lines with an elegant flourish. I move to stand next to him, taking the quill pen and writing two words.

Faolan Pellinore.

I do this for two reasons; one, as far as I know, Rumplestiltskin doesn't know my last name, and as such doesn't know I'm a Jones. It's imperative that he doesn't, because deal or not, the only thing he'd want with someone related to Killian is to kill them. (Not that you can kill me; well, not permanently, anyway).

The second reason is a policy ingrained into me by Zoso: use your real name on contracts. Ellyn, and sometimes Davey, are the only names I've ever gone by, but I was Faolan Bethanny Pellinore for the short time I was in my land of birth, and as such the argument can be made that it's my real name.

Rumplestiltskin cocks an eyebrow and smirks. "Faolan?" he asks, a laugh in the word.

"Yes, I am aware of the irony." A book appears in my hand, and I set it on the table, the contract disappearing so I can set the tome in it's place. "Now, down to business." I start flipping through the pages with magic, simply making a small swiping motion in the air with my index finger. "I recently acquired this."

The pages stop to reveal a picture takes up the entirety of a page; the detail on the item is exquisite.

"A ring?"

"Better. A drawing of a ring."

"You are one insane little wolf, aren't you?"

I turn to lean my back against the table, my arms crossed, putting the Dark One on my right.

"You can't use the ring without knowing how. This whole book's about the thing, so we know that whoever wrote it knows about it. And then there's that picture."

Rumplestiltskin quickly catches on to where I'm going with this, and glances back to the detailed rendition. "The author's seen the ring."

I nod. "So if we want it, and we want to know how to use it, we just have to find this guy." I flip back to the front cover and point at the name of the writer, printed below the title.

Rumple turns to face me fully, making a motion with his hand as he says, "What's so special about it, dearie?"

I smile, the action simultaneously excited and lupine. "How much do you know about Death the Horseman?"

A/N: There are two things I forgot to add above. One is that, since Ellyn and Rumple will (eventually) become a couple, I'm open to ship names- I don't have many ideas for that right now. I'm also open to a theme song for that pairing.