#wwwos

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makkting #trivoti @ #wwwting3 #wwwos

heyo

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[ripplestitchskein]

Steffie, what part of wwwos was your favourite to write?

Definitely the Baba Yaga bits. I really enjoyed working through that part of the story and I loved weaving in the folklore and creating my own OUAT version of that figure for Emma and Killian to interact with and that could be used to explore Killian’s mindset and his feelings for Emma.

I just really loved working on that bit.

The Maleficent bits are a very close second. I really liked writing for her, she was super fun and it was a fun action sequence to daydream about.

What a good question, thank you for thinking of me! I miss you guys.

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[ripplestitchskein]

Whether We Wake or Sleep part 9

Part One     Part Two     Part Three     Part Four   Part Five     Part Six     Part Seven     Part Eight

On AO3

Word Count: approx 7.4K+  

Rating: Teen & Up  (Will be Mature or Explicit in later chapters)

Summary: A canon-divergence set after Killian and Emma return to Rumpelstiltskin’s castle, an expanded epic Captain Swan adventure. Killian and Emma must work to break a new curse, one with an unsettling timeline, and align themselves with friends and foes alike.

Notes: As always thanks to my instrumental wife @caprelloidea​ for the read through and the expert beta. And my love to Mandy @thesschesthair​ for my beautiful banner. I want to thank all of you who have stuck with this story (THAT WILL BE FINISHED). Please reblog and let me know what you think!

____

Betrayal. That was the only word Emma could think of. It wasn’t the right word. He wasn’t being malicious, but it was all she could feel at Killian’s reluctant admission. Betrayal. It was ridiculous, but it still burned hotly under her skin, stuck in her throat, made her mouth dry and her ears burn.

 Graham.

 It was an unspoken agreement in Storybrooke not to mention the former Sheriff. Not to speculate or question the manner of his death. Everyone followed the rules for their own reasons. Some out of respect for Emma. Some out of fear of the Evil Queen. The only acknowledgement to the man who had served them for so long was a worn pair of boots and a plaque hung on the station wall. A grave Emma had never visited in the cemetery. And when someone slipped, with a fond remembrance or an anecdote about his life in the town, something he had done or a joke he had told, it was quickly glossed over. The subject was always changed with an awkward laugh or a hesitant glance in her direction. Everyone knew not to remind her of him. Of his death. That look in her eyes, the one Killian had described, was all the grief and anger and powerlessness. The how’s and why’s, and the injustice of it all. The constant stream of bad thing after bad thing that had buried Graham’s death down deep, where it couldn’t be examined, couldn’t be looked at too closely.

 Emma wasn’t even sure she had ever really had a chance to breathe after Graham died, much less grieve him. There was always too much to deal with. Regina. Henry. Mary Margaret. Neal. The town. Memories lost and gained. Too much, too fast and all the while a man was forgotten.

 For her son, for Henry, she always let her thoughts of Graham dance around the specifics. It was better if he never came up at all. Better for Henry. Better for Emma. Better for Storybrooke.

 The simple truth of the matter was Emma couldn’t bear to look Graham’s killer in the face, day after day, and still work with the woman against the unspeakable darkness looming over them. Emma couldn’t work with Regina to save the town if she let herself remember what the woman had done. She couldn’t let herself think of how senseless it was that a good man was gone. Out of jealousy. Out of spite. Emma couldn’t co-parent and be the mother Henry needed if she acknowledged the mysteries surrounding an innocent man’s death. Better to shove it down, keep moving, ignore the obvious. Forget the past. Regina had done unspeakable things. It was easy to justify, to forget, to focus on the present.

 And now here he was again, hidden in the shadows of grief in Killian’s eyes as he looked at her, his face cast into darkness by the firelight. Emma set her jaw. She felt almost guilty that she hadn’t realized Graham would be here, in this time, alive. She felt guilty that it had been so long since she had even thought of him. The shoelace around her wrist was a tribute to him that had grown commonplace. Another piece of her daily routine. She hadn’t spared a thought for him in so many months, there was always too much going on. And now, this.

“No,” she said simply, and stood. Her limbs were buzzing, heavy with exhaustion but itching to move, to run, to get away.

“Emma,” Killian’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, and his eyes were just shy of meeting her gaze. “I know that this is rather...difficult.” He looked frustrated with himself for not being able to put a better voice to his thoughts. And heartbroken. He looked so very heartbroken. She could tell he was trying to compartmentalize this. Trying to put on a brave face. But he couldn’t hide the shine in his eyes, the bob of his throat as he swallowed. She ignored it all, pushed it down with the rest. It didn’t matter. If it did, he wouldn’t be saying these terrible things, wouldn’t be putting forth this ridiculous theory.

 “Difficult?” Emma said in disbelief. “After all this, after everything we’ve been through already, you are really going to tell me this is difficult. Graham is dead. He’s not my..my...my true love,” she spat the phrase, hating it more now than she ever had. “He’s not anything anymore, because of-“ Emma shook her head. “Graham is not an option.”

 “Not in the present,” Killian acknowledged. “But here in the past, he might be.” He swallowed again, glancing away. “Baba Yaga, when I drank her tea, there were...trials.”

 “Trials? What kind of trials?” Emma still hadn’t moved, just watched his profile, the flutter in his jaw as he steeled himself.  

 “Oh you know,” he waved it off. “Riddles and nonsense. The tricks of a mad old witch. We had an arrangement. Play her game and in return for my success she’d answer my questions and give me what we needed to help you. The unicorn, and the feather, namely. That was the agreement, and that was her forfeit when I was victorious.”

 “What kind of questions?” Emma almost didn’t want to know. Wasn’t sure how this could possibly connect. Everything was a muddle of nonsense. It was so beyond insane that she thought for a moment that Maleficent’s potion had worn off, that exhaustion had finally addled her brain to the point of hallucination.

 “I asked her how we would return,” he said slowly. Emma huffed in frustration, her teeth grinding.

 “I heard that, I was there. Spit it out Hook, what else did you ask her? What possible question could you have asked that would make you bring...that..up?

 “I asked-“ he winced at her harsh use of his name. “-where we could find your true love. The one who could break your curse.”

Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

 “What...what did she say?” Emma whispered. She was suddenly afraid. She didn’t want to know.  

 “That it was a man. Within half a day’s ride.”  Something in Emma’s stomach eased, her heart sinking a bit.

 “That could be, literally, anyone,” Emma snapped, some of the fear trickling away to anger. “That’s your evidence? Some crazy lady in the woods with a weird fucking house and a skeleton boyfriend telling you a random man within a 20 mile radius is my true love?”

 “There’s more,” Killian said. His voice was gravel raw, thick with emotion, and it made her eyes tear to hear it. She knew how he felt, had thrown it in his face more than once now. She knew that this couldn’t be easy for him. Hell, it was probably one of the harder things he had done. But the threat of tears was not all born of sorrow, but the anger building inside her as well. Anger that he was so accepting, that he was so gullible, that he could just pair her off with some stranger he didn’t know without batting an eye. It hurt. There was too much going on for her to pull apart all the threads, to examine any one emotion too closely.

 “Before we left she gave me one more gift, an answer to a question I hadn’t asked.” Killian closed his eyes briefly, collecting himself, and continued. “She said that the man was already known to you.”

 “I guess that’s a bit more specific,” Emma scoffed, still not entirely believing him. She came back to the log, reluctantly sitting down. “Why Gr-“ she caught herself, choking on the name. “Him?”

 “I told you,” he still wasn’t looking at her. “I’ve seen that look before. I know it intimately. Your lost Sheriff fits. You felt-” again he paused. “-something for him before he was lost to you.”

 Emma could only shake her head. She had never examined her feelings for Graham too closely. It was such a new thing, the spark of a silly crush, mild flirtations, more than a little annoyance, the anger over his betrayal with Regina, and then that faint flicker of something, so brief and bright, dashed as soon as he had collapsed in her arms. Over before it began.

 “We weren’t-” she started. “It wasn’t like that. We worked together.”

 Killian was silent next to her, still not looking at her, waiting for her to continue.

 “I mean, we kissed. Right before he...died. I kissed him.” Emma shook her head. “It was... new. He was so-” Emma could barely get the words out as she remembered that day. Graham begging her to understand. Wanting so badly to believe him despite how crazy he sounded. How confused and frantic he had been. His hands soft on her face. A single tear as he looked at her with such awe and wonder. She shuddered, swallowing back tears. She could see Killian wince again in her periphery, but he kept his silence, letting her speak, letting her relive it in her memory.

 “I remember. I remember. Thank you.”

 A cold realization settled in her stomach.

 “I kissed him and he remembered,” Emma breathed out. “Before the curse broke. He remembered his old life. Here. Before the curse.”  

 Killian sucked in a hiss of breath as if he’d been struck, a blink and you missed it fluttering of his eye lashes against his cheek. He looked to the sky, took a deep breath, and spoke.

 “I think you have your answer, Swan,” he said dully.

 “I don’t-” Emma shook her head.

 “I know this is painful,” Killian broke in. “I know you’re frightened.” His arm turned, and through the white of his shirt in the glow of the firelight she could make out the faint outline of his tattoo. “Losing someone you...cared for. Believe me, I know.”

 “Figures,” Emma whispered. “My true love is a dead guy.” She tried to put some levity in her voice, but failed. It was too heavy, too raw, too close to home for both of them.  There just didn’t seem to be any right words.

 “But he’s not dead here,” Killian replied. “Perhaps fate has given you a-“ again, he couldn’t seem to force himself to finish for a long moment. It made her heart ache. “-a second chance.”

 “Some fairytale,” she muttered to herself, for both of them.

 “But that’s just it, love.” Killian turned to face her fully now. His eyes were so blue. So soft and sad.  “ You said, by the lake, that you didn’t see yourself in these stories. In your boy’s book. It was just Princesses and fairy tales that you were never apart of.” He tapped the book for emphasis, and then let it fall to rest on his lap.

 He reached over, taking her hand in his own. It was warm and solid, a frisson of electric heat where he stroked his thumb over the back.  

 “What if this is your story, Emma? What if this is your fairytale? You thought of this time, this place for a reason. What if this is it?” He was whispering now, earnest and sad, his eyes shining in the firelight as his voice cracked ever so slightly. It made her breath catch in her throat hearing that crack, and she struggled to breathe. He gave her hand a slight squeeze and let it rest on the leather bound book.  “This could be your happily ever after.”

 She swallowed and looked away, pulling her hand back, and let out a derisive laugh.

 “Then the ending sucks.”

_____

Emma had been silent for most of the day, only asking him now and again for the tiny flask of potion Maleficent had given her. Once just before they had departed, and again as the cart drew closer to their destination. She seemed like she’d rather he keep the potion for her, so he did, tucking it safely in his satchel as Four took them down the ruts and dips of the packed dirt road.

 She had sent him to rest the night before, refusing to leave until he had gotten some sleep. She had a potion to keep her wits about her, he had nothing. He needed actual sleep to function she’d reminded him. They had faced a dragon and leapt from a window. He needed some sleep. She had left him alone by the fire, with the book and his troubled thoughts, and gone down to the edge of the lake to be alone for a bit. Away from him. Away from all talks of fairy tales and true love. Perhaps to give herself time to mourn where she hadn’t before. Sleep wasn’t possible for either of them, and as the first light of the dawn broke over the lake they packed up their little camp and set out to find some answers.

 Now they were deep into enemy territory. Just miles away from the Queen’s castle, which towered above the trees in the distance, shining and ominous, and in his opinion, rather hideous. The wanted posters had increased in frequency the closer they had gotten, nearly one for every tree they passed. Emma had put her hood up, her cloak still slightly damp and smelling faintly of lake water, hiding her face as best she could. He had no cloak, but had raised the collar on his coat in a half hearted attempt at disguise. Her face was the more recognizable one, the reward on her head much higher.

 Thankfully the Queen’s road had been empty for much of their journey, deemed too dangerous for most would be travelers. Not due to the usual ruffians or outlaws, he suspected, but the threat of the Evil Queen herself. The air was thicker here, with anxiety and fear, a palpable thing, mixed with the heavy smoky scent of dark magic that blanketed the land. Even Four noticed the change, the horse jerking it’s head anxiously and slowing it’s pace more and more the closer they got. Even the birds were silent, much like Maleficent’s fortress, all the animals had fled for safer ground, sensing danger.

 “We’ll stop in the next village,” Killian said, pulling the reins to guide their cart towards the smoke of chimney fires in the near distance, following the well trafficked ruts in the road. “It’s risky, but we can see if anyone has any idea where we might find him. The closer villages tend to be more sympathetic to the Queen’s enemies, we might get by. Or they could all be dead.” He gestured to the smoke which suddenly seemed more ominous than simple cooking fires. “No telling in these parts.”

 “And then what?” Emma asked bitterly. “I just go up, introduce myself, and plant one on him?”

 “Not exactly the most tactful plan,” Killian said. The idea of her planting anything on anyone made his stomach twist, equal parts pain and jealousy. He ignored it. “And I doubt it will work.”

 “What? Why?” Emma looked at him. “You said that Baba Yaga-“

 Emma fell silent as Killian wrapped the reins around his wooden hand, tucking them under his arm. He reached behind them, wiggling the story book out of its place in the satchel once again. He set it carefully on her lap, keeping one eye on the road as he flicked through the pages.

 When he came to the one he wanted he stopped turning and tapped the page with a finger.

 “Here we are,” he said.

 “This is about my parents,” Emma looked up at him confused.

 “Aye,” he nodded. He took the reins in his hand again, and clucked softly at Four to correct their course. “In that particular tale your mother accepts a potion from the Dark One-“ the name was said with faint distaste, his lip curling,  “-to take away the pain of a broken heart after she loses your father.”

 There was a lump in his throat, it was too close to home. He thought briefly of the memory potion still tucked away in his bag. The one that would be consumed on the day Emma was happiest. He had a fair idea now of what day that would be. He could see the appeal of such a decision. He had not quite hit it off with the eponymous Snow White, but in this he understood her perfectly.

 “They find each other again of course, they tend to do that,” Killian continued on, he smiled at her wryly, waggling an eyebrow to break some of the tension.  “She’d already taken the potion however and it had the unfortunate side effect that she had no memory of him at all. So when he kisses her,” Killian waved the reins in a gesture Emma couldn’t interpret “-nothing happens.”

 “Okay,” Emma prompted, idly turning the page. “Not seeing the point.”

 “If he doesn’t know you he can’t-” Killian almost said ‘love you’, but that was a step too far. “-break the curse.”

 “How do you know this?” Emma asked, looking at the pages.

 “I read it last night before I fell asleep,” Killian said. It was only half a lie.

 He had meant to rest as she’d ordered, but instead he had spent his evening squinting at the text of the story book in the dimming firelight. It was a last ditch effort, looking for something, anything, that might change things. That story had lit a flame of hope in him, however brief. That was why it had stuck with him.

 He’d thought of Emma in New York as he’d read, her eyes looking at him with no hint of recognition, her lips dry and tasting slightly of mint as he’d tried to kiss her memories back. If it hadn’t worked for Snow White and Prince Charming, the golden pinnacle of Truest Love, then perhaps there was still hope for him. Graham’s memories returning after a kiss was perhaps just a fluke, a happy coincidence. Emma was the Savior, the product of that Truest Love, she could do anything, even restore the memories of a cursed man with a simple kiss.

 But then reality had come crashing in again. The well. Zelena’s curse. The loss of Emma’s magic, not restored since. The entire reason they were forced to do this. There were only so many loopholes, so many near misses, so many excuses he could make. Not even Captain Hook could argue with fate.  

 And now he was using his last thin spark of hope to make the case for another man. The lesson of lost love was for this Graham person, the lesson of loss was for Killian Jones. As it should be. Fate, if nothing else, could certainly be cruel, but she stayed the course.

“So I have to get him to what, fall for me?” Emma asked incredulously, breaking into his thoughts, more than a hint of horror in her voice. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

 Killian couldn’t look at her, had found it increasingly hard to do so as of late, instead he focused on the horse, on keeping the cart centered in the road.

 “I don’t believe it will be as difficult as you fear,” Killian said softly. It certainly hadn’t been for him. A dagger at his throat and sunlight in her hair. All it had taken was one adventure and a bandage. A frantic kiss in a humid jungle.

 Emma was silent next to him. Her fingers idly traced the pages of the book, her expression troubled.

 “I don’t want to do this,” Emma said after a long, awkward, beat. Just the sounds of the wheels on the road and the rustle of leaves.

 He could barely hear her it was so softly spoken. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t want her to do this either. To say fuck fate, or destiny and fuck true love. It had brought them both nothing but pain. He wanted so badly to tell her none of it mattered to him. He didn’t care. He didn’t need destiny to love her. He didn’t need love to be true to feel it. That there was nothing in the world he didn’t want her to do more than he didn’t want her to fall in love with another. But the potion wouldn’t last forever. Emma was dying hour by hour, and they needed this to work. Emma still had a chance. They had to take it. She was a hero and her true love could be right here, just miles away. What he wanted more than her love was her safety and her happiness, and this would practically ensure it.

 “It doesn’t feel right,” she said after another long moment.

 “Just try love. If not for you, and your happy ending,” he couldn’t help but sneer a bit at that. “-then for Henry and your family. If we break this curse we can work on getting you home, back to them. The rest will work itself out.”

 “For Henry,” Emma repeated.

 Killian could feel her eyes on him, his skin prickling under her gaze, but he still couldn’t look at her. If he looked at her he’d break. He’d allow himself to be selfish again, become the pirate again, taking what he pleased, damn the consequences. And he’d ask her not to do this. He’d tell her they could find another way. She was wavering on the knife edge already: afraid and reluctant, angry that she had no choice in this, no sense of freewill. One word from him could tip the balance in his favor. He had every advantage.

 But they were out of options. Faced with losing her to someone else and losing her forever there was no choice to be made.

Killian remained silent.

 _____

The village of Sneewittchen was little more than a collection of ramshackle cottages and lean tos near a roughly painted sign declaring its name. If not for the sign they might have missed it completely, hidden in the trees and scrub as it was. A blacksmith, a tavern with a small attached inn, and a few pieces of wood cobbled together into approximations of market stalls were all that comprised the village square, hard compact earth and a crumbling well the central focus of the village. The people were quiet and industrious, dirty and ragged, and sparse. They were actually too quiet, Emma noted. There was no idle chatter in the streets, no gossiping on the corners. The villagers moved from place to place like wary ghosts, only the occasional squeal or bawk from random farm life filling in the gaps. The people scurried like frightened ants, shoulders hunched and heads bowed.  It was a far cry from the bustling city of Phrygia. There was no busy market here , no flamboyant performances and people hawking their wares, no obvious distinction between the rich and the poor. There was just the poor.

 “Where are the Black Knights?” Emma whispered. Killian deftly maneuvered the cart to the edge of the road, beyond the straggling brush and into a copse of trees lining it. They were just outside of the village proper, but the square was clear of the Queen’s enforcers. Only a few of the townsfolk moving here and there, or working in their huts. She could hear the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer, and the baying of a barnyard animal.

 “This close to the castle?” He frowned, jumping down from the cart. Emma climbed after him, grateful for the chance to stretch. “They aren’t needed. Any thought of rebellion was driven out of these people long ago.” He motioned to the tower of Regina's castle standing sentry, watching and waiting.

 Emma peered through the trees at the village. She could see it, on their solemn faces, in the lack of children playing and people actually living. These villagers had been driven into the dirt, had lost enough that they were little more than broken things, going through the motions. Most of the fire in them had to have been snuffed out years ago. The castle looming over them, just a few miles away, always under the watchful eye of the tyrannical all seeing Queen. It was enough of a threat to keep them in line. It made sense. She knew from the book that other villages had already burned, that raids were regular, and that so many had already died. Those who remained fell into step quickly to avoid the same fate. It would be a while before Snow White rose up to oppose her, before Emma’s parents brought life and spirit back to the people.

 “You stay here,” Killian said, slinging his satchel over this shoulder.

 “What?” Emma looked at him startled. “Why? We should stick together.”

 Killian shook his head.

 “Just because we haven’t seen the Queen’s men doesn’t mean they aren’t around. I’ll scout ahead, ask around in the tavern if anyone has seen him. I have a feeling that, as dead as this place is outwardly, that’s the place to be.”  He smirked. “Always is.”

 Emma bristled. It felt wrong.

 “I can help,” Emma said. “We can ask around together.”

 “Just keep yourself hidden here. The trees should hide you well enough. Busy yourself with Four if anyone comes near. And keep your hood up. Your face was the more prominent one on that infernal bounty but they might not see the likeness with mine. I’m also a fairer hand with a sword if we should run into trouble. Save your strength Swan. I’ll make inquiries, perhaps secure a room you can hide in until we find him.”

 “I’m not leaving you,” Emma said. The smirk on his face faded, his jaw growing taut.

 “Of the two of us I’m the most expendable,” he snapped. Emma opened her mouth to argue but he was already forging ahead. “If anything happens to me you can still find your Sheriff, and you can still break the curse. You can still get home. If you’re captured by the Queen that can’t happen.”

 Emma bristled.

 “And how will you get back if that happens, huh? That’s a pretty crappy plan, Hook.” This time the emphasis on the name was deliberate, and he knew it, glaring at her.

 He stepped close, so close she could feel the warmth from his chest, count each individual eyelash. She flushed, half from anger half from something she didn’t want to examine too closely under the circumstances. Now was not the time. She sucked in a breath, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

 “Where I go and what happens to me is of no consequence to anyone. I will see that you get home to your family, back to your boy, as I promised. You will break that curse and we will find a way for you to get home. So for once, Swan, listen to me and do as I ask.”

 Before she could reply, or even move, he had turned, stalking into the village square towards the dilapidated tavern.

 _______

 It seemed that fate was smiling on them today, which Killian felt was a particularly cruel twist of the proverbial knife. Nothing about this journey had been simple so far. Of course, now the pieces would fall into place.

 The innkeep was a jovial fellow, if not a little subdued, with a shining bald pate and a round jolly belly that swelled out from under a dingy apron. He was half into his cups by the time Killian arrived, apparently a proprietor who drank as much, or more, than he sold. Being several sheets to the wind he didn’t stare too closely at Killian’s face, he only had eyes for the gold in his hand, the last remaining of their robbery in Midas’s lands.

 The tavern was busy compared to the square, just as Killian had suspected. He had seen his share of broken towns in his time. Seen what tyranny could do to the good folks who served under it. It was the only respite these people had from the ever present shadow of the Queen: staunch drinks and rowdy company. He blended in perfectly, and all the patrons were too absorbed in their own drinks and their own troubles to pay mind to a weary traveler.

 The Sheriff wasn’t in town the barkeep had informed him, he lived in the castle now, a consort to the Queen.

 “Not by his will, no,” the man had said with a shake of his head. “Like a dog, he is. Beholden to his mistress. Poor sod.” The man murmured as he poured sour smelling ale into a tankard and slid it across the counter. He topped off his own drink as well and took a sympathetic swill for a fallen man. Killian sniffed the concoction, wrinkling his nose at the odor, but took a sip for courtesy's sake. He pushed the tankard away.

 “Does he ever leave the castle?” Killian asked dropping a coin onto the counter. The man made a grunting noise and reached under the counter. He slapped a scrap of parchment down on the wood with a thwap.

 “Tax collectin’ day, only time he shows his face,” the man said. “Tomorrow.”

 “My thanks for the information. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen my-“ Killian did his best to sound happy. “-friend, so it seems my timing was impeccable.”

 “Impreciable for sure,” the man nodded, taking another swig to finish off his pour. “So you’ll be needing a room then?” His eyes flickered to Killian’s hand and he licked his lips.

 “Aye,” Killian nodded. “My companion and I will stay the night.” He laid four more coins onto the counter in a neat stack.

 “For the room. And the keeping of our horse.” He placed another two on top of it.

 “For a hot meal.”  And then he set two more on top of those. The man’s eyes widened.

 “And for your discretion.”

 The innkeep looked up at him then, and Killian winked, taking up the forgotten tankard and downing the sour brew in a few industrious gulps. It was disgusting but it did help clear his head a bit.

 “Yessir,” the man nodded. “Thank you, kindly sir.”

 “Is there a rear entrance?” Killian asked, leaning closer, lowering his voice. “My companion is rather shy. Hates crowds, you know how it can be.” He slid another two coins across the counter which the man pocketed with a nod.

 “Follow me.”

There were running dangerously low on funds after Killian’s display of generosity, but if all went well they wouldn’t have use for it soon. Killian considered it coin well spent once Four was safely stowed in the stable, a weedy looking boy seeing to her tack and feeding and the keeping of their modest little cart, and Emma secreted into their room in the inn.

 “What did you find out?” Emma asked once she was inside, pulling off her cloak with a wrinkle of her nose, happy to be rid of the thing.

 “Tomorrow,” Killian said. He stowed their bags and supplies in the rickety wardrobe against the wall, shrugging out of his own coat. “Tax collection day apparently.”

 “Like the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Emma said absently.

 “Different bloke,” Killian said with a shake of his head. A knock at the door revealed a dumpy looking woman carrying a tray of hard bread and brown sludge that could barely pass for stew. Their hot meal apparently. He accepted it with a gracious but cursory nod and firmly closed the door, balancing the tray on his arm. “Did you not read his story?” He asked setting it on an even more derelict looking table. Everything about this place was falling apart.

 “I skimmed it,” Emma said defensively. “There are a lot of stories in that book.” Killian pushed a bowl of stew over to her, and a piece of bread, gesturing for her to eat. Deciding against it for himself. Food was the last thing on his mind.

 “Might give us some clues on how to proceed,” Killian said. He walked over and picked up the bag with the book, taking it out again. “Would you mind if I-” Killian trailed off, holding it up.

 Emma shook her head, looking away, focusing instead on the bowl of unappealing brown water and limp vegetables.

 “I just...can’t,” she said finally.

 Killian nodded, understanding and settled himself on the bed. It was lumpy and smelled of wood smoke and mildew. A quick inspection had deemed it free of bugs and filth, and it was far better than the ground, or the back of the cart, he reasoned, so he considered it a small victory. He opened the story book, turning the pages until he found the Huntsman's tale, and began to read. He could feel Emma’s wary gaze flickering over to him every so often, nervous and concerned. He ignored her, focusing on the man in the pages.

 It was an odd form of self imposed torture. A penance almost. Reading about the person who would capture the heart of the woman he loved. The man she was destined to be with. But he had to know. He needed to understand. And then, as he turned the final page, the story complete, he did.

 “He didn’t go through with it,” he said to himself.

 “What?” Emma asked. Killian shook his head.

 “Nothing Swan, just thinking out loud,” he flashed her a false smile and snapped the book closed. “I’ll just go check on the horse shall I? Stay here, bolt the door. I’ll return in a trice.”

 “Killian?” Emma asked concern, moving to rise from her seat.

 “Eat your supper, got to keep your strength up,” Killian said, again the false smile, his feet moving swiftly to the door.

 “Killian,” Emma said again, sharper this time. He ignored her, pulling the door closed behind him.

 He barely registered the short trek to the stable. The details of the story swirling through his head.

 So that was it then. That was the difference.

 Two men, both faced with a trial from the Queen, a task set forth, a bargain struck. The Huntsman, ordered to kill an innocent girl to protect those he loved. A noble cause to be sure. And in the end, despite that, turning away from it. Saving Snow White instead, and sacrificing himself in her place.

 And a Pirate, told to kill his father, his only living family, for the means to seek his vengeance. Not exactly a noble quest. Blood hot on his hands, his father’s breath on his neck as he collapsed into the dirt. An innocent orphaned by a swift, impulsive deed, born out of grief, and rage, and single minded purpose.

 Only one of them had succeeded. And only one of them had paid the price with his life. That was it. The moment Killian had proved himself unworthy in the eyes of fate. That was the difference. Graham the Huntsman had died a hero. And Killian Jones had lived far longer than he’d had any right to, driven by dark impulse, hurting and killing for his own selfish purpose.

 Killian’s hand trembled as he took out his flask, struggling to get his teeth around the stopper they chattered so fiercely. The barn was still and silent, only Four’s breath and the occasional scrape and slide of it’s hooves along the dirt floor. Killian took a long draw, and then another, anything to ease the sharp spike of panic in his chest. So many mistakes over the centuries, so many wrong turns. It should have been so obvious that one day he would pay the price. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the liquor fill him, and reminded himself of what he now knew for certain. That what the Dark One had said to the Queen was the truth.

 “Villains don’t get happy endings”.

 ______

 “Is that him?” Killian murmured out of the corner of his mouth. Emma cast her head down, sneaking a peek back towards the bar and gasped.

 Graham.

 He looked exactly as she remembered him. The light curl of his hair. The dusting of stubble along his jaw. The way he stood, sure of himself but apart from the world. It was like being hit by a wave, a swift rush of emotion and awe jolting her physically just seeing him again, pulled into the undertow. For a moment she forgot herself, staring openly across the tavern at this walking ghost, at a relic from the past. Killian nudged her with his arm, and she turned back, ducking into the safety of her hood, her heart beating a rapid tattoo in her ears. They were well hidden in the shadows of the corner, but Graham was not alone, flanked on either side by two bored looking Black Knights acting as escort.

 “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” Killian muttered. He downed the foul ale in one long gulp. It was his third.He had been surly, his face dark and shadowed, since he had returned to their room the previous evening. He had lain next to her in their shared bed without argument this time, turning his back to her without a word, though if he actually slept she couldn’t tell. He’d had no nightmares this time, his breathing steady next to her the entire night. She couldn’t blame him, she understood completely, her own nerves raw and frayed, anxiety pooling in her stomach. You never realized how long the night was when you had to wait for it to pass.

 “Yes,” Emma whispered, sneaking another glance. “That’s him.”  He was still at the bar, his face solemn and expressionless, but polite, collecting a handful of coins from the innkeeper with a nod.

 “Alright then.” Killian put the empty tankard down with a bit more force than necessary. “I’ll distract the guards, see if you can get his attention.” He rose.

 “Don’t,” Emma said, panicking. She reached out, grabbing his hand. “Wha-What do I do?”

 The smirk he gave her was more of a forced sneer than anything, a flash of teeth, as he pulled his hand away. A fresh stab of hurt had her wincing as he backed away from her like she had burned him.

 “I’m sure you’ll think of something Swan,” he said with that horrible false sort of cheer that only made it worse. “It’s True Love!” It was like he had slapped her. Another physical blow of pain that rocked her where she sat.

 Killian turned on his heel and crossed the bar. Emma watched him anxiously, torn, and unsure of what to do. She didn’t want this. It hurt too much. She didn’t want to see Graham. But she desperately wanted to see him again at the same time. She didn’t want to cause Killian pain but this plan left her little choice in the matter. This wasn’t right. To be fucked with by some higher unknown destiny this way.

 Graham had turned away, walking towards the door. He was leaving. She was about to miss her chance.

 “Your story,” Emma whispered to herself. “It’s your story.”  She was a bounty hunter. She had been through similar scenarios before. If she couldn’t sort out her own feelings she could at least do that. Pretend he was just like any other skip. This was just another job. Someone she needed to capture.

 She leapt to her feet, just as Killian threw himself bodily into another man, at another table, sending half full cups of alcohol and bowls of the same greasy stew from the day before to the floor. Killian gave a slurred apology, playing the drunk with practiced ease, and clumsily went to pick up the discarded dishes, only to drop them again. The man he’d fallen into bellowed in outrage, cursing him and the Black Knights turned at the commotion, amused at the drunken lout. One stepped forward with a good natured chuckle to break it up.

 Emma slipped past, her eyes trained on the floor, head turned to the side. She focused on the pair of soft brown boots that were leaving the tavern, apparently not interested in drunken bar fights. She increased her speed, the sunlight bright as she followed him out into square.

 Graham was just ahead of her, apparently having no issue leaving his men behind as he moved to tuck away the small purse of gold he’d taken from the bar keep. Emma picked up her pace. And rammed right into his back.

 The purse fell to the ground, tiny discs of gold rolling out of it into the dirt.

 “Oh gosh,” Emma exclaimed, her voice high and breathless. “I didn’t see you there I am so sorry.” She followed him down to her knees. “Let me help you sir.”

 “No, no need. I got it.”

 Emma’s breath caught at the sound of that voice. So familiar. The accent thick, not friendly but not angry either. Resigned. She looked up, her mouth dry as she finally took him in fully. His eyes were not the same, she thought. Less open. Duller somehow. He glanced at her briefly as he gathered the coins. “Be a bit more careful, eh?” He said.

 Her heart sank a bit. There was no flash of recognition. No grand romantic spark. No bolt of lightning. Just an act of clumsiness and a polite dismissal. Emma checked that off mentally. Made note of it. She wasn’t one prone to romanticized notions, so she wasn’t quite sure why, but it seemed important.

 “I-I actually wanted to talk to you,” Emma stuttered. He did look at her with interest now, and more than a hint of suspicion.

 “Me? What about?” The last of the gold collected he rose to his feet, reaching down to help her up with brusque efficiency. Emma looked at his hand for a long moment and then placed her own inside it.

 Nothing. She didn’t know what she’d expected. His hand was warm, the skin roughened softness from labor, but nothing more than that, and gone as soon as she was back on her feet. She made another mental check.

 “I-um-I,” Emma cursed herself. She was better than this. “I just, saw you in the bar, and I wanted to introduce myself.” She said finally, lowering her voice in a way she hoped was interested without coming across too strong. She should know this, she thought. She should know him. What he would like, what he wouldn’t. Her mind came up blank.

 Graham just stared at her expectantly, more than a bit impatient.

 “I’m Mary,” Emma said finally. “Mary Margaret.”

 “Nice to meet you Mary Margaret. If you’ll excuse me though, I’ve a lot of stops to make,” he gave his pocket a pat where the coins jingled. “It’s collection day.”

 “I know, I know, I just wanted to talk to you,” Emma rushed. She glanced behind her at the tavern entrance, unsure of how much time Killian could buy her.

 “About?” Graham asked. His brow furrowed, scanning her face. “I know you-” he said, trying to work out if he actually did, more of a question than an absolute.

 Emma’s heart stopped. He knew her. Did that mean-?

 “You’re the girl on the poster. The one the Queen is looking for,” Graham’s voice was rising in alarm, his eyes darting back towards the tavern. He reached out, grabbing her arm.

 “No,” Emma jerked back. “That’s not-” she pulled harder but Graham was strong. There was a reason he was chosen to be Sheriff.  “That’s not what I need to talk to you about. It’s a misunderstanding. A great big misunderstanding, I just need to-” Graham had a good grip now.

 “I don’t want to take you in,” He was saying apologetically. “I don’t have a choice. I have to do as she orders.”

 “No you don’t,” Emma said, desperate now. This wasn’t going well at all. As far as meet cutes went this was turning into a disaster. “I just need to talk to you.”

 “You can talk all you like on the way to the palace,” Graham said. He was pulling her arms behind her back now, fully in arrest mode. Emma couldn’t get them free, boots sliding across the dirt as he dragged her bodily back towards the tavern and the waiting Black Knights. Back to Regina and her dungeon, a burning pyre and the end of this entire horrible journey.

 Emma sucked in a deep breath and blurted out the only thing she could think of, the only way she knew of to get his attention. The only way she knew this might work out. Perhaps she could save herself and an innocent man at the same time.

 “I want to help you get your heart back.”

[ripplestitchskein]

Whether We Wake or Sleep part 8

Part One     Part Two     Part Three     Part Four   Part Five     Part Six     Part Seven

On AO3

Word Count: approx 7.2K+   

Rating: Teen & Up  (Will be Mature or Explicit in later chapters)

Summary: A canon-divergence set after Killian and Emma return to Rumpelstiltskin’s castle, an expanded epic Captain Swan adventure. Killian and Emma must work to break a new curse, one with an unsettling timeline, and align themselves with friends and foes alike.

Notes: My everlasting and undying love to my instrumental wife @caprelloidea​ for the read through and the expert beta. And my love to Mandy @thesschesthair​ for my beautiful banner that always makes me smile.

______

Killian, in his long and dangerous life, on sea and shore in realms of unimaginably dangerous magic, was almost accustomed to the feeling of drowning. The all encompassing pressure, the buoyant ebb and flow as control was seized from his grasp, the clawing ache in his chest as the world pressed unyieldingly down around him. It was strangely comforting in its cold familiarity and he embraced it now. He relaxed into it, let the current take him, and opened his eyes to vibrant summer green.

“Killian,” Emma whispered.

Her fingers pressed harder into his cheek, in relief or possibly annoyance. He licked his lips, tasting the lingering bitter herbs there and took in a shuddering breath.

“Swan.”

Emma alive and well, warm and whole, not entombed in a dark mausoleum, not laying in a deathly repose over and over again. Just Emma, the real Emma of flesh and blood, weary and worried, kneeling by his side, pressing her palm into his cheek. He drank in the sight of her with anxious relief, committed her to memory, burned her into his mind. He had been in this position before, this time without the lingering hint of her taste on his lips. The day she had lost her magic, for him, the start of this entire torturous excursion. But her eyes were the same, brilliant and bright and worried above him.

Baba Yaga shuffled in her chair, stood up on creaking bones and the rustle of fabric with grunting effort.

Killian swallowed and looked away, leaning up on elbows from his position on floor. Emma’s hand dropped, drifted down stubble, and she stood, whirling on the ancient crone now moving about the hut.

“What the hell was that?” Emma demanded.

Baba Yaga ignored her. She reached into a cupboard above the stove, glass clinking.

“Time is short,” the witch said. “The potion in your veins thins and fades.”

“What happened?” Emma turned instead to Killian who was rising to his feet. “You both just stopped moving and I thought-“ she bit the sentence off. Baba Yaga glared at the question, curling her lip in distaste. She looked to Killian.

“Questions have been asked and answered, truths revealed,” Baba Yaga said. “And now payment on all sides must be given. Come.”

The house shuddered around them, creaked and groaned as the creature below it moved. Killian’s stomach swooped as they were lowered once again to the ground, the room trembling.

Emma’s questioning stare seared into him, but he couldn’t make himself form the words. No words were sufficient to explain what had happened. The image of her dead over and over again. The breaking of his heart as fate promised her to another. He merely grunted and shifted his shoulders in a shrug, grateful that Baba Yaga was moving towards the door, beckoning them impatiently to follow.

She drew them across the dirt and scrub of the hut’s barren yard to the garden beyond. It was lush and green, overflowing with life, in direct contrast to the fence of bones and skulls that contained it and the red and white sameness of the forest beyond. The leaves and stalks of the plants shivered and shuddered with an unfelt breeze as they passed, rattling and shaking against each other, casting droplets of water to the ground. Bright sun cut through the gray and dreary clouds making the water sparkle and shimmer.

“We must leave a gift,” Baba Yaga murmured. “An offering.”

“To who?” Emma asked. Baba Yaga glared at her again, ignoring the question to stoop low to the ground.

She reached into the endless folds of rags and ruined cloth, and withdrew a small clay plate, laying it down at the edge of the whispering leaves. Next came a small bottle of amber liquid, thick and viscous. She poured it onto the plate.

“A gift from Aphrodite,” she murmured to no one in particular. “Beautiful creatures deserve beautiful things.”

Emma looked to Killian bewildered, but he was looking skyward, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had a headache looming, no doubt a side effect of that bitter brew, and his patience with tricksy sorceresses and forest witches was wearing thin.

“We wait,” Baba Yaga said, her accent thick as she shuffled backwards from their offering, head tilted to listen.

“Hopefully not too long, aye? We’re on a bit of a schedule. Potions thinning, curses looming, that kind of thing,” Killian snapped. Emma blinked at him in surprise at his tone, wondering what the hell happened to “etiquette being rather fraught in these situations”. Baba Yaga, however, laughed, a grating wheezing sound in the silence of the clearing.

“You speak of time like you know it,” Baba Yaga chortled. “If not for this waiting you would not be here to wait, Captain.” Her eyes slid across Emma, glowing with mirth. “This blink of Time has given you more than you know. Without this you would not have half so much.”

Killian didn’t respond, just rolled his eyes heavenward as if praying for patience. He dropped the hand rubbing his nose and leaned back. He was spared further response by a rustling in the woods behind the garden, the slide of leaves against each other, the snapping of branches.

Emma and Killian both tensed, wary.

From the leaves emerged a small black creature, a dwarven pony with bright shining eyes and a sleek midnight coat. Emma’s eyes widened in disbelieving delight as it stepped towards them, a small pink tongue dipping down to lap delicately at the honey on the plate.

“The horn of a black unicorn,” Baba Yaga said satisfied. She reached a gnarled hand out to stroke the animal just beneath its namesake horn, clucking at it softly.

“Just one problem,” Killian said. “It appears it’s still…attached.”

Emma looked between the adorable creature and Killian in horror.

“Easy child,” Baba Yaga chuckled reading her expression. “I would not bring a curse down upon my own head by slaying the beast.” She reached into the folds of her clothing again and drew out a shining silver length of rope. “The horn can be used where it is.”

“A gift earned,” she nodded to Killian. “Payment for your deeds and truths. You have one more question earned as well.”

Killian didn’t look at Emma who was regarding the pair, still confused. The answers to his previous questions were not knowledge he wished to have. The shadows of phantom men, true loves more worthy than he, darted across his mind and he purposefully avoided looking at her.

“How do we get home?” He asked finally.

Baba Yaga nodded as if satisfied, as if she had expected such a question.

“When you return to the start you will find the way home,” she said. Killian huffed.

“Wonderful. Delightfully cryptic and not useful in the least. How utterly surprising,” he sneered. Emma shot him a warning glance. Baba Yaga just smiled at him.

“I have given the answers you need,” she moved back to the unicorn. “And given you the gifts you earned.”

Killian eyed the creature warily as Baba Yaga looped the rope around its neck. It was a docile thing, happily licking up the last vestiges of sticky residue from the plate, but that didn’t make Killian any happier to be its keeper.

“So we just take him..her..I dunno, back to Maleficent?” Emma asked, her eyes wide with wonder and still focused on the unicorn. Her fingers twitched as if she wanted to touch it.

“Bloody hell,” Killian scrubbed a hand across his face in exasperation. “How many beasts are we going to collect during this infernal trip?”

“This one is so cute though,” Emma said softly finally gathering up the courage to stroke a hand down warm downy fur.

“The key to your past and to your future,” Baba Yaga said. She gave one last satisfied pat on the pony’s head before shuffling away. “Now, for my payment, Captain.”

Killian jerked his attention away from a charmed Swan back to the old hag.

“What?” He glared. “I think you’ll remember payment has already been rendered in full madam.”

“One year you owe me,” Baba Yaga’s voice was hard. “One year for an answered question.” Emma’s hand dropped away from the unicorn, looking to Killian.

“No,” Killian said slowly. “Those debts were squared. We are even.”

Baba Yaga smiled, all teeth bared, her eyes glinting.

“Do you come of your own will?” She trilled in a mocking hiss. “Do you wish to know the truth?” She said again. “Which Emma is your Emma?” Her eyes were green fire as she stepped towards him with every word. Fear rose in his chest, and he swallowed, willing himself to stand fast as her voice rose into the sky, booming loud and thunderous.

“Three questions,” he reminded her, everything in him keeping his voice from trembling. He thought of the heaving stove, the blue heat of devil’s fire and black acrid smoke. “And you gave me three as well. We are square.” He insisted.

“The question of your future is mine to see.” Baba Yaga leered at him, her voice a sneering hiss of satisfaction. “Remember your words Captain. Remember them.”

Behind her Emma stepped away from the unicorn towards him, afraid and confused.

“Killian-“, she started.

“Remember. Your. Words. Captain,” a flock of birds flew from the treetops in terror, cawing a warning into the sky as her voice boomed through the woods. Killian’s mouth was dry, he swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat of horrifying realization.

“I said,‘Take it,” he rasped, his eyes locked with Emma’s. “With my compliments.’” He repeated the careless words spoken over bitter tea, their import unknown at the time, and his gaze slid from her face to the ground as his chest filled with ice.

“With your compliments,” Baba Yaga singsonged, her teeth sharp and gleaming, as she continued to grin.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Emma snapped. She stepped between them. “What happened in there? Take what?”

“Speak a question again, little swan, and your will will no longer be your own,” Baba Yaga’s warning was pleasantly spoken but her stare was green fire.

“We struck a bargain,” Killian said, his voice sounding far away to his ears. “It seems I was rather careless on the specifics.”

“Well screw that,” Emma spat, whirling on the witch. “Keep your black unicorn, he’s cute but we’ll find another way. Thanks for the tea. Come on Killian.”

Emma reached out to grab his arm, her fingers barely grasping the quilted fabric before she was wrenched backwards by invisible hands, her arms locked to her sides with a painful snap and wrench.

“You forget yourself,” Baba Yaga continued to speak in that same lilting pleasantness, shuffling around them in a wide circle, her rags brushing against the leaves and flowers of the garden. “I can offer you a way to remember your manners, child.” Emma struggled against the binding, her face twisted in rage.

“Don’t,” Killian stepped forward, his words quick and desperate. “The error was my own. I’ll pay your price.”

“No,” Emma couldn’t look at him but her pleading tone cut into him. “No more prices. No more debts. We can find another way.”

Killian shook his head as he stepped around into her line of vision.

“We don’t have time for that,” he said. “Take it.” He told the witch and Baba Yaga smiled wider. He was unsure of what would happen, of what he would feel, what the loss of a year could do to a man. He could only square his shoulders and face her head on, trying to keep his breathing even.

From the sleeves of her rags Baba Yaga drew forth two glass vials, dusty and mottled by age, stoppard by brown cork. She used her long brittle nails to pry the corks free and stepped towards Killian. Emma bucked against invisible restraints. She strained towards him as the woman moved closer.

“The passage of time is marked by tears and laughter. We make use of two. One for me,” the witch darted forward quick as a snake and blew foul hot breath into Killian’s face. “And one for you.”

His eyes watered immediately, as soon as her lilting rhyming words were finished, and two tears, one from each of his eyes trailed unchecked down his cheeks. It hurt, but not in the way a knife would cut or a blow would sting, but more visceral, deeper. The loss of a brother, a mother, a love, keen and harsh and then the pain was gone as quickly as the feeling had come. Baba Yaga held up the vials, collected one tear and then the other in both, and had them corked and put away before Emma could so much as cry out.

“You have been most noble Captain,” the witch said, her voice low in his ear, a grating whisper. “And for that I shall give you one more gift.” Killian tensed, something like fear and anticipation forming a knot in his gut as he waited for her to speak. “The true love you seek-“ she rasped, her voice like tiny needles pricked against his skin. “Is already known to her.”

The witch stepped back and stared at him levelly, her eyes twinkling.

“Now leave this place and bother me no more,” she waved a gnarled hand and Emma fell forward, barely catching herself to avoid a meeting with the ground.

“Though I suspect-,” Baba Yaga gave them one last perusing look. “-our paths shall cross again.”

Killian and Emma watched as the hag shuffled away with slow tottering steps, the house creaking and straining as it lowered itself to receive her. Neither of them dared to speak, dared to move. Next to them the unicorn stirred, snorting out a long breath. The house rose back into the air, smoke puffing from the chimney in short black bursts. And then, from one blink to the next the clearing evaporated in wisps of smoke and disappeared from view around them. The garden turned to wood and red leaves, and the house became nothing more than air.

Killian closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Then he turned, marching to the unicorn and picked up the length of silver rope.

“Are you going to explain any of that?” Emma asked, incredulous.

Killian started walking forward, the unicorn trailing dutifully after.

“Aye,” he affirmed and finally looked back at her. “Later, I’ll explain everything.”

They stared at each other. Emma didn’t protest as he’d thought she might, nor did she press him. Her eyes merely scanned his face for a moment, and seeing something there he could not guess she nodded and stepped forward after him.

The trek back to the Forbidden Fortress was made in silence.

_____

Maleficent sat resplendent and languorous in blue and black silks, puffed and ruched to within an inch of her life. Emma wondered how long she had waited for them, looking just like this: ridiculously regal and affectedly bored. Despite the tableau her eyes glittered with curiosity as they made a loud tromping entrance into the throne room. The small black unicorn came in hesitantly after them, hooves sliding across stone, disliking the differing terrain. The rope grew taut as the animal reared back, nostrils flaring.

“Oh,” Maleficent breathed as it came into the room, an awed whisper of a word. She leaned forward in her throne, her hands gripping the edge of the arms.

“What a magnificent creature,” she murmured to herself. Her eyes were only for the unicorn, who tossed its mane of silky black hair and snorted. The flickering torches cast shimmers of fire across the sheen of its coat, and its hooves clacked against the stone as it stepped further into the room.

Maleficent stood slowly, and walked towards it, a trembling hand outstretched.

“How have you done this?” She asked them in disbelief, not looking at them. She did not appear to need her question answered. “Oh, you darling creature.”

Killian dropped the silver lead and stepped awkwardly away from the enraptured woman. Maleficent ignored him. She reached out her hand and ran it down the neck of the unicorn closing her eyes. The animal quieted, and rubbed its nose into her palm.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cute,” Emma agreed. She exchanged a glance with Killian.

“Cute?” Maleficent sneered the word. “This creature is divinity itself. It’s power is unimaginable.”

Emma eyed the squat little horse dubiously, with its too large head and its searching nose, looking for apples or sugar. She had seen similar animals at State Fairs, saddled and giving rides to screaming over excited children, plodding in endless loops around tiny straw laden rings.

“I dunno how divine it is,” Killian said with a skeptical click of his tongue. He sounded every bit the pirate again as he leaned back, hand on his belt, and regarded Maleficent. “But I do know that we delivered it as ordered.” He released the belt and held out his hand. “May we conclude our business? The potion-“ he waved the hand and bowed, mocking. “-if you please.”

Emma waited with held breath as Maleficent snapped her gaze to him. She flashed an overly pleasant smile, sickly sweet, and nodded. She gave the unicorn one final stroke, her fingers burying themselves in the soft fur.

“Of course,” she said.

Maleficent took up the silver rope, and with soft soothing noises and gentle steps led the unicorn across the room, to a vanity laden with an array of bottles and vials of colored shining glass, all shapes and sizes. Killian narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“I was feeling optimistic so I began the preparations while you were gone,” Maleficent said, reaching out to pluck a violet, heart shaped flask from the group. “It was just missing that final touch.” She pulled out a drawer and withdrew a drew a shining rectangle of metal, a file, and cooed at the unicorn. “This won’t hurt a bit baby.”

She held the purple glass at the correct position, the file at the other, and with gentle strokes against the horn sent a stream of fine powder into the bottle of potion. It smoked and steamed for a moment, the bottle glowing bright. The unicorn whinnied and stamped at the light and the eerie whine that that it emitted. The glow faded and then all was silent.

“Is it done?” Killian asked gruffly.

“We did have a bargain,” Maleficent set down the metal file, and gave the unicorn one final appreciative stroke.

“Let’s have it then,” Killian said.

Maleficent narrowed her eyes, unused to being spoken to in such a manner, but complied without comment, holding the bottle out to Emma.

“Just a drop, whenever you feel the exhaustion coming on,” Maleficent warned as Emma took it. “You will need a dose sooner and sooner in greater amounts. This won’t last forever, girl.”

“How long?” Killian asked. Emma clutched the flask in her hand,  already aching for more. She could no longer tell the difference between the twinges and pains of a long journey and those of the curse. She could no longer decipher what was tiredness validly earned and tiredness brought on by magic. Perhaps it was all the same. She clutched the bottle closer to her chest and backed away from the witch towards Killian. She would wait she decided, the hunger for that drop of relief protesting loudly. She shook the thought away. She would make it last, give them more time.

Emma thrust the bottle out to Killian when she reached him like it burned her. He took it with a curious look, but said nothing, putting it in his satchel.

“Shall we go?” He asked her. Emma nodded, glancing warily at Maleficent who watched the two of them, her hand idly stroking her new companion.

“Well there is just…one more little thing,” Maleficent said slowly, her mouth tilting into a smirk.

Killian raised a questioning eyebrow. With dawning dread Emma watched as Maleficent reached over and plucked a single roll of parchment off the vanity, ceasing her stroking of the unicorn to unfurl it before their eyes. A familiar image, the hawk like nose, the same scrawl of words. It was the poster from the road.

“I do believe I owe Regina a birthday gift,” Maleficent said. There was a rhythmic clunking from the hall beyond, a heartbeat of metal on metal. It took a moment for Emma to realize what the noise was. Armor. Boots.

“Don’t do this,” Emma said. Beside her Killian drew his sword, turning around to face the noise.

A stream of Black Knights flowed into the throne room through the gaping doors.

Emma grabbed onto Killian’s arm and yanked him back from the door. Maleficent cackled in delight as the knights took positions, filing in and lining up into an impenetrable wall of man and armor, swords and pikes drawn.

His sword already out, Killian followed Emma’s lead. With slow and cautious steps they backed away from the men. They moved across the room at an angle, keeping both problems, Maleficent and Regina’s mindless henchmen, in their sight.

Emma swallowed, her hands clenching into ready fists. If ever there was a time where her magic would have been useful this would have been it.

“What do we do?” Emma asked instead in a hiss. Killian looked wild eyed and unsure, but his gaze never wavered nor did his sword.

“My bag,” he said in a low tone. “There’s a feather.”

Emma felt herself mouthing the word “What?” Even as she stepped into him, her shaking hands moving quickly to open the leather flap.

“Do you want me to put a bow on them?” Maleficent snapped, moving protectively in front of the unicorn.

At her words a Black Knight charged towards Killian, his sword drawn.

In Killian’s bag Emma’s hand closed around something that felt vaguely feathery, like a straw wrapped in wool, though what it was doing there she couldn’t say. She barely had time to grab it before the bag was torn away, Killian meeting the attack head on. Metal crashed as the two swords hit. Emma looked down at the object clutched in her hand, bewildered.

It was exactly what he’d said. A feather. A pretty feather, a fiery mix of blended red and oranges, exotic and soft, but still just a feather. Emma felt anxiety rise in her chest as the rest of the Black Knights followed their comrade and came forward spilling into the room. The feather moved in her palm, twitched against her skin, and then burst into flame.

Emma shrieked in surprise and jumped back, heat flashing against her palm for the briefest instant until the fire went out as suddenly as it had appeared. A small dusting of gray ash, still warm, was left behind. Emma stared at it in shock, barely ducking a blow from a swinging sword, the ash falling to the stone floor.

Killian had faltered at the sound of her shriek, his attention torn for the briefest moment, enough for the Knight he was fighting to gain ground. The next arc of the blade had him down on one knee to block it. He sucked in a fortifying breath just as Emma held hers, her heart leaping into her throat in fear. He grunted and heaved forward, pushing the man off.

“It disappeared!” Emma cried out to him, relieved he was okay but desperate for a solution as another Knight charged him. She just barely dodged an attack from a different Knight herself, putting Maleficent’s stone throne between them to keep him at bay.

“It what?” Killian called back in disbelief. His arm swung, catching his Knight across the face with a solid thwap of wood against flesh. His gloved prosthetic connected solid and sure. He barely had time to breathe before another Knight roused his courage and came at him. They judged him the more formidable foe, the one to dispatch quickly, and rightly so. Emma could only dart across the room trying to figure out their escape, her thoughts sluggish and her limbs heavy. She should have taken the potion when she’d had the chance.

“It disappeared,” Emma yelled again, frustrated. She pulled an iron candelabra down between herself and a Knight, shoving the heavy metal stand at him, and scrambled away.

As she ran she could hear the crash of metal, and with each stroke Killian’s huffing angry words.

“Lying. Swindling. Charlatan.” With the last word he brought the pommel of the sword down hard on the back of his foe’s head and the man collapsed, unconscious, the metal of his helmet dented in at the back.

They were doing better than they should, Emma noted with satisfaction as she drew her own sword, sending the metal basket straight into the face of her pursuer who was too shocked at her sudden about face to block her. Bone crunched under metal as his helmet caved inward as well, at the nose, and the Knight cried out in pain.

Maleficent appeared to be thinking along similar lines, frowning at the fallen men on the floor, at the man clutching his face, blood dripping onto her stone floor. Killian was breathing harder from the effort, but his strokes were sure and practiced, lifetimes of experience helping him though, and his strength didn’t seem to be wavering. They were doing too well.

Maleficent sighed.

“I guess I’ll have to wrap this present myself,” she said. Emma swallowed, trying in vain to keep one eye on the witch and the other on the man charging at her again, blood running down his chin and his face twisted in rage.

Magic shimmered. Electric heat, like touching a door knob in winter, sparked over Emma’s skin. The room was still for a moment, only the sound of suddenly rushing wind as the fighting sounds fell away. The Knight’s looked away from their targets, distracted at the noise. There was a terrible creak of flesh stretched taut, the crack of bones breaking and reforming anew, and the shallow hiss of black smoke pouring forth from nothing. The smoke twisted and funneled around Maleficent’s body and then up, higher and higher, a cyclone of black growing towards the impossibly high ceiling above.

“I think we better go,” Emma called fearfully over to Killian, who looked up at the towering column of smoke in surprise. The Knight he had been fighting glanced at him, then back to Maleficent, cast down his weapon, and ran.

Killian slowly sheathed his sword, still awed. A leathery wing emerged from the smoke, and then another, stretching to fill the enormous hall from stone buttress to stone buttress. The smoke wisped away, the final curling tendrils wrapping around shimmering black scales and leathery ruffles of reptilian flesh.

Maleficent roared.

The castle trembled around them. Emma almost lost her footing and winced as debris shuddered loose and fell from the ceiling. The image was terrifyingly familiar.

A black dragon, three stories high, not including the curving horns, blinked a glowing jade eye down at them and huffed.

“We really need to go,” Emma repeated. The remaining Black Knights scrambled away, and Killian grabbed her arm.

The dragon, Maleficent, stalked towards them, each footfall shaking the ground beneath their feet. Killian could barely hold onto Emma’s arm through the tremors. Emma’s teeth rattled against one another as they backed away in terror. It was the giant’s lair all over again. The world coming apart around them, running for safety beneath the feet of fantastic creatures.

Emma whirled to look behind her. They were corned, a dragon between them and the gaping door the last of the Black Knights were running out of. There was nothing behind them but stone wall, no way to escape.

The frills around Maleficent’s head shrank and fanned out, her tail whipping behind her, catching the bottles on the vanity and sending them crashing to the floor. The unicorn gave a little noise of fear and skittered backwards.

Maleficent purred an apology to the animal, and huffed again, softer this time, her tail quieting on the floor.

“Charles,” Emma said in warning as Maleficent spread her wings again, her head turning back to face them. Her chest glowed yellow red as the fire built within her and her glowing green eyes narrowed. Emma braces herself.

There was a shriek from above, and a great gust of wind filled the room. It was hot desert air, blowing back Emma’s cloak, and her hands clapped over her ears at the shrill caw that came with it, expecting dragon fire to singe her alive. Killian was ducking away from the horrible sound as well, wincing as he yanked her back from the heat.

The floor before them lit up, a burst of flame, and the cry came again. Maleficent roared in response and a creature emerged between them, in a flash of fire and smoke. The air smelled of brimstone and ash.

“Bloody hell,” Killian breathed out in surprise, barely audible over the crackling flames and the noises from the monsters above them. His mouth dropped open in awe and Emma turned around to see what was happening.

There was a giant bird.

Emma blinked.

It was still there.

Great gusts of wind rippled with each flap of two enormous wings, tipped in feathers of red and orange fire. A great swinging tail of flame billowed out behind it, and the heat from it flushed Emma’s face. The dragon roared in anger and the bird creature shrieked again.

“Fawkes?” Emma said in disbelief. Killian looked at her in shock.

“You know this bird?” He asked, incredulous.

“No, it’s from-“ but there was no time to explain as Maleficent and the Phoenix met in a cacophony of noise and inferno in front of them.

“Later,” Killian said somewhere near her ear.

Emma glanced to the door but one of Maleficent’s great claws was in front of it and a steam of dragon fire blocked the path around. She looked at Killian in desperation. There was a beat, two, as they both helplessly took in the chaos, trying to find a way out. Killian grabbed her hand.

Then he was pulling her across the room, their feet flying over the stone.

“What are you-“ but Emma didn’t have time to give voice to the question. Killian’s hand jerked her into his chest, his arms encircled her, an awkward half hug as he pulled her close. He was covering her and clasping her to him in one movement, but for what she didn’t know. Before she could protest they were moving. His shoulder struck the ornate glass a moment later, gold and lavender shards bursting into sparkling dust in the sun as they busted through the stained glass window.

The image of the bird creature and Maleficent locked in battle, the whipping tail of fire and a frightened unicorn disappeared from view. Emma screamed, her voice joining Killian’s bellow of fear as they plummeted into the dark waters of the lake below.

_______

It felt rather like running headfirst into a solid stone wall, the impact into the water shuddering up through his bones, chased by stinging needles of cold. Emma struggled in his grip, her feet kicking him in the shins. He released her, trying to get his own limbs to work as well.

His eyes took in the murky water, clouded and empty, save for the blurry outline of her form, billowing blonde hair and her cloak fanning out around her. She looked like a mermaid, a sea goddess with clear green eyes, fair skin turned to porcelain white, small bubbles trailing from her nose and mouth. The cloak was pulling her down, heavy with water and her eyes were wide with fear. He saw her fingers grasping at it frantically, trying to remove it, and he shook off the whimsical notion of sea nymphs and goddesses and willed his legs to move.

Killian was far more acquainted with a sudden plunge than she and he reached out calmly. Her eyes locked with his and he nodded at her once in reassurance. His hand reached out to hers, her skin like marble, smooth and cold, and gently pulled her fingers away. He was better at knots as well, he reasoned. With one tug the cord came loose and he pulled the cloak away. It was heavy in his arms but he kept it, tucking it into his elbow near his satchel. She would need it again, once they had a moment to dry and collect themselves. Emma looked no less panicked and he reached out, touched a finger to her chin and then trailed down, her shoulder, her arm, until she was calmer, until she nodded at him. It was all done in barely a moment but under the water it felt like an eternity.

He gently took her elbow in his grip and kicked, hard, towards the dim light of the fading sun above.

They both broke the surface at around the same time, coughing and spluttering water into the chilling evening air.

Emma gasped, her arms treading in rhythmic sweeps and he closed his eyes, a silent prayer to the heavens that there were all right. His teeth began chattering almost immediately with the frigid cold, his arms and legs growing numb with each passing second.

“Holy shit,” Emma panted out. “Did we really just do that?” She was struggling to swim, her voice shuddering with the chill. She laughed, a shaky adrenaline fueled guffaw that echoed across the water.

“Aye,” Killian acknowledged with a quick smile. “But we best make for the boat and then shelter, before the cold sets in.” He saw her shaky nod, still gasping in air, and together they began to swim. He felt the pull of the water against his coat and bag, the sword heavy at his side, all of it trying to take him down into the depths, but he kept going, refusing to let exhaustion win. The boat was still moored by the secret entrance, just a ways ahead.

Every moment was hard won. The climb into the boat, the movement of the oars through heavy water, and finally the stashing of the vessel back in the cave. Just as they had found it. Just as he had promised. Ready for a darker version of himself to use it, a tool for his revenge. He almost wished they hadn’t. Emma sagged next to him, waterlogged and exhausted, breaking into his thoughts. He gave her a reassuring smile, soft and encouraging, and together they trudged slowly along the beach. Neither said a word.

When they reached the sandy rock strewn shore of their camp Killian let himself fall into the sand to lay for a moment. Emma had a similar idea. He felt numb, and heavy, his entire body dipped in ice, but now giddiness swelled in his stomach and he laughed up into the sky. Beside him Emma giggled again.

“Holy shit,” she repeated.

“Indeed,” Killian grunted, moving back to sitting. “We best make camp. Should be safe enough here, I imagine our former hostess will be occupied for quite some time.”

They both cast a look up to the fortress above, echoing shrieks and roars, the sounds of battle faintly filling the quiet of the lakeside wood.

“I think David packed our old clothes,” Emma said. “Do you know how to light a fire?”

Killian gave her a look and pulled himself with aching muscles back to his feet.

“‘Course you do,” she murmured to herself, tugging ineffectually at her sodden clothes, pulling them away from her skin. Her lips were still blue tinged, her hair plastered to her cheeks and temples, dirt from the cave and sand from the shore sticking to her skin in intermittent patches. She was beautiful.

“Come along then,” he said, snapping himself out of it. She was not his to admire.

Together they made the slow, wet plod the final distance back to the wagon, and a waiting Four.

“Yes!” Emma said, triumphant, finding the bundle of dry clothing in their supplies. Killian draped her cloak across a tree limb to let it dry. They busied themselves with the tasks of making camp: building a fire, replenishing Four’s depleted food and water, and finally, changing out of their wet clothing.

“No peeking,” Emma warned, but it was more playful, a hint of coyness as she smiled, holding the dry clothing away from herself. Killian wanted to curse the heavens. He would have given his eye teeth for just such a remark just days ago. Had given his ship to one day hear it.

“Gentleman,” he reminded her, forcing a sly grin and a wink. He turned himself around. The smile fell from his face as soon as his back was to her and he closed his eyes.

He could hear the rustle of fabric. Her breathing changing as she worked herself out of the clinging wet garments. He swallowed, clenched his teeth, and reminded himself of why they were there, what needed to be done.

“Okay,” Emma said. “I’m decent.”

“What a shame,” he murmured, an automatic reflex, his heart not in the flirtation at all.

“You okay?” Emma asked, he still hadn’t turned around to face her.

“Freezing,” he said a bit more cheerfully. “May I?” He held up his own parcel of clothing.

“Modesty? How surprising,” Emma teased, but she looked unsure as well, hesitant. He forced a humorless laugh and gesture with a flapping gesture of his arm for her to turn around.

“Alright, alright, I’m not looking.” She said. He heard her shuffling in place.

It was a bit harder to change for Killian, and the air was torturous on his clammy skin but the dry cloth felt heavenly as he pulled on pants and socks.

“Killian?” Emma asked, her voice unsure. He paused, the dry shirt still in his hand.

“Yes?” His own voice sounded hoarse, cracking, and he cleared his throat.

“Do you think we messed everything up?” Emma asked. Killian turned around.

“How d’you mean?”

Emma turned around to face him, back in her shift dress, cast orange by the flames of the fire behind her, her body just a curving shadow within it. He averted his eyes, stared fully at her face. Her worried face.

“Maleficent is right this second fighting some kind of fire bird thing,” Emma reminded him. “And you gave up…something.. to some ancient witch and we aren’t any closer to getting home.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he said. “And I gave nothing I wasn’t willing to give.” Across from him Emma swallowed, her eyes shining.

They stood for a moment more, until Emma’s flickering gaze reminded him that he was still bare from the waist up. He took a moment to appreciate the color rising on her pale cheek bones, the pink slip of tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. He pulled the shirt over his head to spare himself the image when it became too much, tugging it down with his hand after a moment.

“The book!” Emma said suddenly, breaking through the heavy tension. “We can check the book.”

They had thankfully left the book and Emma’s pack behind in the wagon for the climb up, sparing them a soak, and she grabbed it now, settling herself on a driftwood log Killian had pulled to the fire. Killian jolted as well.

The book. The book might have the answer. Baba Yaga had said Emma’s true love was already known to her. That he was was here, within a day’s ride. Perhaps the mythical man was in the book.

“It’s all still here,” Emma breathed out, relieved. “It all looks the same.”

“Well that’s one stroke of luck for us. Finally,” he said. He handed her a flagon of water, and the bag of their provisions. “May I?” He asked and gestured to her hands. Emma traded him the food for the book.

“What are you looking for?” She asked after a few mouthfuls of water. Killian settled himself on the log beside her, opening it on his lap.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said absently, evasive, his fingers moving across the pages.

This was true. He had no idea who he was looking for. Familiar names and faces looked back at him. Even his own, fierce and angry, his eyes filled with revenge. He turned the page quickly.

Some were ridiculous notions he realized flipping through it. He couldn’t imagine Emma with any of the dwarves for instance. And many of the others were family or otherwise attached. Next to him Emma ate, and fed bits of apple to Four when the creature nosed against her hair, glancing at him curiously.

Killian flipped another page, and stopped. He swallowed. A man stared back at him, a dagger in his hand. Killian turned the page back, to the start of the story, and began to read silently.

Emma leaned over, looking at the page that had caught his interest. He heard the small intake of her breath, noted the sudden stillness of her body where it touched his on the log and considered it a confirmation. He swallowed, and continued reading.

When he reached the end he closed the book, running his hand over the gold inlay, and then looked into the fire. That was the way of it then. His eyes burned. From the smoke he told himself.

“Killian?” Emma asked. “What is it?” She sounded frightened, unsure. She shifted closer to him on the log.

“"I spent a fair bit of time in your Sheriff’s Office looking for my hook,” Killian said after a long silence. The fire crackled in the pit in front of him, and he watched the flames dance. Emma held herself still, waiting.

“There’s a pair of boots in there with a bit of missing cord that matches the one you’ve worn on your wrist since I’ve known you.” Killian reached over to where her hands were clasped in her lap, and he brushed over the wrapping in her wrist.

“People talk about him, fond remembrances, the odd story. I heard them in the diner, and your boy spoke of him once I’m sure.” Killian sighed to himself, defeated. “And whenever they did you’d get this…this look on your eye. I know that look all too well.” He looked at her then. She looked devastated, her fingers reaching up absently to touch the same spot on her wrist, trailing down the leather. Killian continued on, his voice growing hoarse.

“And just now….when I was looking through the storybook you tensed when you saw the tale I was reading. I recognized the illustration from an image in your Sheriff’s Station.”

“Why are you talking about this?” Emma asked. There was an edge of anger in her voice, the kind of anger that was closer to grief. He knew that anger too.

Killian closed his eyes. He looked for a moment to the sky, to the stars that looked down at them, just at the edges of the firefight. He sighed again.

“Because Emma,” he forced a smile at her, his cheekiest sideways grin, even as his heart cracked and crumbled.

“I believe I’ve found your true love.”

_____

Thanks for reading. Please tell me what you think!

[ripplestitchskein]

It’s all pain.

[ripplestitchskein]

SCREAMING

THE CHAPTER IS DONE AND I GOT CHOKED UP WRITING IT AND OMG I CANT WAIT TILL YOU READ IT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR LITERALLY YEARS FOR THIS CHAPTER.