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Tomorrow at dawn. I am not a cruel man, get your affairs in order. Also, you can spend tonight knowing...it’ll be your last. Maybe I am cruel.
“Get your affairs in order, dearie, for we duel at noon on my ship. Where it all began.”
When all of this is over and I know the crocodile is dead, I’ll have nothing to look forward to.
My life will be empty.
Revenge may sate your being, but don’t misunderstand me, my dear. It is an end, not a beginning.
The first thing she notices is the silence.
No more past Dark Ones, taunting her for her mistakes, begging her to follow in Hook’s footsteps.
Where they stoked Hook’s anger against Rumplestiltskin for Emma it was Regina. Constantly taunting Emma of visions that had her nearly reducing Henry to only having one mother. Regina forcing her to grow up as an unloved orphan, murdering Graham, planning to kill the entire town except for a mindwiped Henry. And so on, and so forth.
Emma is free but it isn’t over. She now has the means to fix her mistake.
When she announces her plans, the look on everyone’s faces echo that terrible day neither of the duelists ever showed up victorious. When they went to the ship it had been so quiet. She pushes down the memory of Rumplestiltskin’s glassy unseeing eyes.
Regina is the first to recover.
“He doesn’t want to be found,” she says, the unspoken idiot heard nonetheless.
You should be glad I didn’t kill you, Emma thinks, as it came so very close so many times. It’s not the kind of thought the old Emma would have had—it’s the kind of thing Nimue or Zoso would have hissed in her ear, and they’re gone now, but Emma is forever changed.
“I don’t care. I will find him.” Her gaze lands on her parents. But her love story has turned out very different, and if she were to add always it would be a lie.
Excalibur still calls to her, even now. She just has to let herself hear it.
She follows the whispering of Excalibur all the way back to Camelot, journey delayed by having to figure out realm travel. When she realizes where Killian went her stomach drops, thinking of middlemist fields and broken hearts.
Camelot’s people have long returned since Hook cast his dark curse. Emma fears for what he might have done here, so she asks around, but they don’t speak about anything she doesn’t already know.
“I’m looking for the Dark One.”
“Aren’t you the Dark One?”
“Not anymore.”
The words don’t ring entirely true. Yes, the dark magic has been removed from her, making it pure once more, the kind that comes with being the product of true love. But she can still hear the Dark One sword calling her. She’ll never be that same woman who blasted Cora away by the strength of her love. Something changed inside of her when she nearly crushed Merida’s heart and removed Violet’s to break Henry’s and ignored Killian’s wishes for his own life or death. Something fundamental. Part of her wishes her magic still reflected that, but she doesn’t know if that’s just temptation talking.
“The dark magic has taken hold of him,” says a knight in the armory, surrounded by weapons yet deepy unsettled. “It feasts on his soul. You mustn’t seek him out, my lady.”
“He killed Merlin,” whispers a peasant in the marketplace, clutching her basket tightly to her chest. “He slayed the legend to cast the curse that ripped us from this land that handful of years ago.”
“He doesn’t leave his tower. He isn’t fond of us mortals,” says a nobleman in his manor, sneering with derision. “Which suits us mortals just fine. A Dark One is good for nothing but death.”
She lets the whispers guide her, remembering the time they were on a horse together, galloping through these very lands. Every branch reminds her of the last ones she’d seen before he was struck by the sword which ended up saving him. Every fallen tree, the place where he sat with her to take her mind off of the darkness. Camelot is alive with memories and she clings to them like she is starving.
I’ll save you, she thinks. I’ll save you. I’ll save you.
There is a sleepy shower of snow; what has already fallen crunches beneath her. She walks in total darkness except for the ball of light in her hands, conjured by magic no longer tainted. It pierces the black in one shifting spot, right in front of her.
The frost brutally assails her skin and her breath comes out in clouds of white. She finds herself in a clearing, looking up at the tower described to her by the townsfolk. Merlin had a tower, she remembers; maybe that’s why Killian chose it. Tall. Imposing.
Isolated.
Letting her light go out, she transports herself inside.
Inside there is a smell of damp wood, something earthy. She stamps her boots to shake the snow off them. As she moves, snow falls from her jacket like sugar from pastries.
The main room of the tower is bigger than expected; there are smaller rooms too, sectioned off by curtains. Where she’s standing there’s a living room and a kitchen area. But that’s not what holds her attention with a gaping mouth.
Drawings.
Countless and countless of drawings, not just on the papers strewn about in every corner, but painted on the walls. There is not a blank spot on them. Familiar sights, and not.
There’s a woman adorned with jewelry and sharp eyes. There’s a different woman, curly hair and a gentle smile. There’s a man with the same curly hair holding a thorny branch over his black-veined wrist.
The Jolly Roger. Pan with a glint in his eyes and an eyebrow lifted. Skull Rock. Cora with a crown and a poofy dress, surrounded by people in masks; a glowing heart above her head. Granny’s diner.
Everything. Everyone. Except...
Except for Emma. She’s the only one missing.
She feels the crush in her chest only to startle at the sudden noise, “Didn’t your parents teach you it’s rude to barge into someone’s home unannounced?”
The familiar voice sends a thrill up her spine and slowy, she turns around.
There he is.
Dark hair in disarray, black leather and jewelry. His eyes are still the prettiest shade of blue she knows, but when he smiles they remain empty.
Killian.
Emma stumbles forward until he is in front of her. Her hands are moving on their own. Reminiscent of when she first turned into the Dark One; choking the life out of the first man she ran into after the change, with his cart in the forest, dark magic escaping her fingertips without her awareness. But that magic has been purged from her system now; this is all her. Feeling the leather under her palms.
Killian won’t stop smiling. It hurts. It makes all the memories come flooding back—he wore this smile when he crushed Merlin’s heart and cast the dark curse.
“I...”
“Oh, would you like a cup of tea?”
He’s already walking away by the time she processes the question. “Wha...”
“Come on then,” he beckons without looking behind him, expecting her to follow.
It’s all the same theatrical behavior as before, she realizes with a sinking feeling. The dramatic tone of speech, the widened eyes, the look of a man unhinged.
The room is filled with soft orange light from the fireplace and a chandelier of candles. She sits down and they wait. She realizes why there are so many drawings.
Her first night, the spirit told her Dark Ones don’t need sleep. That she would need something to pass the time. That Rumplestiltskin spun straw into gold to forget the terrible things he’d done.
She also remembers Neal’s cave. Walls littered with drawings, though not nearly so many as here. When Emma brought it up she remembers Hook’s response. He got it from his mother.
Did Milah teach Killian to draw, she wonders? A question she never thought to ask. Maybe now, someday she can.
There are drawings of Neal too—the adult Emma remembers and the boy Killian knew, Bae with lively eyes and the ocean for a backdrop. This must be Killian’s version of spinning, of making dreamcatchers.
The kettle shrieks like a siren.
“Here we are,” he says, pouring tea into the cups. “No, I’m not killing her.”
The tone is so conversational she almost misses the meaning of the words. She startles.
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s been ages since I’ve had company. I should like to talk to her first.”
The words are all directed at empty space.
The spirit, she realizes. The spirit of all Dark Ones. Of course it wants her dead.
“You’re quite insistent today,” he says, cheerful attitude replaced by annoyance.
The tea is herbal and far too bitter. She finally works up the courage to say something.
“How have you been?”
What a silly question. It’s obvious his mental state has been better days. His old obsession with revenge seems like the height of sanity and healthiness compared to this. But it’s out now, and he says,
“Rather an odd question to ask the Dark One isn’t it?”
Something about that strikes her as odd. “You don’t...”
She’s not sure how to finish that so she doesn’t. She has that same feeling that she had walking to the Jolly Roger expecting dark plans and finding no one. Something is wrong.
“What?” He speaks slowly, lazily, like he’s mocking her. “What did bring you here?” His mood abrubtly changes back to the cheeriness. “No, no, no, let me guess. You want my help. There’s a plague. No, a curse. No—”
“I came here to see you,” she interrupts.
He blinks slowly. “Why would you want that?”
Incredulty surges through her.
“Because...!”
But then she finally places it. She finally realizes what’s wrong. That empty look in his eyes isn’t out of utter disregard for her after she broke his heart, it’s...
“You don’t remember.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Remember what, your terrible manners? I assure you they’ve been hard to forget seeing as it’s only been five minutes since we made our acquaintance.”
Truth.
Her stomach clenches. She hears her heartbeat in her ears.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” he announces. “How remiss of my own manners. I’m Killian.”
“Emma,” she hears herself say. Her voice is soft as she adds, “It’s nice to meet you.”
When she picks up her teacup, her hand shakes.
Wasn’t this exactly what she wanted?
A second chance.
Memories transferring to a dreamcatcher. Purple billowing smoke soon to engulf them. Leaning over his unconscious body and pressing her lips to his. When you wake up you’ll be the man I love, and the man who loves me.
Taking his will away once again, that’s what she was really doing. Just as scared as when he bled out from his neck. Soon after it was Emma who became the Dark One she told the spirit she wouldn’t give into the darkness. She told it I’ll never hurt the people I love, the people who love me.
She never wanted any of this.
“Why did you come here?” Emma asks. “To this tower?”
“That’s a rather tragic tale.”
“Tell it to me?”
“As you wish.”
Her heart stutters at the phrase, awakening feelings from long ago. Sapphire-blue sky above them while they kissed, her clothes sticking to her from the jungle’s heat. She searches his face but he doesn’t seem to be thinking about the same lie that she is, definitely not a one-time thing.
“I heard of a golden flower with great magical properties. Guarded by a witch near this very tower. But when I climbed it there was a woman inside, with lovely golden hair in a long braid.” His brows waggle. “Not what you’d expect a witch to look like, eh?”
Emma starts a little. “She was the witch? How’d you know?”
Killian scowls. The temperature in the room seems to drop.
“I could smell the magic on her.” He waves his hand in front of his face, sniffing exaggeratedly. “So cloying and sickeningly sweet. When I called her out she revealed her true face and her plan. You see, she was trapped here, by blood magic. She had to leave her child in her place. Alas, she had no children. So she needed me to give her one.”
“That’s horrible,” she says softly.
“She assumed I would still be on board because she could sense my magic too—the darkest there is, she called it. She wanted to be allies but she was going to deceive me. Use me. Abandon a baby half mine, helpless and trapped here. So I killed her and took the golden flower for myself.”
As he speaks about the witch she feels his magic, curling around her. Not sweet and cloying but electric. Her breath catches and for a moment she’s somewhere else.
The middlemist field, dark as night, silent except for her. Calling out for Killian with no answer. Summoning the broken sword in which his name is engraved. Summoning him with it. Resigned eyes baring into her with hatred.
Her apology. I didn’t know how else to get you here.
His response. You could’ve given me a choice.
“What did you use it for?”
The magic recedes. She breathes, while he loses the scowl as if it was never there. “What’s that, love?”
“The golden flower.”
He waves a dismissive hand.
“Can’t quite recall. Must not have been important.”
She shivers.
She asks to stay the night. It makes him get into another seemingly one-sided argument with the spirit but ultimately ends with him showing her a room where she can stay.
She slides into bed and he blows out the candle. There’s a serenity to the moment that would be more enjoyable if it weren’t for the secrets marring it.
“Sleep well, Emma.” The soft and accented words make her heart ache.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. Her body is still attuned to years of living as something that doesn’t need sleep and it won’t relax here, in this tower with the man she loves so close yet completely out of reach.
If she were still the Dark One she’d pass the time by making dreamcatchers. She kind of wants to now but then it occurs to her that Killian could have used a dreamcatcher. Instead of seeking out the golden flower. But he very deliberately didn’t.
Having to swallow a sudden lump in her throat, she doesn’t bother making any now, just tries to sleep. She must’ve succeeded because the next thing she knows, dawn is flowing in through the snowy window, milk-white like hospital lights.
Heading into the living room she sees that same white light streaming through the windows. She starts a little at the sight of dripping paintbrushes levitating towards a can filled with water. The clear quality of the water fades immediately as the paint comes loose from the brushes. To see Killian using magic still surprises her.
He startles as soon as he sees Emma.
“Apologies,” he says, not looking at her.
She stares, uncomprehending. “For what?”
He forces a shrug. “I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”
She swallows against the lump rising in her throat.
“It takes more than that to make me uncomfortable,” she says. “Cleaning brushes is hardly evil.”
It’s power that got to Gold’s head. For Emma it was the idea that dark magic was what she needed to protect her loved ones, keep them safe. For Killian...
Do you have any idea how it feels, to not be in control of yourself?
The discomfort and uncertainty is gone in a flash, bringing him back to that theatrical behavior he’s had ever since she cheated his death. “Speaking of, I made breakfast! Would you like some?”
“I’d love that,” she says, unable to help a smile.
Only for it to fade in shock when she sees what he’s conjured her.
“Grilled cheese,” she says, throat dry. “And onion rings.”
She thinks about the alternate universe. Teaching him how to wield a sword. Muscle memory.
He seems oblivious to her inner turmoil. “Not to your liking? You could have anything you want, just say the word. How about some rum?”
“It’s dawn,” she says flatly.
Not missing a beat, “What’s your point?”
She smiles and brings the grilled cheese sandwich to her lips. Taking a bite, she enjoys the flavor and the familiarity.
“So,” Emma says, trying to think of something to converse about. Her gaze finds the one of the many pieces of paper strewn about. “You like drawing.”
“Painting too, don’t sell me short.”
“And painting,” she adds, smiling. “You’re good.”
“Flattery, Emma? Careful or I might think you’re after something.”
The words sound strangely stilted—not entirely his. The spirit is still whispering in his ear.
“Well there is something I want,” she says casually, watching him stiffen.
“Oh?”
“Some fresh air,” she says and he relaxes. “Will you enjoy it with me?”
When he speaks his voice is flat. “You want to enjoy fresh air with the Dark One.”
“I want to enjoy it with you, Killian.”
He’s quiet for a few moments that have her holding her breath, but when he speaks it’s with that same dramatic air:
“Well then! I’m happy to oblige. Shall we?”
At her nod he waves his hand, apparently comfortable with using magic in front of her now. She sees red smoke and then they’re outside.
Still not dressed for the cold, she shivers immediately. Noticing, he waves his hand again, and then she’s wearing his long black overcoat. It brings her warmth in more ways than one.
“Thanks,” she says with a small smile, but he just shrugs dismissively.
Emma looks around. Killian has taken them to a hilltop from where they can still see the tower in the distance. The valley before them is bathed in the ashen glow of dawn. Idle snowflakes gradually begin to fill the air. They fall slowly, spinning on their own axis like feathers.
“You haven’t been entirely truthful with me,” he says, and the cold filling her chest has nothing to do with the weather.
She keeps the smile on her face, her tone light. “How’s that?”
“If I could sense the witch’s magic did you think I was oblivious to yours?”
Oh. “I never hid it,” she says, uncomfortable. “I used it to get inside the tower.”
His face is unreadable. “I know.”
“Is it sickeningly sweet?” she asks, curious. It is light magic to his dark.
His riotous hair is littered with snowflakes. The silver dawn is reflected in his eyes, making them appear shining.
“It is a breath of fresh air.”
Emma doesn’t leave and Killian doesn’t ask her to. He spends most of his time feverishly drawing or painting, during which she might as well be invisible, but sometimes they talk. They talk, and it’s reminiscent of how things used to be, of how things can be again. It’ll have the both of them laughing, firelight golden in Killian’s eyes, making her wish that life wasn’t so complicated. That love was as easy as sharing a laugh with someone you’d go to hell and back for.
During their time together she explores the tower more fully, and she notices things—things like his hand encased in a water-filled jar.
“After killing the crocodile who cut it off and kept it as a trophy,” Killian says when he sees her looking, “I stole it back.”
“Why not reattach it?” Emma asks softly. “You’ve got the magic to do it.”
“I’ve learned to live without it,” he says like it’s obvious. “It’s been centuries. To reattach it now would cheapen that pain; be too easy.”
But he did want it reattached once before. Not for himself. For Emma. To be worthy of her, he’d said after his heart was returned, to which she told him it didn’t matter to her how many hands he had. The memory makes her swallow.
“Crocodile huh?” she says, keeping her voice casual even as her stomach is clenching. Remembering blood on wood and a no-longer-black-by-technicality heart. There’s a starfish painted on the ceiling, shaped like Emma’s sheriff badge.
He waves a dismissive hand. “Crocodile, former Dark One. Unrepentant wife murderer. Whatever you want to call him. He’s dead now.”
The lack of remorse is chilling. Not because of the murder itself, but because Killian had changed. He would have been remorseful before, he wouldn’t have murderered Gold so brutally, but this makes her wonder if all along the resentment at Gold getting away with what he’d done simmered underneath the surface.
The hand isn’t the only thing she takes note of.
They’ve returned from taking a walk outside when she sees it. The cold is chased away by hot cocoa, with whipped cream as white as the snow outside, and of course cinnamon. The tower has a vase: a pretty shade of cornflower blue somewhat reminiscent of his eyes, but that’s not what draws her attention.
Inside it is a middlemist flower.
Pink as cotton candy and perfectly preserved with a spell.
Her head begins to spin; her ears are filled with a roaring sound, like a waterfall.
“Why do you have that,” Emma hears herself say.
She sees him shrug. “I like pretty things.”
Galloping past lush green plants and grand lakes, making her heart race, quieting the voices. Dismounting the horse on a field. Pink flowers everywhere. Killian had picked one for her and pointed out the silence in her head, sun shining down on them both as they kissed.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been quiet when she finally regains her composure.
“I’ve noticed,” she says, not quite hitting the dry tone she’s aiming for. “You really need all that jewelry?”
“Absolutely.”
And so it goes: she stays and he lets her, and she doesn’t bring up the secrets lurking between them. Instead she enjoys his company, different though he is, dreading the day she’ll lose his smile once more.
Ever since Killian got his heart back, and Belle made Gold leave the town, things have been peaceful.
It’s still taking some getting used to, the lack of flying monkeys and snow walls and Leroy’s voice yelling about terrible news. It’s freed up time to enjoy the simple things, like trips to the beach just to walk along the shoreline—something Killian often joins her for, as the sea tends to comfort him.
Which he could probably use, given what happened only recently.
It still makes Emma wince whenever she thinks about it. The fact that she didn’t even notice. That day, in the diner... The way his behavior had seemed so off to her... And yet, even when Killian had reached out with his hand shaking so terribly, she didn’t press the matter... Finding the task of getting Elsa and her sister back to Arendelle to take precedence.
If it weren’t for Belle...
“Are you alright, love?”
Shaken out of her thoughts, she looks from the horizon to his blue eyes.
“Fine.”
He gives her a look. “I don’t need to have a lie detecting superpower to recognize that for a falsehood.”
The words are gently exasperated, not actually inviting elaboration. Giving her an out if she wants it. It makes her swallow. Because what has she done for him lately? Besides ignore his odd behavior literally caused by him missing his heart.
“I just can’t believe I didn’t notice,” she admits, then shakes her head. “And that’s not even true. I did notice. I knew you were acting strange. I just—stupidly thought it could wait. You could have died.”
They walk past a sandcastle, half washed away.
“I’m a survivor.”
“This was thanks to Belle, not your survival skills,” she says flatly.
Killian clears his throat. “Aye, true enough. But there’s no need for you to feel guilty. If anyone should carry the blame, it’s me. If it weren’t for my own actions regarding my hand, the crocodile wouldn’t have been able to...”
“Hey. Stop it. If I don’t get to feel guilty neither do you. You know what, let’s just agree to blame Gold for all of it and move on.”
He chuckles. “Indeed.”
But he’s not fooling her—the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and his movements remain stiff underneath the white sunlight of the overcast sky.
“It’s really bothering you, huh? What he did,” she says softly.
She wants to hit herself right after for the shoddy wording. Of course it’s bothering him. The man who stole his hand and killed his loved one just used him as a puppet. The only reason he’s alive is because the woman he once shot and deprived of memories in his attempt at revenge decided he was worth saving.
“Aye,” he says quietly, not bothering to lie.
They continue to walk through the sand, listening to the wind and the rumbling waves.
What he says is not what she was expecting to hear.
“I was a slave.”
“To...Gold? I know he—”
“No, not Gold.”
She falls silent but so does he; as they continue to walk his gaze is firmly trained anywhere but on her.
“When I was a child, my father sold me... And Liam, too. It was... unpleasant.”
She gets the feeling unpleasant is an understatement, even as she gapes. “But I thought... I mean David said... You were in the Royal Navy.”
She’s not that well versed on the particulars of the Enchanted Forest, it’s true, but she knows a little about your background prohibiting you from opportunities in life. A child slave becoming a lieutenant sounds unlikely.
A child slave.
Her stomach clenches, picturing a young boy with bruises and too-prominent cheekbones, tattered clothes and empty blue eyes.
“Liam got that opportunity for us. It was a bloody miracle.”
“Your scars,” she hears herself say. “The ones on your back. They weren’t for piracy like I assumed, you got them before you ever turned pirate.”
He looks uncomfortable. “Aye. I just wanted to explain, because... Well, recent events have brought back that terrible feeling... Of not being in control. It’s...difficult to shake.”
“I get it,” she says softly.
“But with you by my side, I know I’ll move past it eventually,” he says quickly.
“Hey. It’s okay not to be okay, you know. I’m still... I mean, it’s not the same, it’s different entirely, but... That whole thing with my magic spinning out of control... I had trouble shaking that, too. You helped me. Now I want to help you.”
She lasts a week before she can’t take it anymore. “You don’t belong here.”
“Pardon?”
There’s a chessboard set up, the pieces constantly changing even while Emma is asleep. Is he playing different Dark Ones through the spirit? Or is he playing himself?
Whichever it is, Killian looks up from the board to meet her gaze.
“You shouldn’t be here, locked away and all alone. You should be with the people you love, and who love you. Or sailing the seas at the very least; surrounded by the cries of seagulls and having salty spray hitting the deck. Travelling the world. Why stay here?”
“Well I always wanted to travel of my own accord as a lad, and then later on I took my Milah traveling as well. We were both trapped in a life we did not want, and we found escape from it through piracy. The sea eased our sorrows.” The dark tone becomes cheerful again: “But, there is no escape for me now!”
He grins at her, teeth gleaming white like the pearls he used to pilfer, but something about it strikes her as false.
“You know something?” Emma leans forward. “I don’t think you’re nearly as crazed as you want me to think.”
Killian’s brow lifts, still smiling. He leans forward to meet her, his breath hot on her face,
“Oh, we’re all mad here, I’m afraid.”
Holding her gaze, he leans back again while her heart hammers.
“What if I told you...”
She hesitates. There’s a reason she’s been putting this off. His reaction, mad or not, will not be pretty like the middlemist flower.
But this all began with the desire to save him. There’s no going back now, she has to see it through. She has to see the man he used to be again, the man he wanted to be. Her best friend with the earnest smile that she lost. She has to get it back.
“What if I told you I could take the dark magic away from you?”
The question lies heavy in the resulting silence. He stares at her, forget-me-not blue eyes unreadable.
Then he winces.
His expression remains twisted in apparent pain, eyes screwed tightly shut.
“Shut up,” he mutters. “I said be quiet.”
It takes a moment to realize he’s talking to the spirit of Dark Ones.
She knows that he’s not actually adressing thin air—she personally experienced the persistent voice of the so-called guide. But she can’t see the spirit anymore, and without that explicit context it is deeply unsettling to witness. She finally understands Merida’s uneasiness from all those years ago, when it was Emma talking to voices no one else could hear.
Suddenly Killian’s eyes fly open just to glare at Emma. He waves his hand and he’s holding Excalibur, jagged but whole, no longer bearing two names. Just one. Just his.
She can’t help gasping at the sight of it.
“Is this what you’re after? Hm?” His pleasant demeanor is replaced by anger: “You came here to lull me into security with your kindness only to steal what is mine. You want to take the dark magic, alright. Well you can’t have it!”
Ice runs sharply through her body.
Once you lied about Excalibur all bets were off. I knew it was only a matter of time before you tried controlling me.
“You can keep the sword. I don’t want it.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Why not tell me the truth?
You told me yourself, you’re not strong enough to resist the darkness.
Which is why I begged you not to turn me into the bloody Dark One in the first place! But you went and did it anyway.
“It’s the truth.”
“The magic doesn’t want to be taken.”
You were dying.
You know the worst part, Swan? When your own mother wanted to use the dagger to stop you from crushing Merida’s heart, I’m the one that convinced her that you needed to make that decision yourself!
“What do you want?”
Emma only realizes that Excalibur has been furiously whispering to her when those whispers come to a sudden and abrupt end. The sword has disappeared in a cloud of red smoke. Killian is staring at her.
“What did you say?”
She gets up from her seat.
He looks at her while she approaches, pleading, and hurt. Like a wild animal trapped in a vice. She sees it now, the fear of living as the thing he hates the most. The thing that killed his love; that mutilated him. I’m sorry I helped make you this way, she wants to say. But even now, she can’t regret saving his life and she’s going to fix it, she will.
Putting her hand on Killian’s shoulder, Emma says,
“I asked you what you want. I know they’re telling you to keep the magic and kill me. Don’t listen. This is your choice and yours alone.”
Staring up at her, he looks shellshocked. For the first time since she entered this tower—no, since she turned him into this—he is someone she recognizes. His eyes are shocked but they’re clear, no trace of emptiness or madness to be found. It fills her with hope even as his shock makes her heart ache.
Her other hand moves to cup his face. He’s completely still underneath her touch.
“No one will ever control you again,” Emma says firmly, vows it, willing Killian to believe it.
He slackens beneath her hands, entire body relaxing, but there’s something urgent in his eyes. He pulls her closer until she’s in his lap, holding her gaze all the while. She couldn’t look away if she tried.
“Take this burden from me,” his voice breaks and her heart right alongside it.
The relief at his answer is staggering. She can’t help herself—she kisses him. It’s just as desperate as that first time in Neverland’s jungle.
There’s a pulse. The strongest magic of all, the magic she is made of, making her blood sing.
When she pulls away there is recognition in Killian’s eyes.
“Emma.”
He says her name like he’s drowning.
She waits for that look to slide back upon his face—the empty, unhinged one filled with hatred for her so deep that it mutilated him.
It doesn’t come.
She has to ask. “Do you still hate me? Is that why you made yourself forget?”
“Bloody hell, Swan,” he breathes.
There is no trace of Emma on the walls or on paper, but she has noticed a swan. Not a dark swan either. One with white feathers, gleaming brilliantly.
The familiar phrase makes her feel warmth despite everything. She’s missed him. She’s missed him, she’s missed him.
“I made myself forget because I couldn’t hate you.”
She laughs, wetly. “That makes no sense.”
“Of course it does. I wanted to hate you so badly after what you did. After everything I could still understand your reasoning. I couldn’t hate you for refusing to lose anyone else when you’ve already lost so much. When I was the one who could make the voices go away.”
She smiles. “Have I made the voices go away?”
“Yes,” he whispers.
Giving into the darkness was only ever an excuse. After all, where Emma who was used to magic had trouble controlling it when it first became dark, Killian who never had magic before had no such problems. He understands why she couldn’t let him die, but what happened after that...
When Emma was in his situation, her mother offered her the dagger to keep. It was Emma who decided Regina should keep it instead—Emma made that choice for herself.
But when it was Killian’s turn... Emma lied about Excalibur from the start. Using that same old excuse about darkness. And after he confronted her about it she used it on him. Twice—though only the first time was deliberate.
“I can’t apologize for saving you,” she says through the lump in her throat. “But I shouldn’t have lied about Excalibur, I should have just given it to you from the start. You should have been the one to decide what to do with it like I got to with the dagger. And I never should have controlled you with it. Especially after I already turned you into something you’d rather die than become. For that, I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
She loses the battle against her tears; they spill down her face. There are some heartbreaks that follow you forever, she knows that. She can only hope that this isn’t one of them.
His thumb brushes her cheekbone. It makes her close her eyes.
When she opens them again they’re outside. Cold air brushes her skin; it takes her a moment to recognize the middlemist field, blanketed by snow as it is.
He trembles, “Tell me I can trust you, Emma. Tell me I can trust you and I’ll believe you.”
Her heart breaks.
“When I met you it feels like I was an entirely different person. My walls were up. But you brought them down. I will spend the rest of my life loving you.”
She kisses him, and it isn’t like the last time they kissed in this field, sun reflecting off their hair. It’s both their heartbreaks in a single kiss surrounded by crisp snow.
“You can trust me,” she says, her expression still an open book to him she hopes, her past and the future she’s so afraid of splayed out. But she wants it. And so did he, even after she turned him into the Dark One. He was still willing even then. I want that more than anything, he had said despite the dark magic running through his veins.
It was lying about Excalibur that ruined everything, it was controlling him with it when she knew how much that would hurt him.
“You can trust me but can you forgive me?” Emma chokes on the words. She begs, “Forgive me, forgive me, though I don’t deserve it.”
She lets out a miserable sob. She feels Killian’s arms wrap around her, he smells like leather and still, unbelievably, the sea. Her shoulders relax. She wraps her arm around his waist, feeling him shift as she moves him forward. Their chests are pressed together and she buries her face into his neck.
“There’s little I couldn’t forgive you for,” Killian murmurs, “if only just to keep you.”
“You can trust me,” she promises, revelling in his warmth.
She’s still crying. He shushes her, a strong hand running up and down her back, but he’s still trembling, not as steady as he tries to appear. His arms remain strong around her, comforting and gentle, as he too falls apart.
“You can trust me,” she whispers, when they finally both run out of tears. He pulls away, with his hands remaining on her arms.
“Then I will follow you.” Her heart leaps into her throat. “Take me home.”
There’s something cathartic about this: Killian is willingly giving up control over the situation. It isn’t being forced on him, he’s choosing to; she could turn around and do the exact same thing again but he will go with her anyway.
Similarly, Emma’s walls are telling her not to believe him now, that he can’t possibly stay with her after everything, that he will turn around and leave her. That she should run before he can. But she ignores this voice in her head, she chooses to believe he will remain steadfast in his belief in her.
A leap of faith. For both of them.
When he smiles at her, she sees Killian Jones, and she rushes forward.
He kisses like the Dark One he turned out to be, but instead of being intoxicated on darkness now it’s her bringing him high. It alternates between something desperate and something soft and gentle. Even as she feels she’s running out of air, she never wants to stop.
They break apart.
“I love you, Emma,” he breathes against her mouth.
There’s nothing to fear anymore.