#cssns19

Not many minutes later they were turning into the front seating area of the diner, entering under the arch and being greeted from all sides by family and friends. Ruby bounded over to gleefully wrap Emma in an exuberant hug, whispering in his love’s ear that she wanted to hear what they’d been up to at the new house in a blatant enough way to have the blond blushing once again. Killian followed Henry’s urging over to his grandparents’ table, shaking David’s hand and easing into conversation with Emma’s father thankfully.

He liked the people gathered around him very much, but so often in the past he had kept to the shadows, on the outskirts of society, either due to prejudice and ostracism or his own attempts to insure others’ safety from the beast within him. Having at last found his home in Storybrooke, and also a peace within himself that he had rarely known, Killian felt as stable as he had ever been in both parts of himself. His wolf had room and freedom to run, even a pack of sorts with Ruby and Graham nearby, and he rarely feared the howling need to break free he had sought to hide or contain in his youth and throughout his years of bitter, aimless wandering.  All that being true, he still sometimes preferred to ease into larger groups one person at a time. Once Emma’s slightly overprotective and traditional father had gotten to know him, Killian found the man quite easy to talk to and good company, so he naturally went to speak with him first.

Their friendship hadn’t taken long to develop once things had settled down around the holidays, some six months ago, after Regina, Cora, and Rumplestiltskin’s defeat. Both David and Killian served as reinforcements to the sheriff’s department when needed (though in sleepy, calm Storybrooke they rarely were) and so had spent many long afternoons when there were no calls sharing long chats, wadded up paper ball free throw contests in the desk trash cans, endless one-upping games of darts, and - if they grew truly desperate - filing of the somehow never ending stacks of paperwork. Their little town had been free of most trouble beyond cats in trees and neighboring fairy tale characters’ squabbles since Thanksgiving. None of them had forgotten that Gold was still simmering impotently in his shop (surely wanting revenge, but hands tied by the fact that his dagger forbade it, thanks to Emma’s brilliance).  In fact, the citizens were enjoying an everyday normality most of them had never been able to experience before - in either this realm or the Enchanted Forest.

So, though there was often hardly enough work to keep one person busy, Graham had remained Sheriff, and kept Emma on as his deputy. Killian’s eyes found his sandy-haired fellow wolf amidst the happy crowd of partygoers, attentively leaning to whisper something in Belle’s ear where she sat talking to Granny Lucas herself, along with Nova, Leroy, Bashful, and Doc. The Sheriff was clearly happy to watch over his girlfriend, glad just to see her in high spirits, having brought her a drink and standing behind her chair to listen and look on. Graham had always been a good and competent lawman, but now that he was completely free to act of his own will and as he saw fit, it became even more clear just how kind, compassionate, and worthy a man he was. He no longer had to glance over his shoulder at each turn, fearing retribution for his choices. The townspeople liked and trusted him even more than they had before, seeing how dedicated he was to their causes and thorough in handling problems immediately and lawfully for the good of all to the best of his ability.

Watching just a moment longer, Killian saw Belle pause in her conversation, looking up over her shoulder at Graham with an adoring expression in her eyes, resting her hand over his where he had placed it on her shoulder. Something passed between them wordlessly, so slight that it went unnoticed by most around them, but to Kilian’s honed and heightened senses, it sent almost a frisson of intense feeling all the way across the space to where he stood. He didn’t know what it meant, but he found himself more than a little curious, and happy for his friends whatever the cause of their joy.

His attention was drawn back to his own immediate circle when David threw his head back in a booming burst of laughter as Henry finished relating how Killian had recently taken he, his mom, and his friends Grace, Nicholas and Ava out fishing and swimming on the Jolly. It wasn’t the first time Killian had dropped anchor in the harbor where the preteens could dive off the bow and bob in the waves to cool off while he and Emma sat in the sun watching over them and talking, but what had gotten such a reaction from his grandpa was the mental image of Ava’s disastrous practice at casting and somehow catching her hook in Grace’s hair. The ensuing noisy melee had caused quite a commotion until they’d gotten Grace free from the painful tangle, reassured Ava that they all knew it was an accident and gotten back to catching fish rather than each other.

As the afternoon wore on, Killian relaxed into the atmosphere of easy camaraderie around him, graciously complimenting his hostess on the lightness of her dinner rolls and the fine quality of her rum - to which he earned a sniff of begrudging thanks but also a sidelong smile. He exchanged a few words with Belle on the last book she had recommended to him and what he thought of it so far, and though she carried an obvious glow of satisfaction and practically radiated good humor, he was no closer to the reason that it seemed so especially prominent today, even after conversing with her. He exchanged pleasantries with Graham, and let Henry drag him into a ridiculous game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey that Snow had organized to hilarious results with the assorted dwarves’ poor aim and inebriated states by that hour of the waning day.

Despite what else he was doing however, his eyes were continually drawn back to Emma wherever she was. There was the simple fact that he couldn’t help but marvel at her beauty, for one thing. Her golden hair stood out like a beacon in any gathering, this one no exception, and the very sight of those flowing waves cascading down her back against the red leather of her favorite jacket made his hand itch to brush through its silky softness.  Her long, lean form, her throaty chuckle, and the sparkle in her jade green eyes all made hunger rise in him that had him aching to pull her out of the party and into the first empty room he could find. A long life of practice made him able to rein in his desires, but it certainly didn’t slake them in the least.

He remembered too that it was nearing the full moon, which made all his more canine traits closer to the surface. As intensely protective as he would have been anyway, because he loved her, the animal instinct within demanded he be aware of his mate and her safety at all times. Especially when they were out in the open and not alone, whether or not those with them were friends and the gathering innocent. There was possessiveness as well that he could contain, but not vanquish completely. Between those two impulses warring inside his average human faćade, Killian was rather proud of himself for managing to eventually retreat to a corner table with his drink, lean back in a chair and observe the goings on around him with at least the air of calm.

Still, needless to say, he was relieved when the festivities did begin to break up an hour or so later. Many called out a friendly goodbye to him, and he waved back jovially to them.  Some, like David, came over to say ‘good night’ and make plans for when they’d get together next. When Emma finally came up to him with an easy smile and an outstretched hand, asking him if he was ready to head home for the night with a teasing tilt of her head and playful “Captain?” he was on his feet in a moment. With Henry in tow, they headed back toward their house on the shore as the stars came out above.

A deep sense of satisfaction warmed Killian once again at the very idea that this could be his life, while Emma leaned into his side as they walked and Henry pointed out the various constellations that he had learned to recognize through Killian’s tutelage. It was more happiness than he once could have imagined having in his life on a regular basis. In a few days he would need to prepare for shifting about three nights in a row, as was his monthly due, but for tonight, he could sense it was still safely far enough off to take his time seeing the two most important people in his life home safely and enjoy that they saw him as one of their own.

Once they reached the front gate, Henry hurried on up the walk and into the house with a “See you tomorrow!” for his mom’s boyfriend. Alone at long last, Emma turned to him, her face tilted up to his with a devious glimmer in her expression. Only moments ago, he wouldn’t have imagined things could get much better, but when she ran her hands up his torso to rest on his chest and whispered invitingly, “Wanna come in for a nightcap, Sailor?” she blew his mind all over again. 

A couple of drinks, an entire bowl of popcorn and a movie later, they were cuddled together on the couch in Emma’s living room, making out like two teenagers.  Killian didn’t leave his love’s arms again until the next day dawned. Slipping out to his boat before Henry could walk up and begin scavenging through the cupboards for his breakfast cereal, Killian stooped to place a kiss on Emma’s groggy forehead as she mumbled a sleepy farewell. No one else in the house was stirring as the former pirate headed away down the walk, and he was too cheerful and relaxed to be on his guard, so the eyes watching his every move from the shadows as he moved toward the docks, went unnoticed…

~~***~~***~~

Far removed from the cheerfulness and revelry of the rest of the town and their holiday celebrations, Mr. Gold was holed up in the dim, shrouded back room of his shop, scowling silently at a clouded orb with its contents swirling inside. He hadn’t bothered to unlock or open his shop doors today, not wanting to see the idiotic smiles of the townsfolk, nor to waste effort pasting on a smile and haggling to make sales that mattered little to him, all things considered. No, all that mattered now was possessing the one item which could free him of the Savior’s binding order stoppering his Dark One powers to set things right. He would be loosed of her interfering magical hold; it was merely a matter of tracing the artifact to its hiding place and summoning an accomplice he knew was powerful enough to aid him in the ritual needed to slip the noose of his Dagger’s control, and therefore Miss Swan’s meddling command.

All the pieces were in place; once the crystal showed him where his former compatriot could be found, he would set the ball rolling.  He would make Belle see sense, return her to her place by his side, where she clearly belonged. That Sheriff who had dared to try taking his place in Belle’s affections would rue ever having his heart put back in his chest. And that wretched cur ...that wolf he had nearly finished off before - and the woman who had prevented it, who had the audacity to tangle with him and think she could defeat the Dark One - both of them would pay, once and for all.

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi

@jrob64 @apiratewhopines @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @xarandomdreamx

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@lfh1226-linda @linda8084 @resident-of-storybrooke @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree

Hand in hand with Killian, Emma led the small group along the dark corridor to the back of her house, smirking when Mary Margaret and David gaped openly as the stone doorway appeared in the wall and swung wide at her silent bidding, but smiling in understanding when Regina gaped openly at the workroom with its long table strewn with the ingredients and equipment for her spells. Hastily Emma gathered together several small glass bottles and linen bags, plus four engraved silver bowls and the star-strewn blanket Killian recognised from the night she’d given him his silver paw, tumbling them all into a wicker basket with a long, looping handle. Clasping the basket tightly she indicated for them to follow her and headed with a determined stride up the stone stairs that led to one of her towers. Not the library tower. The other one. 

The stairs wound up and up and up, curving through a blinding darkness that had the four of them stumbling and holding on to each other for safety, following Emma’s sure steps by sound alone. Higher and higher still the staircase spun, far higher than the one leading to the library, spiralling ever upwards until they were dizzy, until they had lost all sense of time or space, until what could have been hours or minutes or inches or miles later they stumbled, breathless and disoriented, into a chamber.  

It was a circular chamber, vast and echoing in a way that was surely impossible for any place atop such a tall tower to be, formed of seamless stone walls lined with unlit torches and illuminated by a faint, bluish glow from an unseen source. Emma set her basket on the floor and withdrew some long-handled matches from one of the linen bags. “We need to light the torches,” she said. “Normally I’d do it with magic, but I’d like to hold on to what little I’ve got.” 

Mary Margaret’s face creased in a worried frown. “Sweetie, are you sure we have to do this tonight? Can’t it wait until you’ve got more of your magic back?”

“Mary Margaret you remember what she said, the low magic is part of the plan,” David reminded her. 

“I know, but…” 

“It’ll be fine Mary Margaret,” Emma assured her. “If everything goes well—” 

“If,” muttered Regina.

“—then I’ll only need a bit of my own,” continued Emma, ignoring her. “I just don’t want to waste any resources. Just in case.” 

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Mary Margaret, and took the long, slow-burning match Emma handed her, striking it against the wall and gasping at the bright glare of its flame. 

As Mary Margaret and David lit the torches Emma and Regina spread the starry blanket over the centre of the floor, placing the silver bowls at each of its corners and filling each with sea salt and thyme and three dried nettle leaves. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any mugwort?” Regina frowned at the contents of the bowls. “Or at least a bit of cinnamon bark?”

“Nope,” said Emma brightly, though Killian could feel her tension. “Simple is better, I think.” She handed Regina a bottle of sea salt then closed her eyes and breathed deeply, centring herself as the other woman sprinkled the salt in a circle around the blanket. 

When the torches were lit and the circle prepared, Emma, Regina, Mary Margaret, and David joined hands and stepped as one over the salt circle and onto the blanket. The instant they did, the salt began to glow and energy sparked between their hands. 

“Don’t let go!” said Emma sharply as Mary Margaret flinched in surprise. “Whatever happens you have to hold the circle!” 

Emma bent her head and began to murmur in a language Killian had read but never heard, using the energy of the circle to boost her small store of magic. Soon smoke began to rise from the centre of the blanket, thickening and taking on the purplish-blue hue that still had the power to make his blood run cold, before dissipating to reveal a surprised and extremely displeased Cora. 

“What is this?” she snapped, scowling at the faces surrounding her, her gaze flitting scornfully over Emma’s and Mary Margaret’s before landing on her daughter. “Regina?” she frowned. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Stopping you, Mother,” said Regina. “As I should have done long ago.” 

“Pah,” spat Cora. “You can’t stop me.” 

“I couldn’t,” Regina conceded. “I have help now.” 

“Help? From the forest witch and her household spells? From Leopold’s doormat of a daughter and her very upright husband? That’s your help?”

“Not all of it,” said a deep voice that Killian barely recognised as his own. 

Shadows shifted between the torches on the wall as he stepped forward from his hiding place among them, and when the torchlight made him fully visible Cora’s face for the first time showed genuine fear. 

“You!” she gasped. “You’re— but— how?”

“You might well ask that,” said Killian coolly. “Though you needn’t look far for the answer. You did this.” 

“I— what?”

Killian smiled, a sharp, vicious smile, remembering Cora’s arrogance and her presumption, and the cold deliberation with which she had ripped his life to shreds. Part of him, the dark part deep inside, was going to bloody enjoy this.

“All these years you’ve been obsessed with that prophecy,” he said advancing on the circle as near as he dared, “You spent your life trying to interpret it and to find a way to thwart it, but my dear Cora what you have always failed to understand is that everything you’ve done, from the moment you found the first scrap of parchment, has only aided that prophecy in coming true.”

“Impossible.” Cora managed a sneer, but it was a feeble thing. “You know nothing of prophecies, or magic.”

“Oh, on the contrary darling, I know quite a bit about both. Prophesied events may come to pass or they may not,” he glanced at Emma, who gave him a small smile. “But whatever they do they don’t do it in a vacuum. People are inevitably involved and where there are people there is always a choice. You for example chose to involve me in all of this—” 

“I didn’t choose you, I was Shown.” 

“Perhaps, but it was your choice to destroy my life in an attempt to get me under your control. Had you left me alone I would have lived out my life in the navy, never even believing in magic. I would certainly never have met and fallen in love with a witch.”

Cora shook her head, denying his words, though he could see they had shaken her. “No. No, you’re wrong, I had to stop you, you were destined to meet her—” 

“I met her because you brought me to her forest and turned me into a dog,” retorted Killian. “You thought you were getting rid of me but it was only as a dog that I was in a position to stay close to her and protect her, and it was only as a dog that I could have defeated your wolves.” 

Realisation was breaking across Cora’s face, chased by horror. “You were as good as dead,” she whispered. “There’s no way you could have survived…” 

“Left to my own devices I surely wouldn’t have. But there was this connection I’d forged with a witch, you see, which allowed her to heal me. All of me.” He held up his left hand, whole and pulsing with a faint glow of magic. Cora took a stumbling step back, her fear palpable as she pressed against the barrier of the magic circle that held her. 

“That’s not possible—” 

“No indeed, I think we can all agree that it is quite impossible. And yet, here we have it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, love, why exactly did you take my hand in the first place?”

“I had a vision,” choked Cora, too deep in shock to attempt a lie. “I saw— I saw that she would need it. Your hand, your help. I saw—” she broke off on a strangled gasp, eyes darting all around, taking in the circle on the floor, the faces surrounding her, Killian and his glowing hand. The fear in her eyes turned to panic. “I saw this.” 

“And what precisely is this?”

“My end.” Her terrified gaze met Killian’s calm one. “Are you— going to kill me?”

Killian paused before replying, keeping his eyes fixed on Cora, allowing the silence to stretch out until she began to writhe. “I am not,” he said at last. “But make no mistake, this is your end.” 

“Cora Mills!” Emma’s voice resonated though the chamber. “Your actions have been seen, and now I offer you a choice.”

Cora jumped and spun around to face Emma. “A choice?”

“There is always a choice.” Emma's eyes met Killian’s, and he nodded. “You have shown you cannot be trusted to wield the High Magic. Your choice is to voluntarily relinquish it and work only the household spells, or to be cut off from all magic forever.” 

Cora’s eyebrows snapped together as the hot flash of her anger burnt away her fear. “You can’t cut me off from my power!” she snarled.

“Oh yeah?” retorted Emma. “Try me.” 

Cora sputtered indignantly. “With what magic?” she sneered. “You used all yours on Samhain, and my pathetic daughter’s isn’t nearly enough.”   

“That’s true,” agreed Emma. “I’ve got no magic left.”

“Then how do you possibly presume to—

“I don’t have magic,” Emma interrupted. “But he does.” 

Killian could sense the magic sleeping deep within the stones of the chamber, the same stones, the same magic, that had answered Emma’s desperate call mere days before, the magic that had healed his broken body and returned his stolen hand. He called to it now, and though he had no idea how he was doing so he pulled the magic into his hand and sent it on along the connection he shared with Emma, letting his magic flow into her as she had done for him. 

Cora couldn’t see the source of his power —its nature was too foreign to her— but she could sense magic flowing into Emma, could see her channel it, weave it, and everyone could see when that magic flared into a blaze of light that Emma deftly moulded into a fearsome blade, long and lightly curved, and sharper than any steel. 

She grasped this blade and held it before her as Cora herself began to glow, the energy of her own magic becoming visible as wisps of purple light that curled in gentle waves around her, linking her to the source of her own power. As Cora watched in growing horror these wisps wound around each other, twisting and knotting together to form a single rope roughly the thickness of Killian’s wrist. The rope drew taut beneath Emma’s blade, quivering in anticipation of her strike. 

“What is your choice?” Emma asked. “Will you promise to relinquish the High Magic?”

Hatred flashed in Cora’s eyes. “Never—” she hissed, grasping the purple rope and whipping it away, but Emma brought the blade down faster than the human eye could see and sliced the rope clean through, severing Cora’s connection to her power forever. 

Cora gasped then cried out in pain, staring at the fading rope with eyes dulled by uncomprehending horror. “No,” she moaned. “No you didn’t, you can’t! You can’t do this to me!” Collapsing into a heap on the floor, she clutched at the purple rope, fisting her hands into the starry blanket and pounding them against the floor as it faded away into nothing. 

Emma heaved a deep breath and let go both of Killian’s magic and the hands she held, breaking the circle. The glow in the salt winked out and David and Mary Margaret fell into each other’s arms, clinging tightly and whispering as they attempted to process all they had seen. Regina knelt beside her keening mother and cautiously embraced her. 

“Come, Mother,” she said gently. “I’ll take you home.” She stood and pulled Cora to her feet, raising her hand to poof them away but before she could Emma stepped forward.

“Wait,” she said, searching for the right words to express her feelings. It was— not precisely sympathy she felt; Cora more than deserved this punishment and the world needed protection from her, but Emma knew how devastating losing magic must be to a witch and her kind heart wished to help. She laid a hand on Cora’s arm. 

“You’re welcome in my shop any time,” she said. “You may not have power anymore but there is magic everywhere, and I have things that can help you connect with it, help you find your way again. Both of you,” she added, looking at Regina.

“Never,” snapped Cora, yanking her arm away, but Regina nodded. 

“Thank you,” she said. “In time, I think we might take you up on that.” 

“Take all the time you need.” 

Understanding flashed between her and Regina, then red smoke swirled and both Mills women were gone. 

Emma stared at the spot they had vacated, feeling relief and sadness and a mess of other things she didn’t have the energy to sort through. She heard Killian come up behind her, felt his arms wrap around her. His presence was so soothing, she thought with a sigh, turning in his embrace and snuggling against him, pressing her nose into his neck. 

“Well done, my love,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “How do you feel?”

“Gah, I don’t know,” she laughed. “Don’t ask me that just yet. Let’s just— is it weird that all I really want is a cup of tea?” 

“Not in the least,” said Killian solemnly. “Tea cures all ills. Come, darling, I’ll put the kettle on.”

💐💐 💐💐💐

Seven years later.

The 31st of October was a cool and misty day that year, with pearly grey skies and the scents of wood smoke and frost clinging in the chill dampness of the air. By its afternoon much of the mist had burned away, save for a stray wisp or two weaving out from the forest and down Hornbeam Street to curl around the windows of the apothecary shop where Emma hummed to herself as she arranged the Samhain candles on their elegantly carved shelf. She paused neither in her arranging nor her tune, not even turning around when she sensed what Killian would call “a disturbance in the Force” in the vicinity of the table behind her, laden with caramel apples for the trick-or-treaters. She did, however, smile at the sharp hiss that resulted from someone attempting to touch those very apples and encountering a protection spell instead. 

“Ow!” cried a small, indignant voice. “Mom! That hurt!” 

“Stop trying to snitch apples and it won’t hurt,” said Emma reasonably. She didn’t need to look to sense her daughter’s pout. “You can have one in an hour when everyone comes for tea.” 

“But I’ll want soul cakes then!” 

“So have soul cakes.” 

“But then I can’t have a caramel apple!” 

Emma finally turned around, biting the inside of her cheek to hide her smile at the mutinous expression on the small face, so like Killian’s and framed by his dark hair, brightened in their child by glints of red, but with Emma’s own green eyes. Eyes that were at present narrowed in frustration. 

“Life is full of tough choices, kid,” said Emma. “If the worst you ever face is caramel apple or soul cake, you can count yourself lucky.” 

“That doesn’t help,” grumbled the small girl. “Grownups never say anything helpful.” 

Rowenna Jones was many things: five years old (five and a half, she would insist), an apprentice witch, a gifted storyteller, the fastest runner in her kindergarten class, and the sworn enemy of her cousin Leo. What she most definitely was not, was anyone’s fool. 

Emma laughed. “That’s very true. You still can’t have an apple now.” 

“Hmmph,” said Rowenna, and stomped back to the corner —the same corner where her father had once spent his days curled up on his dog bed— and sat down at the child sized table and chairs that now occupied it. “I guess I’ll just colour then,” she said with the dramatic huff familiar to all long-suffering children. 

“You could help me arrange the candles,” suggested Emma. 

“No, they look good like that,” said Rowenna, after an appraising glance at the shelf. “Can I do some magic?”

“What magic do you want to do?”

Rowenna raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth quirked in an unconscious imitation of her father’s wicked smirk. “Can I hex Leo?”

“Definitely not,” said Emma. Nice bargaining technique, kid, she thought but did not say.  

“Welllll, can I practice lighting candles, then?”

“That you can do.” 

Emma took the practice candle from behind the apothecary counter and put it down on Rowenna’s table. “Remember to feel your magic first,” she instructed her daughter. “Reach out and touch it, make sure it’s welcoming to you, then pull it up through yourself and focus on sparking the flame.” 

The child’s small forehead creased in concentration and Emma watched carefully as she gathered the threads of her magic and focused them on the candle wick. After a moment the wick flared into bright flame and both Emma and Rowenna clapped. 

“Well done, sweetie,” said Emma, extinguishing the flame with her own magic and giving her daughter a one-armed hug. “Keep practicing. Try to do it without thinking so hard, remember that magic is as much feeling as thought. 

Determination settled on the child’s brow, yet another thing she’d inherited from Killian. “I’m gonna do it so fast, Dad and Liam won’t believe their eyes,” she declared. 

“There’s a goal,” said Emma. “You do that.” 

~~💐~~

Half an hour later Rowenna’s candle-lighting speed had improved noticeably and Emma had rearranged her shelves six times as customers flooded in to buy her wares. She was sold out of bread and cider and had given most of the caramel apples to trick or treaters. Even Alexandra came in for one, though she was now twelve and that morning had rejected the pink princess dress her mother tried to give her, informing Ashley that trick or treating was “for kids” and everyone cool was going to Gideon Gold’s Halloween party instead. 

“Well, I guess you’re not cool, then,” Ashley had retorted. “Try again next year.” 

So Alexandra bought her own Halloween costume with her babysitting money and went to the shop for a caramel apple and a chat with Emma. Who did a sharp double take at the sight of her.   

“Are you kidding me with that hat?” Emma demanded. 

“No,” grumbled Alexandra, hunching her shoulders under Emma’s disapproving stare. “It was the only witch costume the store had.” 

“You couldn’t have chosen a different costume?” 

“All they’ve got are princess dresses and like, sexy nurses which my mom would actually kill me if I wore.” She shrugged. “I’ve been a princess every year, I wanted something different.” 

Rowenna bit her lip as she watched this exchange, torn between her admiration for the older girl she idolised and indignation on behalf of witch-kind. “I like the dress,” she ventured. “It looks like what we wear for Samhain only black.” Her face brightened as she had an idea. “OH! Maybe you could make a leaf crown instead of a hat? Mom says some witches wear leaf crowns.” She looked imploringly at her mother. 

“They do,” confirmed Emma. “I could probably conjure one, if you like.” 

Not even Alexandra’s newfound adolescent sullenness could mask her excitement at that prospect. “Okay,” she agreed. 

“One condition,” said Emma. “You have to let me burn the abomination on your head.” 

Alexandra removed the pointed black hat she wore and handed it to Emma, who took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll be right back,” she said. 

“Look what I can do, Lex!” cried Rowenna, waving Alexandra over to her table. “I can do it really fast now.” 

Quick as the flash of the flame itself she lit the candle with her magic. Alexandra’s eyebrows rose despite herself. “That is pretty cool,” she conceded, and Rowenna glowed brighter than her candle. 

Emma returned a few minutes later carrying a delicate tiara woven of slender willow branches interlaced with hawthorn and red maple leaves, whose dark auburn shades suited Alexandra’s colouring beautifully. 

Alexandra’s mouth dropped open and then she squealed, completely forgetting that enthusiasm was for babies. “Wow!” she cried. “That’s so amazing! Oh, thank you!” Emma helped her adjust it to the perfect angle on her head and let the girl admire herself in the glass of the display window as she grabbed her besom broom to greet a new flock of trick or treaters. 

“Are you ever going to fly on that thing?” asked Alexandra, once the children had gone. “You’ve been saying you do for years, but I’ve never seen you.” 

This time Rowenna couldn’t stifle her scoff, not even to keep Alexandra’s favour. “No one actually flies on broomsticks,” she huffed. 

“Wha— really?” Alexandra gaped at Emma, who shrugged. “I actually believed you, you know!”  

“Sorry?” said Emma.

“You should be,” said Alexandra. 

~~💐~~

Soon Alexandra left to show off her crown to her friends and Rowenna returned to practicing with her candle. Emma watched with a soft smile as magic flowed through her daughter, smooth and steady and controlled with an instinctive skill that made Emma swell with pride.

Rowenna lit and extinguished the candle faster and faster until it was blinking like a strobe light. She giggled at the effect and the thrill of her magic, and Emma was just about to step in before she got too carried away, when Rowenna’s face brightened with an eager expression. She extinguished the candle and turned towards the door. “They’re coming!” she called. “Mommy, they’re almost here!” 

Less than a minute later the door opened and Killian strolled in, a small puppy with floppy ears and pale gold fur dancing energetically at his heels. Yipping excitedly, the puppy ran to Emma and bounced around her knees in a brief hello before bounding over to Rowenna and jumping in her lap to attack her face with enthusiastic, sloppy kisses. She giggled and pushed him away. “Stop it, Liam! Get down!” 

Emma put her hands on her hips and glared at her husband. “Did you let him walk the whole way?” 

“He wanted to!” protested Killian, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “You know he loves to explore the forest. And it’s easier than carrying him.” 

“Hmmph,” huffed Emma, sounding exactly like her daughter, though she softened into his embrace and curled her own arm around his waist in return. “Is he hungry?”

“I expect so.” Killian nuzzled her ear. “He’s a ravenous beast puppy, as you know.” 

 Emma sighed as he tickled the sensitive spot on her neck then turned in his arms and kissed him hard. “Can you watch the shop for a minute while I go feed him?” she asked against his lips.

“Of course, love,” he murmured, brushing her nose with his as they exchanged sappy grins. 

“Daddy, you can watch me light the candle! I can do it sooo fast!” called Rowenna, sensing that her parents were nearly done with the mushy stuff. There was no talking to them until they’d kissed at least three times, this she knew from lifelong experience.

“Well, that you must show me.” Killian planted a final quick kiss on his wife before turning his attention to his daughter, exclaiming in admiration as she lit the candle for him and giving her a proud hug.  

Emma scooped up the still-bouncing puppy and cradled him in the crook of her arm, scratching his tummy gently with her fingertips. “Time to change now, kid, if you want some food,” she said. Liam licked her chin then closed his eyes, shimmered gently with a soft golden light, and Emma was holding a plump blond baby boy with eyes the same grey as the clouds outside. Cuddling him close she kissed his cheeks with silly smacking noises and he gurgled happily, patting her face with his tiny hands and making her heart clench with love and a trace of awe. Even after six months she still marvelled at him, at the ease of his transformation and the pure instinct of his magic. Her family’s witch magic manifesting in her daughter was something Emma had expected, something she knew how to deal with, but a shapeshifting son whose eyes were always the colour of the sky had taken her rather by surprise. 

She blamed Killian. Who was more than happy to accept full responsibility. Who was, in fact, thrilled to have a son who preferred to be a dog. 

“After all, love, it’s far more fun to be a six month old puppy than a six month old baby,” he’d pointed out just the day before. “Considerably greater mobility, and that’s just for a start. Perhaps he’ll choose to be human more often when he’s a bit older.” 

Liam’s cheerful babble interrupted her musings. “Well, I hope you’ll have a nice long nap after your dad wore you out letting you walk all the way here,” she remarked as she carried him to the small room at the back of the shop. There she fed him and burped him, rubbed his back and hummed a lullaby until he fell into a doze, then laid him down gently in the crib she’d tucked into the quietest corner of the room and tiptoed away to begin the preparations for tea, hoping he’d stay asleep. 

The scrabbling sound of puppy claws on hardwood and Rowenna’s shrieks of laughter informed her that that hope was a futile one. Emma sighed and decided to let Killian deal with it. 

When she came back into the shop with her tea tray piled high with Samhain treats David and Mary Margaret were there, she seated on the floor cooing over a delighted Liam and he attempting to police the children’s table where Leo was already squabbling with Rowenna over her crayons. Emma surreptitiously removed the practice candle from within her daughter’s range of magic while Killian poured tea for everyone, heavily diluting it with warm apple cider for the children. 

“So how was your day?” Emma inquired of the room at large, once everyone had been served. 

“Ugh,” groaned David. “Don’t ask.” 

“Why, mate, what happened?”

“I wish I knew. It seems like Leroy managed to obtain Doc’s Miata—

“—According to Granny he won it in some sort of bet,” Mary Margaret chimed in.

“—and he’s been driving it around like a maniac all day,” David concluded. 

“Ah,” said Emma, deadpan. “So that’s what that red blur was.” 

David shook his head. “I know you’re kidding, but also you’re not kidding. He was pulled over for speeding six times, twice in fifteen minutes by the same officer. I finally had to put him in a holding cell to get him off the damn roads.” 

“Yip! Yip! Yip!” barked Liam in his tiny puppy voice, leaping out of Mary Margaret’s lap and jumping excitedly at the Main Street window. “Yip! Yip!” They all looked out the window to see Doc walking past, carrying a baseball bat and the air of one seeking bloody retribution. 

“Goddamn it,” growled David as he charged out the door. 

~~💐~~

David didn’t return. He sent Mary Margaret a terse text saying he’d see her at home that night, so after she finished her tea Mary Margaret collected Leo, wished everyone a happy Samhain, and took her leave.

Liam was sound asleep on Rowenna’s lap, draped across her legs in that boneless puppy way, but when Emma picked him up he yawned and shimmered back into a baby, snuggling against his mother and blowing bubbles of drool on her chest. 

“I’m gonna go put him down in the crib and hope he naps until closing,” whispered Emma. “Do you mind taking Wren back home with you?”

“What do you say, lass, shall we get the food ready for the bonfire?” asked Killian. 

“Yeah!” Rowenna jumped up from her chair. 

“Put your crayons away first,” Killian instructed, catching her shoulder before she could run out the door, “And don’t forget your jacket.” 

As Rowenna collected her crayons under Killian’s watchful eye, Emma slipped away with Liam, indulging herself in a brief cuddle before laying him in the crib, stroking his hair —the same colour and softness as his fur— until she heard Killian and Rowenna leave the shop. 

 She tidied up the tea things and took them into the back, and when she returned to the shop Regina was waiting. 

Emma gave her a hug, which she returned warmly. Regina had warmed considerably in the past seven years, finally out from under her mother’s controlling thumb and now four years into a relationship with one of Killian’s old university colleagues, a widower with a young son who, Regina had once confessed to Emma, had brought out a maternal side in her she’d never known she had. 

“How’s everything?” asked Emma. How’s Cora, she meant. 

Regina understood. “We’re doing a bonfire tonight,” she replied. “Mother lit the candles this morning.” 

“That’s fantastic!” 

“It really is.” Regina shook her head as a smile teased the corners of her mouth. “I honestly never thought I’d see the day.” 

“So do you think she’s really reconciled to everything?” 

“She still hates you,” said Regina bluntly. “And Killian even more. And I suspect she still tries to summon magic sometimes.” 

“Well, no one changes overnight.” 

“No. And she is getting better.” 

“That’s something, anyway.” 

“That’s something,” Regina agreed. 

“And… you’re happy, right?” asked Emma cautiously. Regina could still be prickly about her personal life.

But Regina smiled, wide and soft and genuine. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m happy.”

“Well, that’s what matters.” 

“I suppose it is.” Regina allowed herself a brief squeeze of Emma’s hand. “Well, you’ve got things to do and I should be going. I’ll see you again at the equinox?”

“See you then. Blessed Samhain, Regina.” 

“Blessed Samhain.” 

~~💐~~

That evening Rowenna, dressed in a miniature version of her mother’s ceremonial gown and with green eyes huge at the momentous responsibility of the task, carried the oak log to the smouldering pile of wood in the fire circle and carefully placed it on the top. It burst instantly into flame and she started backwards in awe and alarm, reaching for Emma’s hand. Emma took it, partly to reassure her daughter and partly to complete the ritual, speaking the ancient words slowly so Rowenna could follow along, her small voice quavering slightly but never faltering. 

Killian sat on the porch steps watching them, Liam gurgling happily in his arms and  his chest tight with pride and love and other emotions he couldn’t assign a name. Happiness was certainly one, he thought, and wonder.  

Emma and Rowenna finished their obeisance and Rowenna with a whoop of joy ran inside to get the food to roast in the fire. She returned less than a minute later balancing a tray of corn and squash precariously as she bounced down the stairs, and Liam began to squirm with intent.

“I suppose you want to go play,” said Killian. 

“Gurgle,” Liam replied.

“All right go on.”

His son’s body shimmered and glowed, and Killian’s arms were full of wiggling puppy. Liam covered his father’s face in wet kisses then leapt from his lap and raced out into the garden.  

“Be careful!” called Killian. 

“Yip!” barked Liam. 

Killian leaned back against the railing of the porch with a pensive sigh. The garden magic rose and swirled around him, ruffling his hair and tickling the sensitive spot just behind his ear. He laughed. 

“Hello,” he said. 

You’re thinking hard.

“Just reflecting on the vagaries of fate,” said Killian with a wry grin. “Wondering…”

Speak your mind, Killian Jones.

Killian chuckled. The garden magic had always understood him. 

“All this,” he said, gesturing to the fire, the feast, his family. “Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to deserve it, that’s all.” 

You earned it for yourself, the magic whispered. You protected her. You loved her. You were prepared to die for her. You made this happen.

“Did you know?” he asked it. “Did you always know who I was… to her?” 

Yes. Who you could be to her. But the future is never certain. There is always a choice. 

“A choice,” echoed Killian, watching his wife and daughter tuck vegetables around the fire to roast and their son yip in delight as he chased the embers floating through the air. “I like that. It’s how it should be.” 

As per usual, every time he woke up, Killian would step in front of the tablet they’d set up to record video messages for one another. Sometimes there would be more videos recorded during the day – or night – if they felt nostalgic or wanted to tell the other something exciting or something new about their research.

Pressing the gallery app, he found only one video, recorded around five a.m., definitely at the police station. He remembered being there after his nightly run. He hoped he hadn’t hunted down one of Peter’s rabbits. The man would probably kill him, Killian wouldn’t put it past him.

Killian clicked onto the video without playing it, taking his time to admire how beautiful she was. He hated that he could only see her in photos or videos, never with his own two eyes. His eyebrows shot up as he watched her face, her curls tied in a messy ponytail and thick black-rimmed glasses that were slightly crooked on the bridge of her nose. Behind them, Emma’s eyes had dark circles around them, as she usually had every night when she worked both at the police station and on their project.

Unsurprisingly, she was wearing one of his sweatshirts. Much like him, Emma clung to anything that belonged to him he would leave around, whether it was clothes, a note, food the other made, little gifts. They still yearned for that part of humanity they couldn’t live, that normal part that had been ripped away from them and they were desperately trying to take back.

«Hey, babe,» Emma’s tired voice greeted him after he pressed play. He sighed, mirroring her smile; despite her tiredness, Emma still managed to give him the brightest smile she could. «It’s, ugh, it’s just about five, which you already know anyway because I’m one hundred percent sure you still look at which hour it’s been recorded so you can check how much sleep I actually get.» She sighed lovingly, biting her lower lip as she used to do when she was remembering something happy – or had a naughty thought. Even after all this time, he still vividly remembered how she would look up at him from under her eyelashes, green eyes glinting with mischief.

In the video, Emma brought her eyes back on the screen. «Anyway, nights here almost as boring as Storybrooke’s. Am I a bad person if I say I don’t miss Leroy? I probably am. I don’t care. Which makes me even worse. Oh well, I’d rather be dealing with Zelena’s calls all nig- No. No, wait, nopes. I take that back. Zelena’s calls are the worst. But you know that already. It’s her voice! I hate it, so high-pitched! And she complains about everything. How can she keep going on both day and night?» She shook her head, clearly tired of the young woman’s calls about flying monkeys. There were none, thankfully, both he and Emma had checked. Multiple times.

«So, while nothing happened at work, aside from Zelena calling. Once. Huge record. But. I’ve went through some old books I might have secretly taken from the library – thank god Belle’s not here, though I really miss her research abilities. I bet we would’ve already found a solution by now.»

Ah, Belle, the petite, witty librarian and one of Killian’s best friends despite their age difference. Which wasn’t much, but perhaps it was that what made their friendship so special: they were an unusual pair, had started off definitely with the wrong foot but had ultimately bonded. Killian missed Belle, as much as he missed everyone else. There were people, though, he missed more than any other inhabitant of Storybrooke.

«However, I’ve found this… thing. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but there seems to be a scroll, something called the Sorcerer’s scroll. The book I’ve found, a very, very strange one, you’ll see, says the scroll has a prophecy written on it. However, what I’ve found out is that it can locate the “hidden town”. Or something like that. You’re better at ancient Greek than me anyway, so unless they meant Atlantis or Olympus, whoever wrote this book meant Storybrooke. I hope. Or… any town surrounded by a magical barrier? Ugh, I don’t know, Killian.» Emma sighed, taking off her glasses only to run her hand over her face. She was tired, and not because of the late hour. «I just want to go home.»

It wasn’t unusual for either one of them to have a breakdown, especially in front of the tablet: although they couldn’t physically comfort each other, they still knew the other would understand. Both Killian and Emma had had enough of Misthaven. Yes, the people were lovely, there, they understood and accepted them, but there was a reason why they’d been cursed, a reason why they not only were searching for a cure but also for a way back to Storybrooke.

As if on cue, the tattoo on his chest itched, the lion wanting to roar to life, the constellation inside it burning as if it was composed by actual stars. He sighed, pressing his hand above his heart, the slightly raised skin there pulsating at his every beat.

In the video, Emma’s fingers were tracing the buttercup on her wrist. They’d had them done at the same time, with Emma barging into Mulan’s house at one a.m.; the Chinese tattoo artist welcoming her with a dao raised, its shiny point aiming at Emma’s throat. Emma paid double for the tiny tattoo.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t peaceful either. Outside, in the dark of the night, thunders roared like lions fighting for the land. Killian inhaled deeply, his subconscious making him feel the scent of wet wood and musk as if he was still in wolf form and his sense enhanced.

«Locator spells won’t work.»

Suddenly, Emma’s voice brought him back. He tilted his head, cataloguing the distress on her face.

«Of course they won’t,» she muttered to herself, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. «We need to find it, Killian. I just don’t know how. There’s this… prophecy, but it’s written in runic. If you weren’t such a Lord of the Rings nerd I would think it’s elvish.» Emma chuckled. The video didn’t make it justice, it wasn’t as warm as it was in real life, when her breath would tickle his skin or mingle with his own before one of them dove in for a kiss. «In fact, even though I’m not a language nerd like you are, I did make a thorough study of which kind of runes these are. Any guesses?»

Immediately, Killian stopped the video. Whenever they asked each other a non-rhetorical question, they would stop the video and would actively try to come up with an answer.

Now, although Killian was good at languages – more than Emma, honestly, but she was pretty good, too – he was a bit rusty when it came to runes. Liam had always been the better one at runic alphabets, something that had to do with his long trips to Norway. Or, rather, his girlfriend living there. Liam always denied he was with her, but the telltale signs of his embarrassment were always present.

Had phone calls still be a possibility, he would’ve called Liam already. Hell, they would’ve already broken the curse, probably. Instead, communications with Storybrooke had been abruptly cut off, every phone number nonexistent and, of course, mail didn’t get there. Nor emails, for all that mattered.

«Trick question, love,» he muttered, the beginning of a smirk showing up on his face as he shot a glance to her sleeping form, «it must be Elder Futhark, can’t be otherwise. Well, they could be Anglo-Saxon runes, if we followed the Arthurian legends and this so-called Sorcerer was Merlin. Can it be? Well, either or. The other ones are either a mixture or a descendant of Elder Futhark anyway.»

Killian sighed and his shoulders sagged. How he hoped he could tease her about runic alphabets and his knowledge of ancient languages, knowing fully well she loved that nerdy part of him.

Pressing the play button again, Killian was greeted with Emma’s laugh. «You didn’t even look it up, did you?» She shook her head. «Alright, alright, it’s Elder Futhark, of course. I’ll let you get the exact translation, I’m tired, going to drink lots of coffee and try to put some of the data in the system. Geez, this police station is even worse than Storybrooke’s.»

As if on cue, Emma brought a mug up in front of her which, of course, was Killian’s, the one with a pattern of ships, anchors, wheels, compasses and other nautical objects, one of the many she’d gifted him when she was going through her mug phase.

«I’ll leave the book in the living room when I come home. Oh, before I forget,» Emma added, pointing a finger at the monitor, a warning glance at him, burning him as if she was there in the flesh in front of him, «don’t you ever dare bring dead rabbits to the station again. It stinks, Killian. I know Fenrir wants me to give him belly rubs and scratch behind his ears, but we need to draw the line at dead things you want to eat.»

Killian’s ears were now on fire. Bloody hell, he thought, embarrassment flooding through him. As always, he wasn’t proud of what he did when in wolf form, mostly because he didn’t remember much of it. The wolf always took over, it always followed its instincts. Thankfully, for one reason or another, the wolf never attacked Emma. In fact, it protected her, somehow, as if it knew she was its mate. Killian was thankful for that, if he could even consider himself thankful for that bloody curse, but better to be grateful than live with the regret of having hurt the love of his life. Or worse.

Aside from it being bloody awful, it was also bittersweet: both wolves and swans mated for life. Regina hadn’t even left them that.

«Goodnight, my love,» Emma softly whispered to him, her eyes shining with love as she looked at the webcam. «One day,» she whispered at last, moments before stopping the video, the last frame showing her loving smile, one she would reserve to him and him alone.

Whenever she smiled like that, he would smile back at her, the skin around his eyes wrinkling, and he would then dip his head and kiss her. Killian just couldn’t resist her, he never could.

«One day,» he vowed with a sigh.

It had been their promise since it all began: one day, they would be human again. One day, they would get back to Storybrooke, back home. One day, they would be reunited with their family.

Thankfully, Robin had the morning shift at the station, leaving Killian time to study the inscription on the scroll.                                                                                                                                      

Pulling a fresh pair of sweatpants from the drawer, Killian put them on, walking towards the laptop he’d left on the coffee table. Slightly squinting at the monitor – he wouldn’t succumb to glasses, he would not – Killian pulled up a pdf file of scans he’d made of rune books.

Next to the laptop was the antique book Emma was talking about. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. Killian might be a detective, but he also was a history nerd due to his mother’s interests and the fact that she’d raised him and Liam with stories of all the little details of Arthurian legends every night. Although it was the main reason, Killian loved history because he could learn the truths “normal” historians didn’t talk about, truths he could easily believe in, such as the existence of a wizard named Merlin and a Lady inhabiting a lake.

Thinking about his love for those legends automatically filled him with a sense of loss.

Since he was a young lad Killian had known what loss was. It didn’t matter that he still had his brother and mother, his father, the man he looked up to, left him. They’d not been separated by death, but by Brennan’s choice.

Killian’s reaction had not been a peaceful one, the blinding love he felt towards the man suddenly transforming into rage, snapping at the two remaining members of his family and whoever dared speak to him. Only the realization that he was hurting his mother had suddenly put a stop to his behaviour.

In order to make amends, in fact, Killian had started to show a genuine interest in what his mother loved, supporting her decision to write a novel – or twelve – and devouring all the information she discovered, coming to the point in which he would be the one to show her something new, an ancient manuscript or map Alice didn’t know existed.

Slowly, his mother’s sad expression once again became a proud one, and Killian soon forgot about his father’s abandonment.

Liam, on the other hand, continued keeping an eye on him. It wasn’t mistrust, not at all, he believed in his little – younger! – brother, but he couldn’t help being protective of Killian, watching him like a hawk and making sure he didn’t get into fights without knowing how to emerge the victor. Or at least how to not end up in the hospital.

With a sad and wistful smile, Killian took the tome, opening it to the page Emma had bookmarked. Elder Futhark wasn’t complicated, translating runes in modern English was more of a letter by letter translation instead of needing to search for the word’s specific meaning. However, since not every letter had a corresponding rune, people used to use a few runes in place of the missing letters. Or, as he could clearly see from the first line, they created new runes.

Killian’s brows knitted together, brushing his thumb over his lower lip, slightly pulling it down as he tried to recall what other manuscript presented made-up runes. There probably was no relation to the scroll anyway.

Another thing that didn’t sit right with him was the absence, in the tome, of the translation. Of course, the book was old enough to have been written when people could still easily read runes. But he wasn’t convinced.

Being the old-fashioned man Emma always fondly claimed he was, Killian took up his leather-bound notebook and a pen, carefully translating the runes.

Truth to be told, he didn’t even need to look up what each rune meant but, if Emma was right, he couldn’t allow himself to make a mistake. There was too much at stake, so much more than breaking their curse.

“I have travelled the world near and far, my search knows no bounds, my obsession will not leave me, my search will continue to the ends of the earth.”

If Killian had been confused before, now he was shocked. This didn’t look like a prophecy, but a journal of sorts instead.

Suddenly, fear gripped his heart, wrapping tightly around it like a serpent did its prey to keep it still while it fed.

“One thing I know for sure: the name of the Savior is Emma.”

One thing Killian Jones knew for sure, was that nothing was a coincidence. Nothing. Ever.

It hadn't been a coincidence that his mother had brought him and his brother to Storybrooke but, before that, it hadn't been a coincidence what happened on their last vacation in Cornwall.

Killian couldn't say he knew everything about magic, not when he had a brilliant best friend who was always three steps ahead with her knowledge despite not having an ounce of magic coursing through her veins, but what he knew was that Emma was no Savior. Well, not quite. From his part, she was, somehow, but it was mostly tied to what they went through in the past, not to some kind of prophecy.

He cast a glance at her sleeping form, a flash of how she would've looked in human form passing was fast as lightning in front of his eyes. Emma was a bed-hog, always claiming all the blankets for herself and yet managing to wrap her limbs around him like a bloody koala in order to steal his body heat.

His worry didn't fade, on the contrary, it increased. What did this scroll mean? Why Emma? What did she need to do? What other catastrophe would be placed on their path home?

“The Savior shall be my sister. The family must be complete.”

This had just become weirder. Not only that, the scroll didn't seem to allude to any form of magical barrier and how to cross them, nor to hidden towns in the Middle of Bloody Nothing, Maine

Not having the actual scroll in his hands, Killian couldn't place a locator spell on it to find its owner and get the answers he sought. He couldn't go door to door asking if anyone had ever seen the scroll either, assuming of course that said scroll was in Misthaven.

The little community, much like Storybrooke but completely different, too, had been very much welcoming, not glaring at them after hearing about their curse and acting quite nicely instead, offering them shelter when they needed it the most. Killian dreaded to think what living in a town where most people didn't believe magic existed would be like. They would've probably been forced to flee as soon as someone even got suspicious, hoping they would not be discovered. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, conjuring happy memories to wash away the horrifying images of his seaman laying on a lab table, scientists all around her or, worse, her small figure on the ground, blood painting her snowy feathers a deep blood red.

He wanted to retch.

Killian closed his eyes, breathing in deeply and focusing on his memories of Emma to quench his fear. She was still alive, there was no actual threat to her life unless they found a way back to Storybrooke. And even then, the monster that cursed them would soon take her last breath.

He was glad Sarah took them in, under her wing. How ironic: they'd been escaping from a mayor and got taken in by another.

Killian widened his eyes, a quiet gasp escaping his lips. What if… It was a long shot, and he might find himself back to square one, with nothing more than a bloody book in his hands, but his instinct was telling him he was on the right path.

After running away from Storybrooke - or rather, after they'd been forcefully teleported behind the town line - Emma and Killian had tried to cross the invisible barrier, but neither Emma's magic or Killian's newfound wolf strength could do anything against such a powerful curse.

They survived in the woods around Storybrooke for barely a month, Emma's transformation a horrible surprise when morning came. Whatever time they had they spent it trying to figure out a solution, a way to break the curse, all in vain.

They stopped living like that when Killian was almost killed by a hunter. They couldn't keep living like that, they deserved to live like human beings.

Hoping there'd be someone like them out there, they tried to follow magic, a bit tricky when you don't know what you're looking for, but they ultimately found a trace, a magic different from theirs.

Sarah Fisher had snow magic.

At first they were wary of her, as much as they wanted to trust someone who had magic, they’d ignored the danger Regina represented and they would not repeat that mistake again.

Sarah, however, was immediately friendly. Not knowing who they were, she couldn't have a plausible reason to hate them, but being cautious was essential, they couldn't risk being exposed or, worse, killed.

It was Emma who met her first, in the dead of the night, victim of her magic. Sarah, too, had been afraid, hence why she attacked Emma, sensing her light magic but also the curse.

After freeing her, Sarah asked what had happened to them. Although Killian wasn't exactly in control or the wolf, Fenrir - as Emma lovingly called his wolf, trying to make the best out of the situation - was still a part of him. Or, rather, he was Fenrir, but nothing like Ruby, he was not a werewolf, albeit sometimes even Ruby didn't have control on her wolf or didn't remember what happened during the night. What Killian remembered of his nights were fragments of distorted memories that almost seemed alien to his human mind, and, most of all, sensations.

Wanting, needing to know what he felt during his cursed nights, in the morning he would write everything down in his journal, a diary of sorts, much like a captain's log.

When Sarah showed up in the forest, Fenrir had been wary of her, the wolf’s hackles rising and a low, warning growl resonating form his throat.

The same night, however, although the wolf still kept his eyes on her, she showed she was  a good person. Emma's superpower - so-called, not her actual magic, of course - did go off on a few occasions, but never when Sarah spoke of Misthaven and how she wanted to help lost souls or, in their case, a lost family.

Misthaven became their temporary home, a little quaint town near Boston, one that, much like Storybrooke, was well hidden and isolated.

Not having any money to speak of - Killian contemplated the idea of producing a bag of money with a wave of his hand, only to be glared at and pecked  by Emma - Sarah gave them a house and a job as well.

It was surprising how little towns’ law enforcements always lacked deputies.[1] 

They became deputies, covering the roles they had in Storybrooke, under the guidance of Chief Bogo. It was almost like the old times, but ten times worse.

In Storybrooke, Emma and Killian used to work together, making one hell of a team. Not that the little town had this huge criminal activity, but when it came to actual, magical crisis, they could do anything together. Of course, they were never alone, they had a whole team, a family, who got their backs, but some victories they conquered together were the ones they savoured the most. And the most wonderful, amazing, satisfying victory of all was their little lion.

Killian’s heart ached at the thought, more than anything he wanted to get back to him. It’d been too long, two years too long.

Closing the laptop and doing something he never would do, he ripped out a page of the notebook, folding it. Rapidly, he changed into a pair of jeans and a shirt, foregoing the vest entirely, he didn’t have time to be fashionable, not when today he could find the answer he was seeking.

He needed to calm down, the last thing he needed was to fuck everything up because he was too impulsive. Quietly, so as not to wake Emma, he slipped into his boots, picking up the folded note and his leather jacket.

Before heading out of the door, Killian cast one last glance at Emma. Inside his chest, his heart swelled at the thought that, hopefully, soon he’d be able to see her again, to actually see her, He could talk to her, kiss her, map out her body once more, but even just being able to see the real her would be enough, videos and photos couldn’t compete against that feeling of loneliness and loss that wrapped around his insides like a snake.

A quick glance towards the open window next to the bed assured him Emma could easily come find him. It’d seem impossible, or utterly inimaginable for anyone without an ounce of magic or imagination, but both Killian and Emma, in either form they can take, whether animal or human, can always find one another.

In order to not stop their cursed counterparts from leaving the house, Emma enchanted a window with blood magic so only the two of them could go through it, adding a few more spells in order to not let the rain inside or the temperature to drop or rise according to the weather outside.

Misthaven’s layout was pretty much the same as Storybrooke’s, with little shops arranged on both sides of the town’s main street. There was even a diner, run by none other than the lovely Aunt Em. Granny would probably walk the whole way to Misthaven if she ever caught wind that Em’s grilled cheese was better than hers.

Unlike Storybrooke, however, Misthaven lacked a pawnbroker’s shop, a shop Killian could very well live without, just like he could easily live without its owner.

Anna, a bubbly redhead left in charge of the ice cream parlour Any Given Sundae after her aunt’s election, greeted him as she arranged the shop’s windows with decorations and chocolate sweets. He’d need to come back later, it’d been too long since he last gave Emma chocolates or managed to bake something for her. Besides, Anna’s chocolate, any kind she prepared, was simply divine.

It was perhaps his worst kept secret, but Killian had a sweet tooth, almost as sweet as Emma's, especially when it came to chocolate or his mother's marmalade. He chuckled at  the memory of how Emma, too, had been extremely fond of that orange marmalade, going almost mad with need but not wanting to ask Alice to make her some because she felt ashamed. Despite the decidedly happy outcome, that year had not been an easy one. Of course, Killian’s mother just knew, and had presented Emma with so many marmalade jars they still had one or two hidden in their house’s basement. But was it still their house? A horrible, nauseating sensation twisted his guts. Suddenly, whatever trace of hunger he’d had disappeared.

Clenching his jaw, Killian rapidly strode towards Sarah’s house, a nice little mansion not far from the center of Misthaven but pretty secluded anyways. He felt as if his heart had been stabbed a thousand times as he saw the resemblance to the blue Victorian house he called home.

Shaking his head to banish the unwelcome thought, Killian made his way towards the front door, which magically opened with a gust of cold breeze, chilling his skin and sending shivers down his spine, the hairs on his neck and arms rising.

Although that was a clear invitation, Killian, being the gentleman he always was, rapped his knuckles against the door, calling out for Sarah.

«In the kitchen, darling!»

He stepped inside, the door closing right behind him. He tried not to flinch: as much as he knew Sarah’s magic was good, that Sarah was good, Killian couldn’t help but remember who else used her magic for the littlest things. No, he wouldn’t and couldn’t compare the two: even with her secrets, Sarah was a good person.

«Killian! What a nice surprise!» Sarah told him, rinsing her hands and walking to him to wrap her arms around him. «How are you? How was your night?»

Killian returned the hug, her fresh scent of mint invading his nostrils along with a whiff of… was that curry? Throwing a quick glance at the table, Killian could see Sarah was making a new batch of ice cream. Or, well, trying to.

Bringing his attention back to the woman, Killian smiled fondly. «I’m good, as much as I could be after I inadvertently brought a dead rabbit to the station,» he admitted, his neck flushing red, up to the tips of his ears. Although he knew she wasn’t and couldn’t possibly be, Killian saw Sarah almost as a mother figure. It made him miss his mother even more.

Despite the pain, however, he was grateful she’d come into their lives, bringing them a spark of hope. And now, if his suspicion was correct, she would provide him with the means to get back home and break this curse once and for all.

Sarah laughed lightly, bringing her fingers to her lips to cover them like a lady would do. Killian always found that a remarkable trait of Sarah’s, it reminded him of Snow and how her manners were those of a princess.

«Emma must've not been too enthusiastic about it,» the woman replied, stepping back and moving to the table, fingers tracing the rim of a crystal cup to freeze the ice cream inside. Killian had never seen the process, but magic fascinated him, especially magic peculiar to certain people.

«Indeed she wasn’t,» he confirmed, watching as Sarah then proceeded to put the kettle on. Another thing they shared was their love for tea, albeit Killian had a more English taste while Sarah loved to try different flavours, much like she did with her ice cream.

Being used to her kitchen, Killian took two cups out of the cupboard and set them on the counter. «What about you? How was your day? Didn’t you have your weekly meeting with Zelena yesterday?»

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah shudder. Against his better judgement, Killian chuckled, earning an icy glare from the woman. «Don’t you dare laugh at me for my own disgraces, boy, Zelena’s obsession is a cross all of us must bear.»

Chastised, he nodded. «Aye, you’re right. I hate that Emma’s the one having to deal with her late night calls the most. It’s a wonder she’s not seriously snapped at Zelena already.» His Swan, always so fierce, but a tad short-tempered. In Storybrooke, after one too many nights in the cell, she’d yelled at Leroy that, if he wanted Astrid to date him, he should quit drinking and getting involved in bar fights. Suffice to say, Leroy visits to the station were more tied to a sense of gratefulness than to one beer too much in his system.

Killian doubted Zelena would actually listen to his wife, though, which would only fuel Emma's ire. She would probably cut off the electricity of Zelena's house and slash her tires. Once, twice, thrice, until she would just end up blasting the redhead with magic, ending her life on the spot. And to say, Emma had been able to keep herself from doing the same to Regina for years. Now, Killian regretted he'd talked her out of her very detailed plans to end the woman's life.

«If I wasn't the mayor, I would definitely approve of more drastic methods. Alas, I have to play nice. Believe me, I'd just love to freeze her just a tiny bit.» Sarah’s expression turned pensive. «Do you think hibernation could work? Could she tell the difference between hibernation and sleeping?»

The serious tone in which she spoke had Killian chuckling. «I don't think so. You could try.»

Sarah hummed, clearly considering the idea.

They worked in tandem and harmony, Killian taking over the tea preparation and Sarah arranging the table, any trace of her experiments disappearing and making way to toasted bread and a vast variety of jams and butter.

It wasn't unusual that they had breakfast together, or that she and Emma would sometimes dine at Sarah's place, with Killian either hunting outside or curled up at Emma's feet.

This, Sarah's friendship, the bond the three of them had created, was the main reason why Killian still refused to believe the woman had lied to them all this time.

Setting down the steamy teacups in front of them, Killian took place in what had become his chair. Perhaps Sarah never actually wanted to hurt them, but what he'd read wouldn't leave him alone, not until he had an answer.

Sarah looked at him from over the cup, ice blue eyes boring into his in search of an answer themselves «What's troubling you, Killian?»

For a moment, he felt like a ten-year-old, worrying about the world’s mysteries he couldn't find an answer to. It was then, when he was pouting and his gaze was lost, that his mother would brush strands of hair from his forehead in a soothing gesture and ask him what question he wanted her to answer.

«What do you know about the Sorcerer’s scroll?»

So much for having a way with words[2] [3] .

The teacup clinked against the table as it shattered, splashing scorching hot tea all over it and Sarah. A hiss filled the air, and he could see smoke rising from the woman's torso, right where the tea had seeped through the blouse and come in contact with her skin.

For a moment, Killian feared she would turn him into an ice statue, or freeze his heart.

Squaring his shoulders and clenching his jaw, he kept staring at her, holding her gaze. Worry clouded her eyes. Did she fear he'd hurt her? That he would expose her secret to everyone? What secret, though? Why was she so scared of him - or anyone else - knowing about the scroll?

At last, she spoke. «Unfortunately, too much and too little.»

Killian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He waved his hand, and a cloud of crimson smoke enveloped the teacup. When the cloud dissipated, the teacup was fixed, and full of tea once more. He didn't do anything for her clothes, there still were boundaries he didn't want to cross. «Tell me.»

After drying her blouse and jeans, Sarah took another sip of tea, pondering. «I shall start from the beginning, then.» Another pause, perhaps the hope that it was only a dream. «For one, my name is not Sarah. It's Ingrid. I'm… I'm the runaway princess of Arendelle. You probably haven't heard of it, though wouldn't be surprised if you had. Arendelle, much like Misthaven and Storybrooke, is a sanctuary for us magical beings.»

Killian tilted his head, wondering why all this secrecy. Her next words answered his unspoken question.

«I was barely eighteen when it happened. I was the only one with ice powers in my family, aside from my Grandmother. You see, only a member of the royal family with snow or ice powers can rule, mostly in fear of what non-magic rulers could do, even if their blood has magic. Mind you, it's mostly like Denmark or United Kingdom, nothing like a true monarchy, not anymore. As far as I know, my niece ascended to the throne after I left, otherwise, I'd be the one with a crown on my head. But I didn't leave because I didn't want the crown: I ran away because I killed my own sister.»

Silence fell between them, Killian staring at Sarah - no, Ingrid - in confusion. While her words couldn't be misunderstood, her expression of true regret told another story. As it usually happened, there was more to what people spoke aloud, hence why he always knew to search deeper. Emma had her superpower, but Killian had an acute perception, too. There was a reason why he was good at his job. Sometimes, Emma wondered if they should move to a slightly bigger city, so he could put his brilliant mind to good use.

Killian cleared his throat so low it sounded like a growl. «What happened to her?» He didn't accuse Sarah, he merely gave her a little push to give him her own version of the story, one he wouldn't consider an excuse because he knew how easily someone could lose control over their power.

Sarah’s face twisted into a pained expression as undoubtedly vivid memories filled her mind. «It was an accident,» she began, eyes fixated on the reflection she saw on the still surface of her tea. «I didn’t mean to kill her, I love my sisters, even if I had magic-» She cut herself off, her lower lip quivering. Killian had never seen her so… broken. He almost felt bad for bringing it up, for making her tell him the truth, but he needed to know so he could justify the affection he still felt for her.

A shiver ran down his spine. It was cold in the room, too cold for it to be natural. Clenching his fist, Killian felt the skin of his forefingers grow ice cold. His concern was broken by Sarah’s voice.

«I’m the oldest of the three. Well,» she snorts without a trace of amusement, «I was: now there’s only me. It doesn’t matter, they’re better off without me.»

«That can’t possibly be true.»

If Sarah was surprised by his words, Killian was baffled. Yet, he didn’t regret them: even if Sarah, Ingrid, whatever, was a killer, the regret in her eyes and her words, but mostly the way she’d always acted towards them and the feeling in his gut, told him she wasn’t a monster. For the two years he’d been in Misthaven, Killian had witnessed a kind person always trying to make people happy however she could, nothing like his own mayor, who instead preferred making people miserable at every opportunity.

The grateful, tearful smile Sarah gave him broke his heart. Drying her tears with a handkerchief, the woman regained composure. It wasn’t the first time she had looked like a true queen, no, the way she led the town should’ve been telling, but only now Killian understood why she did.

«There was a Duke, much, much older than my beloved Helga, who tirelessly courted her. She was… flattered, and while I was suspicious, who was I to stand between her and her happiness? Voicing my doubts would only push her away even further. One morning, the Duke approached me. He was - still is, I assume - one who spoke his mind, never fearing any form of backlash when stating the ruler of Arendelle should always be the firstborn, whether they had magic or not. In short, he planned to either marry me and make me his breeding mare until I conceived a child with magic and then kill me off so he could raise the baby the way he wanted, making himself  their reigning King. He told me so, saying Helga would meet the same fate if I didn’t follow his requests.»

Killian was disgusted. His mind traveled through his memory, the Duke’s modus operandi was similar to Regina’s in the beginning, when her mother still was alive and protected her even if she went as far as trying to kill somebody.

Placing a hand over her joined ones, Killian tried to instill some courage in her, making her realize she was not alone, that he believed her.

Her smile widened slightly before a grimace took its place. «I was so enraged I lost control over my powers, but not immediately, no, the last straw was Helga overhearing and discovering his plan. Weselton didn’t plan on that.» Sarah closed her eyes, her expression suddenly tired. «Everything happened so fast. Helga started to yell in her attempt to defend me instead of her own betrayed heart, while Weselton shouted what a monster I was.» She shuddered, possibly hearing the Duke’s words so clear in her mind, plaguing her. «I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t keep my magic at bay. At one point, I knew I couldn’t let him get away with it, that he needed to be punished.»

Unwrapping her hands from the teacup, Sarah raised them in front of her and staring at them as if she only wanted to cut them off. It hit Killian how much they were shaking.

Sarah clenched her fists and tightly closed her eyes. «I don’t know what I wanted to do, whether I wanted to freeze him like a statue or just hurt him, but a blast of magic left the palms of my hands. It never hit the target.» She started to sob, and Killian rushed to stand up, coming around the table to wrap his arms around Sarah’s shoulders, hugging her tightly. «I never imagined he would use Helga as a shield,» she cried, cold tears soaking Killian’s clothes, wetting the skin beneath. The cold sensation he felt was like being hit by ice needles.

After several minutes, when Sarah stopped crying and finally stopped trembling, Killian offered her his own handkerchief. He then sat cross-legged on the floor, a big, warm hand placed on her knee.

All Killian could do was try to comfort her as he assimilated all the information. There was very little to say: he couldn’t tell her he forgave her, because there was nothing to forgive, her reaction was understandable and he would’ve probably done the same; he couldn’t tell Sarah everything was fine because it wasn’t. Killian bowed his head, his thoughts threatening to give him a nasty headache.

His head shot up when cold fingers wrapped around his warm ones. He returned the smile Sarah was giving him.

Clearing her throat, Sarah took a shaky breath before continuing her story. «Gerda never understood what happened, she only saw me crying o-over Helga’s remains. What I didn’t know, was that Weselton was in possession of an urn, one he was about to use to imprison me when I poofed myself away. I never understood whether it was my choice or my magic’s.» She cracked a smile. «You know it happens, don’t you?»

Aye, he knew that very well. Too bad his magic hadn’t helped either him or Emma when the curse came. Biting his lip, not wanting to push but needing to know. «What happened after? Where did you go?»

«I emptied my bank account before they could block it, before they could stop or find me. Nana never tried to reach me, not even once. She died a few months after Helga’s death. But what I know about Arendelle and my family doesn’t matter, you want to know about the scroll.»

His lips parted. «Sarah, I-» he started, but she shook her head, the gentle smile he loved back on her face.

«No, no, Killian, I should’ve known, I should’ve figured it would help you.» She pulled the chair back, standing up and making him sign to follow her. Silently, Sarah led him to the living room, heading then towards the marble mantel above the fireplace. On it, right at the center, between various photos of some of the people in Misthaven Sarah called friends, along with one of the two of them and Emma, taken almost one year before at Christmas, was a jewelry box.

Killian had always been fascinated by it, especially because of its particular floral patterns, which were painted on the wood with a technique called rosemåling. Killian only knew that particular kind of decorative folk art because of Liam’s own jewelry box, one he’d teased his brother about, and one he knew came from Norway. It was quite the coincidence, especially when the flowers appeared to be the same ones.

It was Sarah’s next words that made his blood run cold. «After finding an isolated cottage in the UK, I a man came to find me. He never gave me a name: I only ever knew him as the Apprentice.»

That was not possible. It just wasn’t. Too many coincidences, and though Killian was not one to believe in them, suddenly he dreaded what kind of link there was between the man, Sarah and himself.

Before he could ask her more about the old man, she started to speak again. «He put me in front of a choice: a cuff which would block all my powers forever or a scroll that would lead me to someone he called the Savior, a woman - one I didn’t know had yet to be born - whose name was Emma. At first, the cuff was the most appealing solution, but the Apprentice talked me out of it without actually saying a word against the cuff itself. You know, strange old men and women always seem to have a way with words.» A chuckle left her mouth, but all Killian did was smile tightly. «I took the scroll, and I embarked for America. At first, I spent a few years in Boston but I needed to get a job and, as the Apprentice suggested, work on my magic. So I moved to New York, where another man, the Dragon, taught me how to control it better. When he decided I was finally ready, I followed the scroll. It doesn’t have a map on it, just-»

«Runes. Elder Futhark. Aye, I’ve already translated it.» The impressed look she gave him made Killian blush a little.

«Then you know how cryptic it is.» At his nod, Sarah opened the box, taking the scroll out. It was exactly like the drawing in the book, long, the parchment could still pass as new, and of course was tied with a thin red satin ribbon.

It was so tempting: it wouldn’t take any effort to just reach out his hand and take it, take it and fly, run to Emma, and then, finally, go back home, back to their family, back to his little lion. His heart started to beat wildly, even faster than after a ten mile run.

«I stumbled upon Misthaven by mistake. At the time, a woman named Sambala was the mayor, but she was getting too old and she was afraid for her town’s future. When she discovered I had snow magic, she took me under her wing, much like I did you and Emma. Her lessons, along with the ones I’d already taken in Arendelle, made me the perfect candidate for the mayor’s position. As you can see, I won.» She turned around, twirling the scroll between her fingers. «When I stumbled upon you and Emma was the first time I’d thought about the scroll in years, and unfortunately not for its properties, but for what’s written on it.»

Killian nodded along with her words. «You’d finally found the person who would become your sister, you found your Emma.» There wasn’t resentment in his words, but he couldn’t help but feeling a pang of sadness at the thought that their nightmare could’ve ended much sooner.

Sarah must’ve read his feelings - she knew him so well, perhaps too much, even - because she handed the scroll to him, an apologetic smile blooming on her face. «Had I remembered it helped me cross Misthaven’s barrier the first time, I would’ve given it to you the moment you finished telling me your story in the woods. Alas, its existence, much like the painful memories related to it, lay buried deep inside me, lingering but almost forgotten.»

With slightly trembling fingers, Killian reached out. The moment his fingertips brushed the old parchment, a surge of magic shot through him, wrapping around his own in what could be considered a greeting before retreating back into the scroll.

He wet his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. «Do you think...»

«Do I think it will let you go through Regina’s barrier? I believe so, yes. I have to believe it can, much like you and Emma do. Don’t lose hope, Killian.»

Speechless, Killian looked down at the scroll resting in the palm of his hand. No, Killian knew this was the answer. Hope or not, Killian and Emma Jones had finally found a way to go back to Storybrooke.

They would finally be able to break Regina’s curses - the one she’d cast on them and the one enveloping the town. They would finally be able to save their family: their parents, Killian’s brother and their friends.

But, more importantly, they would finally be able to get back to the person they loved the most in all the world. Now, securely clutched in Killian’s fingers, was the means to save him, to save his little lion.

Regardless of the venture’s outcome, Henry still found it hard to believe he was in Italy; seeing the world, traveling on his own quest for knowledge and adventure, just as he had always known he was meant to do. He was still considered quite young for a history professor, and this would be the first field mission he had led. Granted, to most folks who weren’t history buffs or fans of Renaissance literature and its roots, the remains of the stone structure around him that they would catalogue and examine in the next week would not have been delighted enough to go without sleep just dreaming of the treasures and tales they might find, but Henry Mills had never been one to do as most others would.

The particular result he hoped to achieve was to find some sign or proof of the princess Emmaline, the protagonist of that tale which had sparked his interest nearly four years ago. History had at least partially buried her existence, or much knowledge of her beyond the ranks of myth and legend. But, if what Henry had learned was true, she had once been imprisoned by the same walls he was standing within. A younger sibling had ascended the throne in her place, and Emmaline had disappeared from all records of the kingdom which had eventually become extinct itself.

The story Henry had uncovered told of strange happenings beginning to occur around the beautiful golden daughter of King David and Queen Margaret of Misthavia once the young princess reached her sixteenth year. Injuries to those who might have slighted her, accidents and damages - coincidences all, but their frequency had reached the point that her involvement could no longer be hidden, and her people had begun to fear her. It seemed that Princess Emmaline had even been deemed a witch by some, and at last the king and queen had been forced to hide their daughter away for her own safety.

There had also been - at least as related in several varied sources - a handsome young lieutenant in the Misthavian royal navy who had long been in love with the hidden princess. This young sailor had vehemently protested the decision to lock Emmaline away, much less the eventual denial of her birthright. So the story had gone, this lieutenant had eventually left the king and queen’s service due to the rift, and as incongruous as it sounded, turned pirate in her honor, as he left with a ship to seek her in exile and rescue his love.

Still, by any account Henry had been able to locate, whatever had truly happened, if Princess Emmaline had existed at all, she had never taken the throne of her kingdom. The rather tiny Misthavia, along the Tyrrhenian Sea had been subsumed into the rest of the larger country and ceased to be a separate entity in the modern world. To his scholarly, and curious, mind however, what became of the lost princess, hidden in her tower, remained an irresistible mystery.

For the moment he was not willing to risk discovery and be banned from the site before his official work even began, so Henry did not linger. He closed his eyes, breathing in the somewhat musty air that somehow, to his mind, also brought hints of spring rain, apple blossoms, weathered wooden planks, leather and sea salt. Shaking his head at his own ridiculously detailed imagination - now bringing him scents even, as well as hoped for sights and stories - Henry turned to carefully make his way back out of the rocky rumble, avoiding an overturned settee frame with bits of ripped upholstery clinging to it and a few floorboards, whose soundness appeared debatable. Watching where he was placing his feet and the path back to the entrance in the beam of his flashlight, he failed to notice that materializing behind him, wispy white and hazy against the deepening gloom within the old walls, two shadows, almost corporeal but not quite, were silently watching him go…

~***~

~Part One~

By the time Henry had returned to the Universitá di Bologna housing,where he and his team of advanced grad students were staying for the duration of their research trip in Italy, he was more than a bit anxious to reach his temporary quarters and go back through the copious research notes he had taken and goals he’d laid out in preparation before finally standing within the crumbling skeleton of his historical site - what remained of the once-stunning tower. Having now glimpsed it with his own eyes in the still shadows and dying light of evening, Henry was almost breathless with excitement and the desire to compare what he had seen with the numerous possible finds he had deemed likely. Already, he was itching to return at dawn’s first light with his team and equipment.

The heavy feeling in the air of another presence - of not being alone in the ruins, though his logical mind knew he must have been - had been easily shaken off once he returned to the city from the more remote location. The sound and bustle of the modern world - phones, cars, the press of crowds - melted away the icy shiver that had traced down his spine and put it well out of his thoughts. For several minutes now (nearer to three hours in point of fact, though his mind, caught up in more interesting details, had lost all track of time) he had been leafing through his reference manuals, maps and notes, packed and then unpacked again meticulously upon arrival, when a soft rapping on his door roused him from the fevered state he’d slipped into.

Shaking his head, and hazily pulling himself back into the present time and place, Henry drew a steadying breath, reminding himself that he was a skilled and credentialed professor of historical literature, not the teenage fanboy he’d once been and currently felt like again; he should show a bit more composure to whomever waited to speak with him in the hall. Opening the door, however, his eyes widened momentarily, in spite of his recent resolve, to find his brightest and most accomplished research assistant facing him.

Violet Clemens had actually graduated from the university’s history program two years before, but knowing the particular interest she would have in this research opportunity, Henry had contacted the museum he knew she now worked with when there had been spots left to fill in their group. Violet, with her pale, dewy complexion and ebony hair shining as it rested on her shoulders, not to mention her effortlessly elegant and tasteful way of dressing and carrying herself in a sea of her contemporaries wearing shirts cut so low and pants and skirts so tight that they left little to the imagination, had always stood out and seemed a bit of an old soul out of her time. Despite her keen intellect and quick wit, Henry had always been glad her degree focus leaned more toward historical art and architecture rather than his historical literature. While her complimentary knowledge would serve well in this venture to supplement his own, he had at the time feared becoming completely charmed by her if he’d had her in class on a regular basis.

Trying to shake all those thoughts from his frazzled and rather unfocused mind, Henry gave her a curious but friendly smile before speaking. “Miss Clemens, what can I do for you this evening?”

Violet flushed prettily, her cheeks pinking as her gaze fell to her toes for a moment before glancing back up to meet his. “I’m sorry, Professor Mills. I know it’s late. I was just wondering...I mean…” she finally blurted the rest out in a rush “...you went out to see it already, didn’t you? What was it like?”

Henry truly couldn’t hold back his wide grin at her question. Another person who held the same enthusiasm for the princess and the ruin of her family’s legacy, was not someone he came across often, and a part of him basked in having someone to share the thrill with - someone who just might understand. “You’re not a student anymore,” he offered with a self-deprecating chuckle. “You don’t have to call me Professor. But, to answer your question, yes I’ve been out there and it was incredible. Even with the light failing, it took my breath away.”

Violet merely nodded, taking his words in with an awed smile on her lips. “Oh, I can’t wait to see it for myself,” she murmured. Then a twinkle of mischief flitted into her eyes as she added, “but if you no longer want me to call you Professor, then you’d better just call me Violet.”

“Deal,” Henry affirmed, reaching out a hand which she took to shake on their agreement. The moment their hands were clasped together, a tremor of awareness caught him off guard, running up his arm with a heat and intensity that surprised him. Though he’d heard of such reactions to another many times in the books he’d read and stories he loved, he had never experienced anything so arresting in real life.

“Well, then, Henry,” Violet added, taking her hand back, though he didn’t think he was imagining the sudden breathiness of her voice and the way she shook her head as if to refocus, causing her dark waves of hair to shimmer. “I guess I should leave you in peace for now. We want to get an early start tomorrow after all.”

“That we do,” Henry agreed, seeing her to the door and hoping he wasn’t smiling wide enough to make him look giddy. Once she was gone, he leaned back against the solid oak, shaking his head in disbelief.  It would seem this adventure was going to bring about more than one incredible discovery.

~~~~~~~~~~~***~

The next morning dawned all too early for Henry’s taste; his alarm waking him from such a solid sleep that for a full minute he was too bleary to remember where he was at all. Between the jet lag and staying up another two hours pouring over notes and manuscripts to be certain he was prepared for their first day cataloguing finds onsite, he wasn’t sure he would even be able to pry his eyes open without coffee. It was almost funny to think back now on the days when he used to laugh at his mom and stepdad for their need to have a hot chocolate and black coffee respectively before they could face their days. He understood all too well as an adult.

Once he got himself moving, saw himself down to the continental breakfast provided on the first floor, and was waiting at the van to make sure all his assistants and fellow scholars were on time for the ride out, Henry did begin to feel more awake and alive. It wasn’t long before their small group had gathered, all had been accounted for, and they were loading onto the van. Rolling out of the city proper and into the Italian countryside, Henry began to lay out his game plan for the day, and the rest of his lethargy was swept back by excitement and purpose. 

When they reached the ruins, gathered the tools, instructions, and research which would guide them, they all stood a bit awed, gazing up at the remnants of the tower walls before them, quite possibly full of clues to be discovered. His travel mug providing a further jolt of caffeine as he took a last sip, he then stepped forward to begin directing the tasks to various assistants.  Those with him moved out with care through the ancient, crumbling bricks and mortar, leftovers from an exiled life, off in the directions he had indicated. Undeniably, her felt more than a bit of pride wash over him at the gravity and industry his little group displayed in tackling their assignments. The members of his team were clearly well-chosen.

He wasn’t, however, too selfless to have left one particular team member for last, to work with him one-on-one. Henry firmly fought down the urge to fidget with the hem of his shirt or stutter nervously as Violet edged closer to his side once they stood relatively alone. Her eyes were shining as they drank in the sight before her, more than a bit stunned and affected if her hushed voice was any way to judge. “It’s… splendid…” she nearly whispered, clearly struggling for the right words.

Henry nodded wordlessly, then turned to explain what he hoped to get her help with, just as Violet looked up to him and they bumped into each other awkwardly, both stumbling away a step and chuckling. His hand darted out to catch her elbow, not wanting to knock her to the ground, and Violet wavered closer at the touch unconsciously.

“Oh, Profess - Henry… I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

He waved her off gently, “No apology needed. I bumped into you just as much… Vi...olet…” His tongue tangled on her given name as if he were still thirteen and worried about it squeaking. “I mean, there’s no harm done. As long as you’re alright?”

The young curator flushed prettily and nodded with her reassurance of “Absolutely, I’m fine. What did you intend for the two of us to work on?” She was clearly anxious to shed her embarrassment - and to explore this place they both had fallen in love with before even reaching, but for a moment Henry was stymied. He couldn’t speak or think, so struck was he by the intelligence and enthusiasm shining in her eyes and the classical beauty of her face. He wondered helplessly how visitors to her workplace could appreciate any of the art hanging on its walls with Violet standing before them.

Her light touch on his forearm finally brought him back to the moment as she asked again, “Henry? Was there someplace in particular you wanted to start?” Even as those curious words escaped her, Violet’s chocolate-y brown eyes widened noticeably, this time unmistakably also feeling the same jolt of electricity that ran along Henry’s skin where her fingers touched.

Valiantly seeking to ignore the attraction fighting for his attention, Henry redirected his focus to the curious detail he had noticed the evening before, leading his partner toward what still stood of the column that had once been part of the support to a vaulted ceiling. It seemed obvious to him, again if the details of the legend he had heard were true, that this tower had once been an incredibly lovely haven - even if to its inhabitant it had proved a gilded cage. Which was why an oddity in the surface had caught his attention upon first look. There appeared to be a spot where the join between the two sides of the arch didn’t match up - a strange and careless anomaly in a building that otherwise had the look of careful and exquisite design in the other parts that remained.

Pointing up to the spot he had seen, Henry directed Violet’s eyes to the same strange seam that he had noticed. Hearing Violet’s surprised little intake of breath and the way she immediately stepped forward, tracing careful fingers along the obvious malformation in curiosity, told Henry he had indeed been onto something. Soon Violet nodded to herself, drawing closer yet, both hands now up to help in her exploration, and seemingly forgetting Henry, the bustling site, and everyone else around in her rapt focus. 

“Often times,” she murmured lowly without looking away from the movement of her fingers on the old stone, now gingerly but determinedly probing and prying, “in buildings of this age - especially ones which would have belonged to families of importance - an inconsistency like this might often indicate…” she paused for a moment, wedging her finger into the impossibly small opening she had managed to pry, the very tip of her tongue peeking from between her lips in concentration adorably (to Henry’s mind at least).

“Ah ha!” she exclaimed in a breath of triumph, the arch giving enough for what appeared a hidden panel to fall open and a still dully glistening bronze object to fall into her open palms. “As I was saying,” she continued proudly, “might indicate a hidden compartment for items of value.”

Beaming with excitement, Violet held her prize up for Henry’s inspection. In her hands lay an ornate, yet solidly constructed compass on a chain. The piece appeared to have some definite age on it, and yet its quality and beauty still shone through. It looked like an instrument which would have been used for ship navigation on sea voyages prior to the advent of modern navigational systems, and Henry’s thoughts could not keep from flying to the princess’ lieutenant of the stories and tales. Might this artifact serve as his first major proof of the legend that had captured his imagination?

His gaze lifted from the compass to meet Violet’s expectant one, ready to speak his hopes. But, even as he did so, the sound (or so he could only imagine) of a sword at someone’s hip as they moved and the creak of leather arrested Henry’s ear. He turned, startled, at such an incongruous noise for a research site, only to find that no one stood anywhere near he and Violet, as if the sound had come from nowhere beyond his own imagination.

Uncertain eyes flew to his companion, who looked back at him in concern, but Henry forced himself to swallow the strange impression he’d had, sure he would sound crazy if he brought up what he’d heard. Instead, they wrapped and catalogued their find properly for transport back with them, talking about what it could mean… and to whom they both had to wonder if it might once have belonged.  Even in the elation of success and discovery, the feeling of lingering over his shoulder did not leave Henry easily, staying with him for the rest of the morning.

~~~~~~~~~~***~

That evening after dinner, once more in his quarters for the night, Henry’s thoughts were still on the compass as he plunged back into his accounts and stories, all the information on the Princess and her legend, and though he had mostly committed to memory all that was before him, he still pored over the details in hopes of a mention of the compass they had found in order to confirm his suspicions.

As the team leader, items discovered and picked for transport or further research had been logged and stored with him. And though Henry attempted to reason the need away, tried to convince himself that there were no details he had missed, nothing else to see, and that he needed to go to bed, to not spend another night with too little sleep, and instead be rested and well-prepared for the next day’s work, he was still impelled to stand and go over to take out the compass once more; the need would not be denied.

Once the instrument was cradled in his hands, the weight of it steadying to a surprising degree, Henry sunk down on the side of his bed, scrutinizing the relic with focused curiosity. What was he still missing?  Several deep breaths, a few pounding heartbeats, went by as he pondered the instinct guiding him.

Then, with a disconcerting effect that shook him and sent a tremor down his spine, the air around him seemed to waver, undulating dizzily and clouding the borrowed room before his very eyes. Drawing in a shuddering breath, Henry blinked, in hopes of clearing his sight, only to find his perception unchanged as they opened again. The lightheadedness forced Henry to lie back on his pillow, a rather clouded grey beginning to close in on his awareness, vision tunneling to his fingers still clutching the compass tightly - until it was all he could see.

His eyes closed, as surely as if he had been suddenly put to sleep, and then he felt as though he were floating, moving through space even as he knew he was lying still. And then, though he couldn’t fathom how, he stood in the tower of his dreams - whole and shining new as it had not been for some hundreds of years - unseen and right next to a stunning, golden-haired woman who could only be Princess Emmaline…

“Killian, go! You must be away from here before they come with my evening meal,” her voice is quick and urgent as she tries to push him toward the window of her cell, through which he had climbed not even an hour before. “If they catch you, you’ll be arrested. You’re wanted for piracy.”

The dark haired young man, lean and strong, despite appearing more long haired and less neat than he had as a royal navy lieutenant stands firm, well-muscled enough from days spent steering a ship through wind and rain and all other obstacles besides, impossible for her to move unless he allows it. He has waited too long to see her again, and he is not anxious to relinquish the sight of her beautiful face now that it has been restored to him.

“Easy, lass, easy,” he soothes, looking for all the world as if soldiers and guards, arrest and punishment, holds little concern for him.  In truth, he would face those and more as well for her sake, but he has also changed much in the months since his flight from royal service. He is a captain now, not the uncertain, eager-to-please junior officer he had been. Now he gives the orders, his crew (those loyal few who’d followed him into exile) follow his lead and go where he sees fit. “I’ve plenty of time yet… and...I wish to spend every second that I can with you.”

Only here, when addressing his true feelings for his princess, his first and only love, does he show a moment’s hesitance and a lingering sign of the shy young man he once was. Truthfully, he does not know whether or not there is a price on his head, or if he is being sought after diligently; Emmaline’s parents themselves did not agree with the steps taken to hide their daughter away. Whether they truly view him as a dangerous criminal to be apprehended, or more of a rebel with the freedom to act where they could not, Killian Jones is not sure. The King and Queen are constrained by duty to all of their people, where he is loyal first and foremost to his Princess above all others.

Unfortunately, their time is drawing to a close. He can hear the muffled tread of booted feet hurrying up the winding staircase, and knows that soon those who stand guard over Emmaline’s safety, but also make sure she remains in her prison, will reach her room. Much as he loathes leaving her behind again, he knows she is right. He dares not remain and have to fight people who are on the same side, compatriots in service of Misthavia, even if they interpret their orders much differently than he.

Turning to her once more, taking Emmaline’s hands in his, and gazing into her wide, green eyes and her tense face full of worry for him, Killian voices the question he has asked every time he steals back to her side in this long year past. “Come with me. You don’t have to stay locked away here. We could sail the world and be free.” It kills for her to be trapped and alone, paler with each visit he manages, dark purple bruises from sleepness beneath her eyes. Though he knows what her answer will be before he finishes speaking, Killian still has to ask.

His brave, bright angel shakes her head, yellow-gold hair flying around her like a halo, even as a slow tear makes its slow trek down her cheek. “You know I can’t, Killian. My place, my destiny, is here. Though my people fear me now, they need me… My parents need me… I can’t desert them.”

Much as he regrets it, Killian knows her honor will allow her no less. Sadly, he bows his head over their joined hands to kiss the back of hers, murmuring, “As you wish, my Love,” against her skin. Before he turns to climb into the window frame and grab the rope he had used to climb once more, he presss an object into her grasp - the compass he had received upon his naval promotion to lieutenant. “Hold onto this for me at least, aye?  As promise of my return.”

His Emmaline nods tearfully, letting him go and stepping back, but pressing the compass to her breast. “You always return, Killian,” she replies. “I know that.” 

His blue eyes brighten the smallest bit at her faith in him, allowing them both to hold onto hope. “And I always will,” he vows. Then he grasps the rope, swings from the window, and is gone.

~ Part Two ~

Henry came back to himself the next morning to the sound of anxious pounding on the door of his room. Sitting up slowly, blinking and struggling to regain his bearings, he began to hurry toward the sounds only when he also heard Violet’s worried voice through the wooden barrier, calling out with concern for him.

“Henry? Henry, are you in there?” Several more sharp raps against the hard surface followed, just before he could reach the doorknob in his befuddled state. “We got worried when you weren’t downstairs to meet the bus, Profess - “ Her words cut off abruptly as Henry finally managed to turn the knob and swing the door open to face her.

While he hadn’t really considered the rumpled mess of a picture he must present, the way Violet’s mouth fell open in surprise, and how her hand reached out as if to either feel his forehead or offer him support somehow before quickly pulling back, said quite a lot. Her prettily rosy cheeks paled as she stuttered anxiously, “H-Henry...are you alright?”

Feeling more than a bit awkward and embarrassed standing before her in the previous day’s clothing and obviously late for the group’s scheduled departure time, Henry shuffled from foot to foot before clearing his throat and attempting to smooth his sleep-disheveled hair back into lying calmly on his head. Violet, as was her way, looked impeccably neat and professional in sturdy khakis and a pale lavender sleeveless shirt that he knew must have a matching cardigan or jacket somewhere in her suitcase. She didn’t look judgemental in the least though, only concerned for him, despite his growing embarrassment. 

“I’ll be fine, just a little off balance,” he offered uncertainly, already reaching behind him to begin shoving necessary items into the satchel he carried with him on their excursions. “Would you just, please, make my apologies to the others, and our driver? Ask them to give me five more minutes, and I’ll be right down.”

He was scrambling by then, to find his shoes, locate his keys, and get dressed almost all at once, so that he didn’t realize Violet had not left yet after agreeing to his request. She had instead taken a step forward into his room, one more question of if he was really alright on the tip of her tongue when he whipped off his old T-shirt, ready to pull on the clean one he’d found.

Her startled gasp arrested him in the midst of raising his arms to pull the new shirt over his head, turning wide-eyed to face her and already flushing red in his cheeks and well down his neck and chest. Slowly lowering his arms, and the material down to cover his bare torso as well, he couldn’t dismiss the hopeful idea that Violet seemed unable to stop staring at his chest, even once again clothed in one of his usual tops, and that she was swaying just the slightest bit toward him, as if drawn by a magnet.

The odd moment broke at last when Henry stepped forward, just as Violet did the same, and they nearly collided. Both jerked away again, Henry already apologizing and bringing a hand to his stinging chin, even as Violet rubbed her forehead where they had made sharp contact.

“It’s alright, Henry. Truly. It’s fine,” she assured softly, reaching out to clasp his wrist with gentle pressure and calm his rapid flow of words.

Her former professor’s deep brown eyes raised to search hers hopefully, clearly easing as she nodded in added confirmation. “Honestly,” she added with a small smile, patting his arm before releasing her hold. “I’m really just glad to see that you’re okay.”

Catching her hand before she could retract the soft, delicate fingers completely, he squeezed back with gentle gratitude. Shaking his head ruefully, Henry let out a low chuckle and confessed to her honestly. “Alright might be a bit of a stretch, really. In fact, you may think I’m downright insane when I tell you what’s happened, Vi. But, let me get ready before we make everyone else even later, and I’ll share on the way.”

She nodded, stepping back to go so he could change and be ready to leave for the site as soon as possible. Yet, before she slipped back out the door, with one last promise she added, “Whatever you say, Henry. But, just know this… whatever it is that’s going on...I doubt I’ll think you’re crazy. I believe in you.”

Henry’s breath stalled at her admission, and he turned toward her to thank her, to express a similar faith, but Violet had already fled the room. There was nothing else he could do but hurry to rejoin her; her words and his excitement at his vision too, driving him onward so as not to disappoint her galvanizing confidence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~

By the time their bus had reached the crumbling remains of Emmaline’s tower once more, Henry had told Violet all he’d seen and heard in his vision. To his utter astonishment, though wide-eyed and stunned, she had taken every word as truth and believed him. 

Once they were at the ruins, she still seemed a bit overcome - Henry couldn’t say that he blamed her, as he was more than a little disbelieving himself - but they piled out of the van as everyone else did, perhaps even more anxious to know what else they might learn or see after his midnight vision. Violet did, however, turn back to look at him once they were both on solid ground, a light touch to his upper arm to convey her concern as she whispered low enough that the others bustling around them couldn’t hear. “You’re sure, that you’re alright to be out here, aren’t you, Henry? I mean… you aren’t disoriented or lightheaded or anything like that?”

Even if he were, there was no way that Henry Mills was letting his last day in this scenic escape, this place of legend at which he had worked and scrimped and saved to arrive, be lost to a weird dream or a strange bout of vertigo, whatever it was that had come over him. He was careful of course not to seem impatient with Violet though; her care for him touched him greatly, warming and thrilling him inside much more than he would like to admit. Instead, he merely shook his head slightly, hoping to assuage her worries by appearing unfazed and moving forward with this last day’s exploration of their site. “Thanks, truly. I appreciate you checking,” he offered, “but I’m fine - no lingering side effects.”

As he spoke, they neared the last vestiges of the archway where they had discovered the compass the day before. Henry could tell that Violet ached to explore further, to make sure there was nothing else of note, to study the intricacies of design and execution that were more to her interests than his, but that she was equally reluctant to leave him after the strange stupor in which she had found him just a short time ago.

Good naturedly smirking at his own odd behavior, Henry urged her to see to what she wished. “Vi, really, go on and have another look. It’s not like this opportunity comes around every day. I promise, I’m not going to keel over.”

She shook her head at his lighthearted teasing, all ready with the stubborn reminder that he didn’t get the scare of wondering what had happened, worrying whether or not he was alright, but she bit her tongue in the end. Bickering wasn’t going to make him see his health as more important than their find, and it would probably only make him feel badly to know just how concerned she had been at the pale, unsteady sight he had presented when he first opened his door to her that morning. Plus, it would waste precious time, and so instead she moved off with a nod of begrudging consent and one more gentle press of his hand.

Henry, meanwhile, when he had made certain that Violet wasn’t holding back on his account, moved carefully toward the crumbling frame of the window in an outer wall still partially standing some feet away. It was slow going for the bits of stone and splintered, weathered furniture scattered in the way between, but he picked his way through the detritus without falling himself or destroying anything which might be of value. The niggling feeling that the window he stood before was the very one he had seen in his vision, the one from which the rogue lieutenant visiting his imprisoned lover swung to escape the princess’ guard, and he could hardly fight the need to touch it - see it - for himself, as if he could somehow derive the rest of the story, what had happened next, from the space he had seen in that reverie.

And though as much as he had promised his concerned protegé that all would be well, Henry still felt a bit off balance and unsettled, as if whatever presence or power in the air was still lingering from his encounter that morning. No sooner had he neared the wall, than he was reaching out to rest his hand on what would once have been the window sill, now loose and partially eroded by time.

Taking a moment to look more closely at the cracked stone and dusty grooves, Henry curled his fingers into a gap curiously, the piece of rock still in place shifting to the side and allowing his fingertips to slide deeper into the opening. For a moment, he felt nothing, just empty space and a disorienting sensation of brushing up against a wide open void, then his grasp caught against an edge of paper or leather, almost like the corner of a book. Straining to reach just a bit further, he managed to grasp the item and clutched tightly to draw it out.

Several more bits of debris and rubble fell away as Henry attempted to carefully extract his treasure. Once free of its hiding place, however, the mystery was revealed as indeed being some sort of leather bound journal or logbook. Brushing off the cover the best he could, despite the determined cling of years and years of cobwebs and mildew, Henry held his breath, hoping the pages wouldn’t crumble to dust, that they were still legible. It might contain the proof and the answers he had been seeking.

Ever so gingerly, Henry carefully opened the cover to find a flourishing if faded script scrawled across the opening page of the book in his hand. And even before he could locate the author’s purpose or name, he felt his surroundings begin to swirl and fade to grey once more, for the second time in one day, he was seeing the tower as it had been and the princess within it long ago…

“What have I done?!?” Emmaline’s tormented wail echoes in the thin air of the tower’s height, as her sword clatters to the floor from her suddenly nerveless fingers. The guard she felled is clearly not dead, as his chest rises and falls steadily even in unconsciousness. Still, though her father had trained her well in swordplay, until her technique and form was nearly as flawless as his own, she had never before actually struck someone with such determined intent. To stop them - and even end their life if necessary, rather than see her lover caught and killed.

Turning at that, her eyes still frantic at the blood that runs from the slice across his cheek beneath his eye, all too close to putting out the brilliant blue light forever. Her lip quivers, and Princess Emmaline struggles to bite back the ridiculous show of weakness and emotion, even while stumbling toward Killian at the same time.

He catches her in his arms, smoothing her wild hair back form her damp brow and whispering reassurances that she only did what she had to, that she isn’t cruel or evil, only a brave woman taking her stand in an impossible situation, and - if possible - he loves her even more, “bloody brilliant” she is in his adoring eyes.

However, the stolen moment is not meant to be theirs for long. Shouts from below remind them that the man they have felled to make their escape was not the only one, and unless they wish to be forced to do even more damage, they must go - immediately. Pausing a mere second longer, Emmaline snatches up a small brown book from a desk in the corner of the room. Pressing it to her mouth as if imprinting a kiss in its surface, she hurries to the window where her sailor stands waiting to spirit her away - from her family, her kingdom, her duty - but also to freedom and a life, something it has become clear she will never regain locked away in some gilded cage.

Working loose a part of the masonry, she slips her private diary into the aperture created, hoping against hope that it will be found. That her parents and her brother will be able to read it and know that she has discovered a way forward, even if it isn’t what they had always planned. She hopes she will see them again someday, but if not…

Looking up to meet her rogue lieutenant’s pained but knowing gaze, she is relieved to see she needs give no explanation. He understands, just as he always has. 

Then, with a final backward glance around her prison, she is swinging over the side with him, his steady presence next to her helping as they begin their descent on sturdy ropes, toward the ground below where horses wait to take them to his ship in the harbor....

Henry jolts back into his own place and time more immediately with this second vision. Already anxious to read the book still clasped in his hands, his heart thrums with excitement in his chest at knowing just what it is he holds. He gulps in air like a fish floundering on the docks, but it doesn’t slow his haste or enthusiasm. This is it; the evidence he had always believed he would find. Princess Emmaline existed, she was real; her story had happened just as it had been said. And now, at last, he could show the rest of the world the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~

Six months later ~

Hand in hand, Henry Mills and Violet Clemens stand in the sacred space once more - the site that drew both of them halfway around the world, but also to each other. Since their research venture to the Misthavian ruins, there has been widespread recognition that the tiny kingdom did exist and that its lost princess had been a real, living being of flesh and blood. Though it was asking a bit much for the reigning historical and scientific community to believe that she had been locked away due to a fear of her magic, as detailed in her diary, it had become accepted knowledge that Princess Emmaline had been held in the windswept and isolated tower they had explored, she had been denied her birthright and crown, and had - much like her homeland - vanished almost completely from history… if not for the tokens Professor Henry Mills and his team had discovered.

They are now both published and much-lauded experts in their field; both already had been experts, it was just a matter of the rest of the world realizing it. More important than glory and fame though, to both Henry and Violet, was that now they could return to this place, so close to both their hearts, and perhaps offer closure to two souls who had been awaiting it much longer than either of them.

As the couple stood at the small display which had since been constructed at the scenic overlook near the ruins, there was an absolute sense of accomplishment. It was just a small podium with a guest book for tourists and visitors to sign and a protective case allowing the compass and diary to be returned where they belonged, but still available for the curious, the lost, and the lonely to see, to read, and to learn from the Princess’ story and take heart again. It was just how Henry had wanted it and had fought against various museums and universities to have it be displayed - as he could only hope the long ago royal would have approved.

Looking lovingly to the woman at his side, Henry smiled unabashedly as the sparkle of her engagement ring caught his eye and he simply brought their joined hands to his mouth to kiss the back of hers. He could still remember that first dim evening, when he had ventured within the tower’s remaining walls with cautious reverence. He had sensed that he was not alone, the presence that - while not threatening - had still sent a shiver skittering down his spine. Violet had long since talked with him of a similar awareness as they worked within the aged structure, and it was what brought them back now, to say one final farewell before embarking on a joined life together, to bid another lingering pair of lovers rest at long last - impossible as that quest might seem.

“Do you think we’ll know if they’re here?” Violet whispered to him, her eyes wide and half-hopeful, half-worried.

“I’m not sure what to expect,” he answered seriously. “It was just a feeling I couldn’t shake when we were here before. I don’t know whether to believe it will be more or less this time around.”

They waited, breath caught between nervously bitten lips in silence, before Henry stepped closer to the preserved ancient stone walls rising around them. “If you can hear me…” he started, tentative but determined, hopeful, and in a voice gaining strength as he continued with Violet’s reassurance at his back. “Princess? Lieutenant?...The world knows now, about Misthavia and about you.  That you were real, that you existed, and about your love for each other. No one believes Killian stole you away against your will anymore. And though most people of the modern age don’t believe in magic, they know now that you were wrongfully imprisoned, your Highness. They understand that though Misthavia ceased to exist as a separate nation, you never had your chance to rule to try and save her. And…” Henry paused here, swallowing a lump that took him by surprise as it formed suddenly in his throat… “and, though we can’t for sure know what became of either of you, it is known that Lieutenant Jones saved you, Princess Emmaline. That you loved him and he loved you. And I’m going to choose to believe in a happy ending for you both… that you sailed until you found a place where you could be together, come what may.”

“I do too,” Violet echoed into their still surroundings, offering him a gently affectionate smile as she gazed up into his intense and open brown eyes - the moment stretching powerfully between the two of them, cementing their faith in each other and their bond, whether or not anyone else bore witness.

Then, surprisingly, Violet’s eyes widened as she looked off to Henry’s side. “They - they’re here…” she breathed, almost too stunned to speak at all in the quiet evening around them.

Peering in the same direction Violet was, awestruck, Henry was slowly able to discern two clouded white shapes in the murky grey dusk, becoming ever more solid and opaque as Henry and Violet stood watching. Though far from corporeal, they were two human forms, one slighter with almost an outline of a medieval, bell-sleeved dress and what appeared a flower crown upon its head; the other taller and wearing what seemed to be a sword at its side, with broader shoulders.

Though the apparitions seemed to turn toward Henry and Violet, as if offering their gratitude, they came no closer, and merely hovered in place as the two historians held their breath for fear the moment might vanish. Soon enough as it was, the two cloudy shapes, once princess and pirate sailor, appeared to bow in farewell, then move toward the overlook, as though seeing the bright horizon and the waves far below that they had been separated from for so long. Just before the modern couple’s eyes, their ghosts began to fade into nothingness, gradually losing consistency, as if finally slipping the tether that had held them to the ruin. Vindicated at last, and free to move beyond, they set sail for peaceful shores. 

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