#cssns20

Killian merely hummed noncommittally low in his throat. He was not about to admit for a moment that he was flattered and touched that Emma had come seeking him against all odds. He was - infinitely so - but he would never consider his own life or limb worth his princess putting herself at risk. It had been a revelation to see her once more when her trusty little skiff had appeared on the horizon, but if she had not made it to Calypso’s island… if she had been lost…

Rather than answering her directly, he offered a gentle smile which stirred something delicate and warm in her stomach despite the interlude in the surf they had already shared. Shaking her head, Emma eyed him with knowing fondness before she reminding him sincerely, “They love you too, you know that, right? You are the one they will be overjoyed to see alive and well.”

His head dipped into a quick, dismissive little nod, while a finger went almost unconsciously to scratch behind his ear. Clearly, her sailor was no more willing to believe his place within the royal family than he had ever been. “Aye, as you say,” he agreed lightly, but he didn’t elaborate and she didn’t push.

Instead, Emma let their joined hands swing easily between them as they moved toward the castle with renewed purpose and waited for him to speak when he was ready. She was biding her time as patiently as she could. Killian would soon see at any rate - as soon as they stood before her parents.

After that, with the castle in view, they kept traveling steadily, and it did not take long at all for them to enter her parents’ throne room; her mother cried out with joy and rushed forward to embrace them both, her tears of relief wetting her daughter’s hair before she turned to clasp her adopted son to her breast. Emma tried to shoot him a look of pleased satisfaction, ‘See? What did I tell you?’ clearly conveyed, but she couldn’t catch his eye over her mother’s enthusiastic fussing and fluttering, nor could she get a word in edgewise to badger him.

Then her father reached them as well. He hadn’t run, giving his wife her reunion moment, he had kept a more sedate pace, but his immense solace at their arrival was felt as he engulfed Emma in his strong arms, one large hand cradling the back of her head, and for a moment squeezing tightly enough to seem he might never let go. “Thank Heavens you made it home, Sweetheart,” he breathed softly against the hair at her temple. Quickly, he stepped aside just enough to reach Killian too, clasping his upper arm firmly. “Thank goodness the both of you have returned.”

Snow nodded fervently, wiping more tears from her cheeks even as they continued to fall from her twinkling eyes. She was beaming in spite of her emotion, adding, “You were right, Baby.” A knowing look and press of the hand for her daughter had Emma simply returning the gesture with quiet grace; the frustration she had felt when she set out forgotten now in the happy reunion with Killian at her side. “And praise be that you were! What a blessing to have you here with us again, Killian.”

The older monarch’s green eyes still sparkled a verdant hue as lovely and captivating as her daughter’s, her raven hair only barely beginning to be streaked with a sophisticated grey. Still, Queen Snow White had all the enthusiasm and energy of a much younger woman as she turned to her husband. “Charming! We should celebrate! Don’t you think?”

The king’s full lips had tilted upwards in mirth, knowing his wife and her love of royal events all too well after so many years together. She was still clutching his hand, but didn’t even give him a chance to answer aloud before turning back to Killian and Emma enthusiastically.

“What do you think?” she pressed, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “A homecoming ball, in honor of your safe return?”

Emma found she expected the flush that suffused her sailor’s skin at the suggestion, stealing up his neck, over his cheeks and even to the very tips of his adorably elfin ears, as he ducked his head at the Queen’s lavish plan. It would seem she was beginning to know her love’s quirks nearly as well as her father knew her mother’s - True Loves and all. “There’s no need for all of that fuss over me, your Majesty,” Killian answered hastily. In fact, he gulped and quickly raised his face to stare directly into Snow’s gaze intently. “Actually, I mean no offense, but I would prefer to simply return to my duties without fanfare. It hardly seems right to have such a celebration when all the others on the ship - good men, all of them - were lost.”

Snow’s expression sobered quickly, her compassion immediately making her feel for Killian’s loss of friends and compatriots, and for those sailors’ families. Obviously, she and Charming had seen to notifying those households and making sure any widows and orphans left behind by the lost sailors were cared for, but she could see that Killian held some sort of responsibility on his shoulders that was not ready to be recognized for making his way home when others could not. “Of course,” she stated firmly, “You’re right.” Her smile was more tempered, but still hopeful and encouraging; reminding the rest of them in the room just why her kingdom followed her absolutely, why her people loved her, and how she could inspire others to carry on whatever the odds. “Perhaps a memorial service for those who were lost would be more in order.”

“As you say, your Highness,” Killian agreed simply, bowing his head in deference to her decision. 

“Good man,” the King added heartily, the words low and restrained, but no less meant. Reaching out , he clasped forearms with Killian, who returned the gesture, though soon he had been pulled into a less dignified fatherly embrace, bone-crushing and back-slapping strength giving away King David’s happiness equal to his more effusive wife’s at seeing their honorary son home again.

~~***~~

Meanwhile, back out to sea, well beneath the surface off Misthaven’s shores, startling changes were afoot. From the very deepest bowels of Davy Jones’ dungeons and caves, the aftershocks and reverberations of his defeat were still being felt, radiating out in ripples as the darkest shadowed corners of his domain were slowly brought to light.

With their nefarious master so undeniably vanquished, the unfortunate souls pressed into Davy’s service by death at sea were released at last - a boon unlooked for - too much for many of them to have even hoped to receive after so long. Gradually, their souls felts the weight of their imprisonment lighten, the metaphorical chains binding them in darkness and the deep releasing their hold.

And one such soul, captured not so much by misfortune or chance than by demented grand design, could feel those shackles fall away more profoundly than most. Liam Jones broke the surface not far from the beautiful if deserted shores of Ogygia. Not sure where exactly he was, the elder Jones sibling bobbed in the shallows, taking in his surroundings curiously and thrilling to the feel of the sun on his skin. Wherever he was, he could remain until he found out; he could stay forever, if he chose. Or he could build a vessel and sail elsewhere. Either way, he would no longer be summoned back to his prison at another’s beck and call.

Still marveling at the return of long departed human sensations returning throughout his body, Liam struck out with a strong, determined stroke, swimming for shore. Ater so long trapped below, it seemed strange needing air to breathe, feeling the human pinch in his muscles at the exertion, the chill of such cold water enveloping his skin. And yet, pleasant or not, each bit of stimuli made his breath catch and his heart pound; it meant he was alive, unbelievable as it might seem. 

Though he could have managed the distance in seconds with the powers tied to his father that he had possessed, it still took Liam little time to reach the sandy ground stretched out where the water washed up and over it in a continually receiving and returning caress. He had always been a strong swimmer, with the sea in his veins. “Her little guppy” he distantly remembered his mother saying, in one of the few hazy visions of her his memory had retained; her voice gently teasing, dark eyes crackling with good humor and pride. Strange that he would think of her now, after so many years…

Reaching land, Liam staggered out of the surf, chest heaving, eyes scanning the area, already taking note and attempting to discern where he might be. He would have bet he had been banished to the very edge of the known world for his shift in loyalty, if his father still held any power. However, the blast that had rocked him and made him lose all sense of time and place, even consciousness for some moments, and which had made Emma vanish from his hold, had seemingly destroyed and ruined Davy himself. It had also almost certainly nullified any punishment the old monster would have tried to throw at him. He must be somewhere in the known world; and yet, it resembled nowhere he had ever traveled himself, now anywhere he had charted or mapped, before.

He was half-sitting, half-leaning against a large branch stretched across the sand, the trunk of some tree felled from a small stand of them nearby making a decent resting place to catch his breath, when he sensed he was not alone. Keen senses from a life of hard work and striving to protect a younger sibling thrust into the harsh world much too soon, were returning to him more and more with each moment that passed. Where nothing had been able to truly hurt him as one of Davy’s souls in the deep, his senses now all but blared in self-preservation to be on the alert.

Turning sharply to look back toward the surf he had only just emerged from, he saw a lovely female form standing on the edge of the sand, watching him, unmoving as the waves washed up over his feet and back out to sea again. Though she made no move, nor did she speak, the space between them seemed almost to vibrate with tension - as if she wanted to run to him, to speak, even though he couldn’t say that he knew her, not for sure. Still, the sense of unseen danger, the need to watch his back was gone. Liam forced himself to release a taut breath and lower his shoulders… then slowly took a step forward.

The graceful, dark haired lady before him did the same, took two quick steps nearer in fact, as if she could hold herself in check no longer. It was as he squinted, moving forward again and trying to see more clearly against the bright light of the sun glancing off the water as it began to lower to the evening horizon, that who she must be - impossible as it was - became suddenly clear. A stronger breeze kicked up, sending the gauzy, draped, light robe she wore whipping against her calves and making her hair fly wildly across her face, her elegant hand reaching up to catch the riotous, nearly black curls and hold them back, even as a joyous, enchanting laugh escaped her throat and rang merrily in the space still between them.

And then he knew. That laugh came echoing back to him from long-treasured, nearly forgotten memories of a little house on a hill looking out over deep blue waters. Of a dark-headed woman standing on the slope waiting hopefully for the ship she expected to come in, those same wild tresses - curly as his and as dark as Killian’s - floating around her in the breeze. That same laugh had tickled his childish ears, always pleasing him when he was the one to call it forth, and the voice that accompanied the laughter, so warm and mellifluous, had sung him to sleep when he missed his papa, and soothed his young heart when he was hurt or afraid. His mouth opened, wanting to greet her though no sound came out, no words escaping. ‘Mother,’  his soul cried. 

She reached him at that moment. Her cool palms framing his face gently as she seemed to drink in his features like a woman long denied. “Liam… my dear, precious son,” she crooned softly, as if she could feel how overcome he was.

His mother’s touch, her sweet voice in his ears once more, brought tears to his eyes for the first time in what felt like ages. She opened her arms, swaying slightly as his shoulders shook, and she simply held him as she had so long ago. “I’m here, Darling. You’ve had to be so strong. I’m here now,” she soothed. “Just let it go.”

~~***~~

When the storm of his emotions had calmed, Liam learned from Calypso all that had truly taken place when they were children - who she was, where she had been and why, just as Killian had on this very island as well. It seemed so fantastical: their mother, a sea nymph, the sea nymph of myth and legend, making he and Killian half supernatural beings as well, even before his disastrous stint as one of his father’s minions. And yet, it made a strange sort of sense to him as well, as the pieces shifted and settled within his mind. He had been older when they were left with only their father, remembered more… and it had never seemed quite right that their mother would simply vanish. His father’s abrupt, “She left us, went back to her own,” had never rung true. He might have been a mere eight-year-old, but he saw enough, understood enough, to know that it had been Mama who kept them fed and clothed with what little Papa provided. Mama who snuggled with them when storms raged and kept them warm when cold winds whistled through the cracks in the walls. It was Papa who was seldom home, who seemed likelier to take off one day and never return. Whereas he had believed Mama, had known she meant it with every fiber of her being when she’d sworn to him that she would stay with them as long as she could. He had missed her terribly when he woke one morning, so early it was still dark, to Papa shaking him, urging him to hurry - they were off on an adventure. The ache had faded over time; he had thrown himself into seeing to Killian, making sure his little brother knew the songs she had sung, the stories she had told, and that he did not lose that last little germ of sweetness - despite what their lives had then become - that sweetness which reminded Liam of the mother they had both lost.

To see her before him now, hardly able to stop brushing her fingers through his curls or squeezing his hand with both of hers, eased something deep inside that had still been gaping wide and empty though the pain had dulled. They had been taken from her. She had been seeking them, wishing for them back, all along.

Finally he managed to clear his throat, blink out of the awed daze he’d been in, and asked anxiously, “And you’ve seen Killian? And his princess?  They - they’re safe?”

Her loving smile, so fond and proud, warmed Liam’s heart in a way that was wonderfully healing. “More than that, they are home… together… and ecstatically happy.”

“Good,” he nodded, genuinely relieved, even if he felt sadness welling too, knowing Killian was where he belonged, but not sure he would ever see his little brother again. He wasn’t even sure why he hadn’t passed on to the afterlife, or just where he was, what he was, or what was next.

“You always were so noble,” his mother commented, shaking her head as she studied him calmly. “So thoughtful. I can see you’re wondering what’s next. The truth is, that choice is yours, Liam. You deserve that much, after so much time was taken from you, against your will.”

Blinking, Liam simply stared back at his mother, trying to grasp that the next step was fully his to make at last. He was no longer bound to another’s whims and designs, no longer pulled by strings that made him feel little more than a puppet torn by what he desired and what he was ordered to do. 

Calypso beside him offered a sadly hollow smile, taking her eldest’s hand with a gentle squeeze, and whether because of her supernatural nature, or simply because she was his mother, he could see that she understood. “You may move on at last, to the peace and rest that you have earned and to which you should have been welcomed long ago. Or, seeing as how Davy never fully let nature and time take their courses, and you are not completely dead, nor fully alive, you might also remain here with me on this island and in these waters surrounding it - a guide and caretaker of the sea, which you are already well adapted to with your part-nymph heritage.”

She paused there, resting a hand on the side of his face, her thumb lightly stroked his cheek, before she drew a deep breath and continued. “I won’t try to pretend I wouldn’t love for that to be your choice. I would like nothing more. However, I imagine you will choose the third option. You may return to mortal life with your brother and those who have become his family. Your natural life - and its fleeting span with all the mortal frailties - will be restored for you to live out as you would have done had your father not disrupted Fate’s course.”

Liam’s heart began to pound with excitement at her words, though he would have been happy simply to be free of the troubling limbo which had trapped him for so long, to feel the sun on his skin and the wind on his face as he sailed the waves once more, rather than merely looking up from his prison beneath them. He would not have thought returning to stand at his brother’s side - restored to life - could be an option.

Nodding kindly, even as she brushed away a single tear, Calypso sighed. “I thought as much,” she confirmed. “You took such good care of Killian. He looks up to you and still misses you so. It would have been quite a surprise had you chosen any other way.”

“I am sorry, Mother,” Liam began, floundering for a way to explain that he loved her too, but the pull back to the life which had been stolen was just too strong.

“No, my son,” she interrupted, stilling him with a light hand to his chest, “don’t apologize. This is as it should be.”

And so it was, that as the sun rose the next morning, spread across the sky in vibrant hues over Misthaven’s shores, a magnificent tall ship - proud, strong, and gleaming new - sailed into the royal port, one stunningly familiar form at the wheel, straining to see the dark-haired lieutenant who waited on the docks with the royals, waving to him frantically in welcome. The brothers Jones were reunited at last.

~~***~~

Four years (and nine months) later…

Once again, as was often the case on hazy summer evenings, the gathering twilight shadows and purpled hues of the darkening sky found two solitary figures strolling arm-in-arm along the sand on the shores of Ogygia. If one were to draw nearer still, they would see the dark head of tousled, windswept hair bend down to the glowing golden waves of the shorter figure, as Misthaven’s prince consort whispered in the ear of his princess wife, a secret for only the two of them which made her throw her head back in carefree laughter before she stood on tiptoe, clinging shamelessly to his arms for balance to kiss him him thoroughly and soundly.

Tired from sun and wind and salt water, dazed and deliriously happy as they were, both recognized it was a perfect day drawing to a close around them; one of the sort which were growing increasingly numbered as May dwindled toward June, and the two months  allotted them each year to steal for their own, away from royal duty, on the island belonging to his sea goddess mother came to an end once more.

They had married in the fall, not at all long after their return and the defeat of Davy Jones. It had seemed impossible and ridiculous to wait in drawn out courtship to be joined as man and wife; there would never be another for Killian but Emma, nor for Emma but him. Both had nearly given their lives to be sure they had a future together, and neither wished to wait for that hard won future to begin.

Of course, only a couple of weeks into married life, they had found out just how lucky it was they had not delayed. Emma was expecting their first child. Exactly nine months to the day from their first joining in the sand and surf of her kingdom’s shore, where they had first made love surrounded by the very ocean which always brought them back together, their twins were born. The palace officially announced the two baby boys as being early; common for twins and easily presented as fact, but princess and lieutenant-turned-prince knew the truth, and two living reminders of a moment they would never wish to forget were an unexpected blessing. Little David Liam Jones and Henry Leopold Jones had been their love and joy personified in living form before their eyes each day since then. Their sons, identical in looks, energy, enthusiasm and daring loved the water every bit as much as their parents, and had taken to the annual summer escape with only their parents and uncle to see their other grandma each May with dauntless excitement. What four-year-olds wouldn’t want to run wild as young colts all day in sun and surf until exhaustion felled them, only to rise again and do the same the following morn?

Emma, for her part, wanted Killian to be able to visit his mother; did not ever wish to see her taken from him again. Yet she also, much as she loved her people, her kingdom, and her parents, and though she accepted the rule she would one day take upon her own shoulders, found this summer retreat a paradise she would never wish to trade. Though Killian’s patriotism, loyalty to the crown, and place by her side as support and advisor was an immense comfort, Emma could not deny how freeing it was to be far from crowds of admirers, petticoats, policies, protocols, and packed agendas for a time. Only her husband, her babies, and sandy beach and windswept waves as far as the eye could see…

That evening, as they finished a supper of fish Killian had managed to catch for them despite the rather dubious help two exuberant four-year-olds proved to be, simple bread, and mangoes from further inland, both Henry and David had fallen over in weary contentment with full bellies and tired, sunkissed limbs. Chuckling together, Emma had cleared a path and opened doors in their small cottage as Killian carried each to their beds, tucking them in without causing either boy to wake.

For themselves, Emma and Killian left the cleanup for the next day and tiptoed quietly to their own bedroom for a moment alone, together in the whispers of moonlight that crept in through the open window with a gentle breeze.

Letting her fingers lazily twine with his as she led him forward easily, Emma found her breath stolen as Killian stopped near the foot of their bed, tugging her insistently back against his solid form. His arms came up to wrap around her in warm security, and she melted at her husband’s touch. His unshaven cheek prickled her skin when he kissed along her collarbone and up her neck, making her shiver despite the heat.

He had divested her of the light shift she wore almost before she realized it was gone, and his hands were questing boldly over her bared skin, causing a low, throaty moan to escape her lips, only barely managing to keep it soft enough not to wake their children from slumber. It took embarrassingly little time for him to have her thrumming with desire in every nerve ending, particularly with her hormones as wildly raging as they were.

As if he could read her thoughts’ direction, Killian paused his seductive teasing for his hands to rest protectively over her slightly rounded stomach, searching her gaze earnestly before murmuring, “Are you certain this is alright for the little one, Love?”

Emma met his eyes with exasperation; his worry sweet, but oft-repeated by this point. The last month when she had carried their twins had been miserable, and their delivery had been long, difficult, and turned more than a bit traumatic before it was through. Her recovery had been slow and painful, and they had seriously considered whether they wished to try for any more children. But Emma had found that she could not rid her mind of the image of her husband with a tiny baby girl cradled in his arms. Her heart had urged her to try once more, and now she hoped and prayed that a daughter might be safely on her way.

Nodding in answer to Killian’s question, she tried to pull him to her once more, and to smooth the worried creases from his brow.

“But,” he pulled back again, “are we positive? I never want to hurt you, or - “

Shaking her head, Emma could see that stronger measures were needed. Gripping the front of the loose linen shirt he wore barely buttoned, she pulled hard and threw her weight toward the bed, sending them both toppling onto the mattress with a gentle bounce. She rolled quickly to trap him with her body, and leaned in close to assure him, “You won’t hurt me, Killian. I know that as surely as I know anything.”

His whole face lit up with relief and love at her words, warming with one of the most stunning smiles she had ever seen. Satisfied that he was put at ease once more, she turned his face to her own with a finger at his chin and quirked her eyebrow in mischief as she teased, “Well, you won’t hurt me unless you leave me with this ache you’ve started…”

Rolling them once again in the tangled sheets to catch her between his arms as he hovered over her, diving down to steal her breath once more, he rasped, “Well then, Darling, if you insist.”

As the moon shone down on the island’s gleaming waters, they spoke without words, one in body and soul, perfectly happy in their cottage by the sea.

Regina smiled and waved her hand again, and from out of the stygian shadows a figure stumbled, both bound and propelled by cords of Regina’s magic. 

“Ah,” said Cora with satisfaction. “The fae princess, in our hands again.” 

“Not only that.” Regina withdrew a small object from her pocket and held it up for all to see. “She has the dark magic.” 

“No!” cried Emma, her eyes flashing fury as she struggled against her magical bindings. Zelena looked at her sharply as Cora’s mouth fell open in awe. 

“Is this it?” she breathed, taking the object from Regina and stroking it with trembling fingers. “Is this truly it?” 

“It is,” Regina confirmed. “They call it the tywyll stone.” 

Cora held out the stone to Zelena. “Daughter?” 

Zelena took it and gave it a skeptical look. “Are you sure this is it, Regina? The most powerful dark object in the world? It looks like a cheap hippie trinket.” 

“Why, Sis,” replied Regina silkily. “Can’t you sense its power?” 

Zelena’s expression turned sullen. “It does appear to contain a great deal of power, Mother,” she said. “More magic than I’ve ever felt in one object before. Far more.” 

Regina grinned smugly. 

“It just doesn’t look like much,” Zelena snapped. 

“A perfect disguise, then,” purred Cora. “Excellent.” Her smile was ice and razors. “It seems you’ve done well, Regina, despite your constant whining.” 

Regina preened beneath her mother’s approving gaze as Emma struggled harder against her restraints. “It was easy,” she gloated. “They were so eager to believe me.” 

~

“For all my life my mother has been obsessed with my magic.” 

Regina sat hunched in an armchair near the fire in the common room, a steaming cup of tea clutched in her hand. Behind her was a mirror, a tall one set with rippled glass and framed by slender, twisting vines twined together to form a series of knots. It was Harriet who had brought it into the common room, carried in vines of her own. David tried not to stare as she adjusted the mirror so all in the room could see it then curled herself around Emma’s chair as they sat and listened to the dark-haired woman’s story. He wondered how Harriet had managed, being cooped up in Emma’s dorm room for so long, and felt a wave of guilt for being the cause of her confinement. One of her fronds hovered near his knee and he offered it a tentative stroke. It curled welcomingly around his fingers. David smiled, making a mental note to find a way to make it up to her.

With the smile still on his face he returned his attention to Regina. As she spoke the glass in the mirror had turned cloudy, and when she now paused to gather her words the clouds resolved into the image of a woman, cold and terribly beautiful, and with a smile that sent a shiver down his spine. Was this Regina’s mother?

“She discovered my powers early,” Regina continued after a bracing gulp of tea. “As soon as they manifested. It’s like she was—waiting for them to appear.”

“How early is early?” Emma asked. 

“I was… four? I think?” 

Emma nodded. “That seems about right.” 

“It was later in my sister,” said Regina. “I don’t think hers showed until after mine did, though she’s almost three years older.” Her lip curled. “One of the many things she holds against me.” 

Snow bristled. “It’s hardly your fault!” 

“Zelena doesn’t see it that way,” sighed Regina. “She’s always seen us as being in competition with each other. In everything, not just magic.” 

“Is Zelena Mountain Tribe by any chance?” asked Emma. 

“I don’t actually know,” Regina replied. “I don’t think even Mother does. She doesn’t like to talk about Zelena’s father.” 

The image in the mirror grew cloudy again and then shifted, resolving into the same woman as before though far younger, deep in conversation with a tall and slender red-haired man. They all watched as she took his hand and pressed it low against her belly, and they all saw comprehension dawn in his eyes. For an awful moment the mirror focused on his face, frozen in utter horror, and then the image faded. 

“Mountain tribe,” confirmed Emma grimly. “Unyielding and slow to forgive. Vengeful.” 

“That sounds like Zelena.” Regina turned her attention from the mirror with a grimace. “Her father left before she was born and she’s never forgiven me for it.” 

“But—that’s not your fault either!” Snow sputtered in indignation and appeared to have far more to say on the subject, but Emma silenced her with a look. 

“Her father left,” she said softly, “but yours stayed.” 

“Yes.” Regina’s voice was nearly a whisper. “Though I’ve never understood why. My mother never loved him and I know he didn’t love her. I have no idea what kept him with her for so long, but she must have had some sort of hold over him. He gave in to nearly every demand she made, without even a protest.” 

“Nearly every demand?” echoed Emma.  

Regina nodded. “All except one. He wouldn’t let her become part of his tribe. Not when she begged, not even when she threatened. That was the one thing she most wanted, her ultimate goal, but no matter what she did to try to force his hand he always refused. He cut off all contact with his kin rather than allow her any foothold among them, and he never budged on that, no matter how many tricks Mother tried to get him to change his mind. It was a constant battle between them and I was always so afraid…” Regina swallowed hard. “Every morning I expected to wake up and find him gone, but he was always there, ready to take another day of her abuse. I wish I knew why he stayed.” 

The clouds in the mirror swirled into the image of a man, short and round and with the same tree branch marking his daughter bore, just visible beneath the cuff of his shirt. He stood in the doorway of a darkened room, leaning against the jamb and gazing into it with an adoring expression. The image shifted to reveal the object of his gaze—a young girl asleep in a bed, her dark hair messy on the pillow. 

“He stayed for you,” said Emma. “He adored you. He couldn’t bring you to the tribe because that would give your mother the right to follow and claim a place among them as your kin. He couldn’t let that happen but also he couldn’t bear to leave you. He stayed with her for you.” 

“Oh!” Regina gasped as she stared into the mirror, blinking hard against the tears in her eyes. She stared until the image faded, then she gave a sniff, wiped her cheeks with the cuff of her jacket and continued. “My father was the only source of comfort in my life,” she said hoarsely. “But then one morning my worst nightmare came true. I woke up and he was dead… Mother said he had been sick for a long time and had hidden it from me, but I knew, I knew she had killed him. That was the day she told us her plans for taking control of the Black Fairy’s magic.” 

At these words a heavy silence fell on the room. Each face was grim, David saw, and each was shaken. Even Killian. Even Emma. 

“Us?” asked Snow, in a small voice. “Who else?” 

“Just me and Zelena. I lost my father, met my half-sister, and learned of my mother’s plan to take over the world, all in the same day.” She gave a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Met your half sister?” Snow demanded. “Didn’t you know her already?” 

Regina shook her head. “Apparently when she met my father, Mother left Zelena with some distant relatives and pretended that she had no children. She never told me I had a sister, though it seems she visited Zelena regularly and told her all about me. So on the day my father died, before I’d even had a chance to mourn, Zelena appeared, hating me before we’d even met, knowing all about Mother’s plan and fully on board with it. Both of them just expecting me to fall into line and go along with it. And since that day I haven’t known which way to turn.” 

Regina looked up at Emma, desperation in every line of her body. “What they want to do is madness,” she whispered. “I’ve tried so hard to tell them but they won’t listen to anything I say. They think they’re the only ones to read the fae histories and work out the clues about the Black Fairy’s magic. Like no one else in four thousand years has ever picked up on them.” She gave a haughty sniff. “But my father showed me the truth.” 

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “He showed you your visions?” 

Regina gulped hard then nodded. “I’ve never told anyone that before. He swore me to secrecy. He said the consequences of Mother finding out would be unthinkable.” 

“What did you see?” asked Snow.

“The history of our tribe in the war against the Black Fairy. The writing of the Covenants. Enough to understand Mother would never succeed in her goal of finding the Black Fairy’s magic and using it for herself, though nothing about where that magic was actually kept.” 

“Almost no one sees that,” Snow told her reassuringly. “None of us had any idea it was with Emma until Killian showed us the tywyll stone.”

Regina gasped and gaped at Emma, wide-eyed. “So it really is you,” she breathed. 

“Yes,” said Emma slowly. “Didn’t you know?” 

“No.” Regina’s mouth thinned. “Mother has no idea what she’s looking for or who has it. But everyone knows that Andersen Hall is where the fae students live”—David gave a start and felt his cheeks go pink—“and so she took a chance that one of you would either have it or know where to find it.” Her mouth curled in a small smile. “I have to admit it was gratifying to see you defeat her so easily, though I doubt she’ll learn any lessons from that.” 

Emma’s face wore a thoughtful expression. “But why now?” she asked. “And why this move? Given that your mother is so badly prepared and so ignorant, why is she taking such a risk on drastic action now, when she could bide her time and learn more before acting?” 

Regina gave her a sharp look. “Oh I think you know the reason. Princess.” 

Emma smiled. “The moon.” 

Regina nodded. “The moon.” 

~

“I told them you had no magic and they laughed at you,” Regina informed her mother. “They thought it was hilarious, the foolish human attempting what no fae has been able to do in thousands of years.” 

Cora’s jaw tightened and her eyes flashed fury. “They will rue the day they underestimated me,” she hissed. 

“Of course they will,” Regina agreed. “If anyone was ever going to rue anything, that would be it.”  Zelena gave her a sharp look, but she met her sister’s suspicious eyes with cool composure. 

“Did she tell you anything more about what is required? Any fae secrets or hidden dangers?” Cora demanded. 

“No.” Regina shook her head decisively. “Everything we need to know is in the histories. The ritual as we planned it will release the magic from the stone. She’s basically confirmed it.” 

Cora’s lip curled triumphantly. “And what have you to say to that, Princess?” she spat. “About a lowly human so easily discovering your secrets?” 

“Curse you,” snarled Emma, struggling frantically against her bonds. “Curse all of you. But especially you, Regina. I trusted you. I was going to help you! Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!” 

Regina’s eyes made an exasperated sort of half-roll and she huffed a sigh before fixing the smug expression back on her face. Zelena’s eyes narrowed. Cora cackled. 

“It’s a hard lesson you’ve learned,” she gloated. “The first of many hard lessons the fae will learn when I have control of the dark magic! Oh yes, then you’ll see! Then you will know what it’s like to be powerless! Then you will give me what I deserve!” 

Emma’s expression shifted from fury to fear. “Stop this!” she pleaded. “I’m begging you! Don’t release that magic! You don’t know what you’re doing!” 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Your Highness,” spat Cora. “You heard Regina. We’ve studied the histories. We know your secrets. And now we will break open this stone and the dark magic will be released!” 

She turned to her elder daughter. “Zelena, you know what to do.” 

“Mother, are you sure?” Zelena asked. “I think they might be—”

“Do it!” Cora snapped. 

“Please!” cried Emma again, raising her voice to be heard over the rustlings and whisperings emanating from the forest around them, growing steadily louder as Zelena reluctantly began the ritual to remove the magic from the stone. 

“Do you hear that?” Cora crowed. “That is the sound of this forest greeting its new master!” 

Zelena cupped the stone in her palms and held it up above her head to catch a slender shaft of moonlight that had fought its way through the dense dark of the forest. She began murmuring low under her breath as the glow of the moonlight met the shimmer of the stone to shine more brightly than either could alone. She continued to murmur as Emma struggled and Cora quivered with eager triumph. A buzzing noise filled the clearing, low at first but slowly rising, filling their ears with the sound of a hundred bees and then a thousand, their bodies vibrating in concert with the sound until the air was rent with an earsplitting crack—and then silence. 

Zelena cried out and dropped the stone, stumbling backwards and landing hard against a tree trunk, her eyes wild and fixed on the spot where it had fallen. Where now an oily rope of magic began to rise up, coiling through the air, as black as the forest shadows but distinct from them in a most unnatural way, a way that would turn the most stalwart stomach. 

“At last!” Cora shrieked. “At last! After all these years it is free! It is mine!”

“Free it may be but yours it is definitely not,” said a voice in her ear, and Cora turned to see Emma, unbound by magic and smiling a smile that froze her blood.

“Wh—what?” she gasped.  

Emma gave her head a small, pitying shake. “I warned you not to release that magic.” 

~

“As I was saying before,” said Emma, “it’s the timing. She has to act now because she might not get another chance. Because of that.” She pointed at the window to the left of the fireplace. A tall window in the arched Gothic style as all Andersen windows were, within which the heavy golden moon was perfectly framed. 

“The full moon!” exclaimed Ruby. 

“Exactly.” Emma nodded. “But it’s not just any moon. Belle!” she called out, and the ghost resolved in front of the fireplace. “Why don’t you explain this part.” 

Belle’s faint image solidified, though the flames of the fire behind her were still perceptible through her form. “Right,” she said, looking a bit nervous at the number and intensity of the eyes staring at her. “So as you all know, tonight is Calan Gaeaf.” Every head but David’s nodded. 

“Um—” David cleared his throat. “Sorry, but—I don’t?” 

“Oh, right, sorry.” Belle gave him an apologetic smile. “Calan Gaeaf is the traditional first day of winter in fae culture. It’s the one day of the year when the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest, when spirits roam abroad, and of course when magic is at its most potent and most accessible.” 

“So, Halloween,” said David. 

Ruby gasped and Graham growled. Victor stood straight and reached for his scalpel, and August’s eyes flashed red. Emma hissed and Killian’s jaw went hard as iron. Belle looked horrified, Snow sorrowful. Even Regina fixed him with an icy glare. 

“You were raised among humans, mate,” said Killian tightly, “and taught their ways, and so we’ll let that slide. This one time.” He swept the room with a glare and the others slowly relaxed. “But that is one word that must never be spoken in the presence of fae. It’s incredibly insulting.” 

“I—” David began, but he had no idea what to say.

Emma gave him a small smile, though temper still flashed in her eyes. “It’s an appropriation of our culture,” she explained. “Misrepresentation of it. Vampires, werewolves, witches, fairies—these are human inventions intended to erase the fae from their culture. They ignore what we are, our nature and our history, and turn us into cutesy children’s stories or simplistic monsters ultimately defeated by human ‘heroes’.” 

“Though they’re more than happy to use our magic when it suits them,” Victor added, for once without a hint of mockery in his voice. “Human medicine and science, even their technology either makes use of fae magic or is based on it. But we’re never given any credit for our contributions.” 

“And more and more we’re marginalised in the human world,” added Snow. “We either have to hide what we are so we can live peacefully among you, or live far away from human settlements. Something that’s become next to impossible the more your cities grow.” 

“It’s why we choose to live here,” said Graham. “Here at Andersen we can at least be ourselves, and have each other for company. We have to out ourselves of course—” 

“Though some of us never bothered to do much hiding,” retorted Ruby with a glare at August, who simply shrugged and muttered something about riding the wave of the zeitgeist.

“We have to out ourselves,” continued Graham loudly, “and some of the other students are scared of us—” 

“Or just flat out don’t believe in us,” said Snow.

“Or basically pretend we don’t exist,” said Ruby.

“—but it’s worth it, to have this place for ourselves,” concluded Graham. 

“Although we do occasionally have to, um, encourage certain RAs to switch to other dorms,” said Emma. 

“Walsh?” whispered David, and a mutter went up around the room. 

“That asshole,” sneered August. “He was the worst of them all.” 

“You’re one of us,” said Emma, “even if you didn’t know you were until this morning. We were so exited when Killian recognised you.” 

“Though we didn’t think it would take quite so long for you to pick up on all the hints we’ve been dropping,” said Ruby. 

“Yeah, we haven’t exactly been subtle, David,” Snow teased. 

“Look you guys, when my grandmother put a spell on someone, she put a spell on them,” said Emma. “It’s not his fault.” 

“It might be a little bit his fault,” said Killian with a smirk. 

Snow reached out and patted David’s hand. “It’s not his fault he didn’t know about the H-word, though,” she said. 

“That’s true,” Killian conceded, and they all nodded.

“I’m sorry I said it, though.” David’s chest was tight as he looked around the room and made eye contact with each of them, one by one. “I won’t again.” 

The lingering tension in the room drained away and they all visibly relaxed. Emma gave Belle a nod and indicated for her to continue. 

“So Calan Gaeaf is always a particularly powerful magical time,” Belle said. “And this year even more so. This year Calan Gaeaf coincides with a blue moon—that’s when there’s a second full moon within one calendar month,” she explained before David could ask. “A full moon on that day is rare enough, but a blue moon is far rarer. And a blue moon that is also the Hunter’s moon, falling on the one day of the year when dark powers are easiest to access? Well, that’s—” 

“The perfect time for an attempt to release the Black Fairy’s magic,” said Emma. “Really the only time that a human woman and her amateur daughters would have any hope of managing it. Er, no offence,” she said to Regina, who had bristled at the word ‘amateur.’  

“None taken,” said Regina stiffly. “It is true we haven’t had the benefit of the education you’ve had.” 

Emma flushed. “No, I guess you haven’t,” she acknowledged. “Sorry.” 

“But—do they have any hope of managing it?” asked Snow. “I mean, really?”

“They shouldn’t,” Emma replied. “They don’t have the knowledge or the authority. They don’t even know that they need authority. But a blue Hunter’s Moon on Calan Gaeaf makes the situation very different. The mother may have no magic but Regina and, er—” 

“Zelena.” 

“—Regina and Zelena are powerful, despite their lack of training. It’s actually just their kind of raw, untapped power that Calan Gaeaf makes stronger. If they try to force the magic from the stone, just brute power applied like a sledgehammer… well, it might work. It has a good chance of working, in fact.” 

The room fell silent again, silence that David felt weigh on his shoulders and press the air from his chest. “So what are we going to do?” he burst out. 

Emma smiled, a smile that spread slowly across her face and sharpened the green of her eyes. A smile that if you saw it approaching you on along a darkened path would send you hurrying back the way you came, trying desperately not to look like you were hurrying. A smile that took no prisoners. 

“We’re going to let it work,” she said. 

~

“I warned you,” said Emma now, eyes glowing that same sharp green beneath the golden moonlight. 

“But what—h-how?” stuttered Cora. “Regina? You—you let her go?” 

“I never had her,” said Regina coolly. Cora turned to stare at her daughter and found Regina ready with magical bonds, real ones this time, which she wrapped securely around Cora to hold her in place.

“How—how dare you!” Cora hissed, struggling vainly against the restraints. 

“I’m sorry, Mother,” said Regina. “I truly am. Sorry that you spent your life being envious of others and pursuing something you could never have. But this plan of yours? It was never going to work, and at least now you won’t destroy yourself and us too.” 

“But it did, it did work!” Cora cried. “I found the dark magic! I released it!” 

“You did,” Regina conceded. “But you could never have controlled it. Look at it!” 

The rope of dark magic was still rising from the broken stone, splitting apart and branching out, filling the clearing, hissing and spitting as it swirled around them, dodging Zelena’s increasingly furious and haphazard attempts to corral it. 

“You unleashed powerful dark magic with no consideration for the consequences, and were it not for your daughter’s good sense you would have been its first victim,” said Emma coldly. “Instead, we’re going to save you from it. Oh no”—she held up her hand as Cora moved to speak—“no need to thank us.”

Cora gave a furious huff—though there was dawning horror on her face as she watched the magic swirl around them—and Emma turned to Regina with a nod. “It’s time,” she said. 

Regina squared her shoulders. “I’m ready.” 

Emma began muttering under her breath as she raised her hands high and then flung them downwards, as though to embed a a dagger in the ground. Puffs of silver smoke burst up from the earth, a circle of them around the clearing. The puffs appeared to startle the darkness; its oily tendrils recoiled when they appeared and when the last wisps of smoke whirled away into the night Killian was there, lip curled in a snarl and sword drawn… Snow with her bow at the ready… David behind her, sword in hand and trying to look like he knew what to do with it… Ruby in wolf form snapping her jaws… Graham in the shape of a panther, sleek and deadly and near-invisible in the shadows… August flickering in and out of vision, fangs extended and eyes glowing… Victor with several steaming beakers at his feet and a mad gleam in his eyes. 

Cora’s own eyes were wild with fear but she made one last attempt at bravado. “What, all this for me,” she scoffed, with a wheezing attempt at a laugh. 

“Oh, Mother.” Regina’s voice was thick with pity. “Do you still think this is about you?” 

Without warning the darkness lunged, snapping its thick and curling tendrils at the assembled fae like lashes of a bullwhip. They leapt into defence, slashing with swords and teeth and claws at the dark magic—all but Zelena, exhausted from her earlier struggles, who was caught up around the waist and roughly shaken. She shrieked with fury and with agony, tearing at the darkness that held her. Killian leapt forward, his sword describing a glittering arc in the moonlight as it sliced through the tendril to free her. Zelena fell to the ground in a heap, screaming as the dark magic still coiled around her sputtered and fizzled against her skin. Victor appeared at her side, faster than it would have seemed possible for him to move, armed with a smoking beaker. This smoke he wafted over Zelena’s writhing form and the darkness dissipated, slinking away from Zelena and leaving her panting and exhausted on the forest floor. 

Killian fisted a hand in the front of her coat and hauled her up, slamming her back against a tree. “You have a decision to make,” he snarled in her face, so close their noses were nearly touching. “Fight with us, or let the darkness swallow you whole.” 

“I’ll take my chances with the darkness,” Zelena spat. She clenched her fists and burst of magic exploded from her chest, knocking Victor off his feet and dropping him flat his back in the dirt. Killian, as all Guardians would be, was unaffected. 

“What!” Zelena roared in fury and reared back for another attack. Killian raised an eyebrow. 

“I’d save my strength if I were you, love,” he said, stepping back to clear the way for the dark magic. “You’re going to need it.”  

The darkness howled as it wrapped once again around Zelena, tightly enough to muffle her screams, and Killian turned his attention back to the clearing. The dark tendrils were everywhere, whipping and writhing in their ancient fury, attacking through whatever opening they could, barely held at bay by the valiant efforts of his friends. At the centre of it all stood Emma, feet planted firmly and arms open, surrounded by an almost blinding glow of light. As he watched, a slender strand of darkness, deftly evading Ruby’s snapping jaws, made a lunge for her and Killian—though fully aware of Emma’s ability to defend her own self—dove in and cleft the tendril in two with his sword. He landed hard on his shoulder, carried the momentum of the fall into a forward roll and sprang back to his feet, whipping the sword up behind him, poised and ready once again to defend Emma to and with his dying breath, whether she bloody well liked it or not. 

~

Emma stood still and silent as chaos swirled around her. She forced herself not to heed it, to trust her friends and Killian to do what they had to do to hold the dark magic at bay until she was ready with her own. She closed her eyes and focused her mind, concentrated on the magic within and around her. Not on the darkness of the forest but on what surrounded it—the magic of the trees and the earth and the moon above. 

The darkness continued to attack on every front, spreading around her and reaching out, trying to touch her, to claim her. Killian stalked in a circle around her, his sword a blur as he sliced at the magic, while Victor flung the contents of his beakers, Snow shot her enchanted arrows, and Graham and Ruby ripped with teeth and claws. 

Emma saw none of it, heard none of it. She felt only the magic, rising up and coursing through her, pulled from the moon and all the plants and creatures of the forest. It filled her with its light and its power, and then she raised her hands to the sky and began to sing. 

David paused from where he was hacking away at the tendrils of magic—there hadn’t been time for Killian to do more than teach him a few basic sword-fighting moves before Emma called them to the forest, but he was doing the best he could with what he had—and turned to stare at her, his jaw dropping in awe. Her song he was astonished to discover he recognised; it was the one he had heard in his vision, sung by Emmas ancestor, Arianrhod, four thousand years before—the same language set to the same melody. And yet David, though he did not understand the words, could sense subtle alterations in pitch and phrasing that he began to realise had transformed the ancient tune into something very new indeed. 

Arianrhod had called the darkness to her and forced it to heed her will, imprisoned it in the tywyll stone for all eternity, or so she had intended. The darkness was angry now, restless from its long confinement and out for bloody vengeance—David could see that plainly in the way it fought and clawed to get to Emma—yet the song that Emma sang made no attempt to stifle or recapture it. Instead she appeared to be… letting it go? 

The dark tendrils froze as if in wonder, staring at Emma—if indeed magic could be said to stare—and then slowly, slowly, the thick black ropes began to soften and unfurl, uncoiling themselves into ever more slender strands… the merest wisps of magic by the end, wisps that whispered away on an unseen wind and vanished into the night. 

The final note of Emma’s song rang sweetly through the trees and through the shadows beneath them that no longer held any hint of menace. It lingered in the air and when at last it faded Emma opened her eyes and smiled. 

“It’s done,” she breathed, echoing again the words of her ancestor. “It’s done.” She drew a deep breath and released it in a sigh of profound relief—and then her knees went out from under her and she collapsed to the ground. Killian dropped his sword and leapt forward to catch her, cradling her gently in his arms as he lowered her to the forest floor. 

“Swan,” he said softly, then again more harshly as she tried to speak but couldn’t, as her eyelids fluttered shut again. “Swan!” Killian choked. “Emma… Emma, no, no!” He clutched her to his chest as her body went limp, shaking her gently and calling her name until Snow and David managed to pry him away.

Victor came forward and knelt beside Emma, the look on his face uncharacteristically solemn. He felt her forehead and her cheeks, then pressed his fingers to her wrist to take her pulse. 

“She’ll be okay,” he said, rising to his feet again. “Jones, listen to me. She’ll be okay.” 

Killian swallowed hard and nodded. “She’ll be okay,” he repeated faintly. “But—will she? You’re certain?” 

“She’s exhausted,” said Victor. “Drained of almost all her strength. She can survive that but she needs rest and restorative potions. We have to get her back to the hall, as soon as possible. There’s no time to lose.” 

“How—” Killian’s voice broke “—how can we get her back in time, it’s at least an hour’s walk and that’s without having to carry her—” 

“I can take her.” 

They all turned to Regina, who flushed under their scrutiny. “I can take her,” she repeated. “I can transport her by magic, the way she did with you.” 

“Are you sure?” Snow asked. “Have you ever done that before?” 

“No, but I saw what Emma did and I’m a fast learner.” Regina’s eyes were terrified but her jaw set with determination. “I can do it.” 

“You’ll have to take me too,” said Victor. “I know what potions to give her, and where she keeps her supplies.” 

“O-okay.” Regina gulped. “Okay. I can do that.” 

Killian shook off Snow and David and sank to his knees next to Emma’s prone form. Gently and with trembling fingers he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, my love,” he murmured. “Until then you fight, do you hear me, Swan? Fight, and don’t give up.” His voice broke again and he brushed his fingertips over her cheek. 

“I love you,” he whispered, almost too softly to be heard, then pressed a kiss to her forehead and stood swiftly, striding over to where he had dropped his sword. “We’ll take care of everything here,” he said, picking it up and sheathing it at his hip with brusque, determined movements, “and meet you back at the hall.” 

Regina nodded. She inhaled deeply then raised her hand, muttered some words under her breath, and flung her hands towards the ground. Three puffs of dark red smoke rose up, and when they dissipated she, Victor, and Emma were gone. 

~

It wasn’t until three hours later that the rest of them finally arrived back at Andersen. The dark magic was gone from the clearing—or not gone, not really, not as such, Snow had attempted to explain. It was more that it had been returned… to the plants and the soil and the air itself, from which the Black Fairy had stolen it all those centuries ago. 

“It’s back where it belongs,” Snow said. “It won’t harm us anymore.” 

But there was still Cora to contend with, who despite still being bound in her daughter’s magic did not, as they say, come quietly. 

Nor did Zelena, once they found her—not torn apart by the darkness as Killian had feared but huddled in a hollow log, eyes burning with madness and snapping at anyone who attempted to approach her. Her magic crackled wildly from her fingertips and sparks of it skittered across her skin and between that and the shrieking none of them were able to get near her. 

In the end they managed to lasso her with a vine, identified by Snow as one that would be strong enough to hold both Zelena and her magic. “I don’t have magic of my own like Emma does, but I do have a certain touch with birds and plants,” Snow explained, as a flock of forest birds assisted them in wrapping the vine around and around Zelena, securing it with strong knots until she was thoroughly immobilised. 

From there, they just had to drag her and Cora back to the dorm. 

Once the two women were locked in the dungeon (“The what now?” David almost hollered, to which Killian replied with a smirk “Did you really think there wouldn’t be dungeons, mate?”) the group made their way back to the common room, to fall gracelessly onto the sofas and chairs and think wistful thoughts about hot things to drink.

David could see the tension in Killian’s body, the set of his shoulders and jaw drawing tighter the closer they got to Emma’s room, the strain of the anxiety and fear he’d been holding at bay since she had collapsed in his arms. He strode straight past the common room to her door and swallowed hard before giving a tentative knock. 

Victor opened it and draped himself against its jamb. “You took your time,” he snarked, but Killian was in no mood for verbal sparring. 

“How is she?” he demanded. “Is she okay?” 

“She’s fine. Just as I said she’d be.” 

“Can—” Killian cleared his throat. “Can I see her?” 

“Well,” Victor smirked, “That depends on—”

His words were cut off by a blur of green—Harriet’s vine, wrapping around his neck and giving it a squeeze, a thorny leaf hovering with intent just above his head. 

“Yes, yes, go,” Victor rasped, “go see her!” Harriet released him and he clutched at his neck, gasping for air as Killian elbowed him out of the way and hurried into the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Victor retreated into the common room, still rubbing his neck. “She’s fine,” he repeated, meeting the glares of his assembled dorm-mates with a shrug. He cleared his throat. “Regina transported us perfectly and I was able to get her the potions in more than enough time. She’s weak and needs rest but she’ll be fine.” He settled himself into an armchair and gave Snow an expectant look. “You know what would really hit the spot right about now?” he remarked, apropos of nothing. “A nice cup of your whisky apple tea.” 

Snow rolled her eyes but she made the tea—for all of them, and David had to admit that it really did hit the spot. It was sharp and sweet and soothing, and it warmed him to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Snow settled down next to him with her own steaming cup, and he regarded her hesitantly as she sipped. “Um,” he said, after a rather long silence, “this may be a dumb question, but—no, scratch that, it’s definitely a dumb question but I’m going to ask it anyway.” 

Snow looked amused. “What is it?” 

“Couldn’t Killian—back in the forest, you know—couldn’t he have just, er, kissed Emma? To make her better? Or is that a human idea?” 

“True Love’s Kiss?” replied Snow. “No, that’s a real thing. But it’s really just for magical afflictions and Emma wasn’t cursed or anything, she was just exhausted. Using that much magic takes a lot out of a person.” 

“It killed her ancestor,” said David quietly. 

“Yes.” Snow smiled at him, soft and full of empathy. “But fae healing has advanced a lot since then, and Emma knows her limits. I know it was scary back there, her fainting like that, but she’s smart enough to know how much magic she can handle before it’s too much.” 

“So she’s really going to be okay?” 

“Oh yeah, I’m sure she will.” Snow smirked. “Victor’s bedside manner may leave a lot to be desired, but he’s actually a pretty skilled healer. And Emma’s potions are second to none.” 

David shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s been less than twenty-four hours since—well, since all this,” he said, waving his hand to encompass the room at large. “I’m still not certain it isn’t all just a very weird dream.” 

Snow laughed. “Sounds like someone could use another cup of tea,” she teased. “But in all seriousness I imagine it will be a tough adjustment for you. It can’t be easy finding out that everything you thought was true isn’t quite, and what you are is very different to what you thought you were.” 

“Er, yeah,” chuckled David. “That.” 

“You know,” said Snow, dropping her eyes to her lap, where her fingers twisted nervously around her teacup. “If you ever need someone to talk to about it, you can always come to me. Anything you need, I—I’m here. Just ask.” 

David swallowed hard and nodded. “We could start with that tea,” he said gruffly. 

Snow smiled. “Tea it is.” 

~

David Nolan was no longer surprised by people’s reactions when they learned he was the Resident Assistant for H.C. Andersen Hall at Misthaven University. If anything, he thought, they should be far, far more afraid than they were. If they knew the things he did, if they had any inkling of the secrets the hall contained… well, they would do a lot more than just twitch nervously at the mention of its name. 

A lot more. 

“Just a Halloween prank gone a bit too far,” he stated firmly when the Chancellor summoned him to his office, to inquire hesitantly and in a quavering voice if David had any idea what had caused the peculiar conflagration of smoke and light that other students had reported as coming from the forest in the early hours of November the first. “Shenanigans. You more than anyone, sir, must know how crazy students can get on Halloween.” 

“Er—yes.” The Chancellor fiddled with his pen, his eyes darting between David’s face and the wall just over his left shoulder. David gave him a bland smile. “Hallow-halloween. Yes. Shenanigans. Indeed. That would appear to be a perfectly plausible, um, explanation. Er, thank you for coming in, Mr Nolan.” 

“No problem,” said David jovially. “If there’s anything else I can do for you just let me know.” 

The Chancellor nodded and David stood to go. His had was on the doorknob when the Chancellor spoke again. 

“Er—Mr Nolan?” 

David turned. “Yes?” 

“About the, um, the forest. You haven’t happened to notice anything, erm, different about it? Since, ah, since Halloween?” 

David shook his head, his expression guileless. “No, sir, I can’t say that I have. Why? Have you?” 

“Ah, no, um, just, er, a report or, ah, two,” stuttered the Chancellor. “But they must have been, um, mistaken… thank you again for, ah, coming in…” 

“Of course.” With another bland smile and a nod David left the office. 

In actual fact, he reflected as he strolled home through the bright and frosty November morning, the forest had changed, and quite a lot. Gone was the sense of eerie menace that had always lurked among its grey-green trees, the creeping tension that hovered between the shoulder blades of anyone who ventured too far into its depths. The trees stood taller now, and straighter, their leaves rustling in playful breezes and dappled with the bright yellows, reds, and oranges of autumn. The birds who nested in their branches sang happier songs and Emma predicted that come springtime there would even be flowers venturing to poke their colourful heads above the soil. 

“Balance,” she’d replied with a shrug when he asked her how it could be that releasing dark magic back into the world actually made that world lighter. “Everything needs a balance of light and dark. The Black Fairy took away the dark magic and the light couldn’t balance without it, so it retreated, hid away to protect itself, and left the forest a sort of empty, dead place in its absence. So by restoring the dark we also brought back the light.” 

“To balance it,” David murmured, nodding. He gave Emma an appraising look. “Did you know that’s what would happen?” 

“I was almost certain,” she replied with a grin. “My ancestors thought the darkness needed to be contained so it could be guarded—so no one could ever use it for their own ends again. I was raised to believe that was the only way to protect the world and I did believe it, until—well, until I admitted to myself that I was in love with Killian. That forced me to take a hard look the things I’d been taught, and for the first time to wonder why? Why couldn’t Guardians and their charges be together? Where was the harm in it? And once I started questioning the so-called wisdom of the ancestors, I found I couldn’t stop.” Her mouth twisted in a wry expression. “Turns out challenging authority is addictive, and so is that word ‘why.’ Why did we shroud the tywyll stone in such secrecy? Why did we even have to have the tywyll stone at all? Then when Cora came along with her plan to release the magic, I thought well, why not? Calan Gaeaf and the blue moon made it possible for her to release it but she would never be able to control it—no one could. The Black Fairy was more powerful than any fae before or since, and it’s unlikely anyone will ever again be able to replicate her magic. So, I thought, why not just let the darkness go? Put it back where it came from, where it’s needed. And if ever another person comes along and tries to harness it the way she did, well, this time we’ll know how to handle them.” 

David shook his head. “But you were only almost certain that would work?” he teased. 

Emma laughed. “Nothing’s ever completely certain when it comes to magic,” she replied. “I was as sure as I could be.” 

They were silent for a moment before David spoke again. “There’s one more thing I’d like to ask, if that’s okay,” he said. 

Emma’s eyes twinkled. “Only one?” 

“Well—yeah, okay I have a lot of questions, but only one for now.” 

“Hit me.” 

David chose his words with care. “Killian—he told me, after I woke up from my second round of visions, that H.C. Andersen wasn’t the original name of this building. That it was renamed in order to, er, erase the fae from the university’s history.” 

“That’s correct,” said Emma. “Is that your question?” 

“No. I was just wondering… what was the original name?” 

Emma smirked. “Prifysgol y Tragwyddol a'r Anweledig,” she replied. 

“Er—what?” 

She laughed. “University of the Eternal and Unseen,” she translated. “It was built to be a place where fae magic and human science could come together. To enhance each other, and to build great things in harmonious collaboration. Or that was the idea, at least.” 

“I’m sorry that’s not how it turned out,” said David.  

“Eh.” Emma shrugged. “Eternity is a long time, and trends come and go. Even social ones like fae-human relations and attitudes to magic. Who’s to say that some day this building might not be known by that name again, and serve out the purpose for which it was intended?” 

David recalled another thing Killian had told him, and the penny dropped. “That’s what you and Killian are planning, isn’t it?” he said. “To bring fae culture out of the past and into the twenty-first century. To forge something new. New ways to interact with humans, maybe?” 

“Well look at you, all clever with your deductions,” she teased. “You’re right, that is our plan. Time will tell if anything actually comes of it.” 

“Well, whatever comes I’m on your side,” declared David. “You know that, right? I mean, I may not have had the chance to be your official Guardian but I’ve always felt a sort of—well, like a call almost. To keep you safe. And I want to help.” 

Emma smiled, a soft smile glowing with affection and pride. “Even my grandmother’s magic wasn’t strong enough to wipe the Guardian out of you completely,” she said. “You’re a good man, David Nolan. I’m glad you’ve found yourself again. And that you’ve found your way here to us, for now and for the future.” 

~

Later that evening they all came together around the fire in the common room, sharing spiced apple cider and hot tea and some crispy golden cookies that Emma called cacennau enaid. David sat on a sofa with Snow tucked against his side and observed the scene around him. 

Around a small table Victor and Graham sat, along with Regina—who would officially enrol at the university for the spring semester and in the meantime had elected to remain at Andersen, a circumstance into which the Chancellor had declined to probe too fully—all three deep in conversation about Victor’s latest experiments with electricity and anatomy. Ruby was near the fire chatting to a remarkably visible Belle and tossing the occasional barbed comment in the direction of August, who lounged in an armchair parrying her verbal blows with a cool nonchalance that David was certain must be at least 80% feigned. He knew by now that Ruby and August—in keeping with the werewolves and vampires of their human-tale counterparts—would never be friends. Nor would either one admit how much they both enjoyed their rivalry. 

Emma and Killian sat on the other sofa, curled together with his arm around her waist and her head tucked into his shoulder, their hands entwined and resting on Killian’s knee. His fingers tangled in the ends of her hair as he whispered in her ear, words too soft for any other to hear but ones that made her blush and snuggle deeper into his embrace. 

David smiled as he surveyed the room then gathered his courage and took Snow’s hand, twining their fingers as Emma and Killian’s were. She looked up at him in surprise, then a happy smile curved her lips and she relaxed against him, resting her cheek on his arm. 

David sighed in supreme contentment. Andersen Hall, he thought. Definitely the best gig on campus.  

—

A note about language: All of the non-English words in this story, including the names of Emma’s ancestors and the other fae ancients, are Welsh, a language I do not speak. If there are any Welsh speakers out there in the fandom, ymddiheuriadau dyfnaf, I did my best ❤️.

Belle and Will arrives in Storybrooke the next day. They are promptly met by Rioga Mary Margaret and her husband David.

Mary Margaret smiles fondly. "We insist you stay with us. There's no better place for you and your companion."

"Oh, no, I couldn't impose. The visit is so sudden," Belle counters; she has no idea if they are privy to any details about their visit.

David's blue eyes study the pair. He knows the visit has to do with Killian. Part of him wants to know the details, but he knows there is a reason they weren't informed of all the details.

Belle and Will share a look that was all too common between couples that shared the bond of True Love.

Will leans into Belle's space. "Lass, I don't think this is a good idea."

David scoffs. "Mr. Scarlet, it doesn't take wolf ears to hear your disagreement with accepting my wife's invitation. Look, let's show our cards. We know you are here at the request of Killian Jones. That is the reason we are willing to look the other way. You two will come and go as you please, no questions asked."

Mary Margaret and Belle look on as the men talk.

Belle says softly, "I'm truly sorry, we're only here to help. Sadly, I cannot share more than that."

Mary Margaret gently pats Belle's hand. "I understand, we both do. We have learned to trust Killian and Emma's gut. If they feel it's better for us to not know the full details of your visit, we accept that decision."

Belle smiles. "Thank you."

"However, I do insist on offering our hospitality; it would be safer." Mary Margaret raises a brow.

Belle sighs. "Alright. we accept."

Will turns to look at Belle, shakes his head, and is met with narrow eyes. He mutters, "bloody hell."

Hidden away, the Norn observed the Savior and the wolf, the familiarity remaining between the pair. She had watched them inspect the location she had told him about. She had wanted to find him there alone, but he had shown up with her. This was more difficult than expected. She needed the Savior out of the way; perhaps a deal was in order. The Norn smirked wickedly. It seems a trade was in order to satisfy her needs.

Emma and Killian aren't surprised at Emma's parents' hospitality towards Belle and Will. Killian is conflicted because the plan was to keep the Royals out of the equation, but he had to admit it was the most secure place in town.

Will and Killian talk in hushed tones, their voices barely a whisper that they have no trouble understanding because of their wolf hearing. They had decided to go on a tour of the woods to find exits and to figure out the best way to enter the Norn's lair.

Will wants to just bust in and go for the vial, but Killian tells him they have to be smart. Will is not happy when Belle sides with Killian after they discuss the options.

Emma is silent; her gut tells her that Killian is right. They need to be smart, but she wants it over with too. She is a little reckless herself.

Will scoffs. "I know how to bloody plan a heist. I've done it before, and if I may add, I'm good at it. You came to me mate. If you didn't think I could pull it off, you should have chosen a different thief."

Killian runs his hand through his hair. "Scarlet, I'm not saying you can't do it or aren't good enough, but that hag is not like anyone else you have crossed. If you get caught, she could easily turn you into some sort of weed." Killian looks at his friend. "She will turn you into a Thistle or something, and we will not be able to confront her without admitting to knowing the reason you were there."

At night, Will dresses quietly. He opens the door to his room. He looks out, the hall is dark but quiet. He smiles and exits.

Once he reaches the woods, he sheds his clothes and transforms. His wolf takes over as he runs to the Norn's home.

He sniffs around and takes a careful step in front of him. He enters the home without any problems. He shifts back to his human self. He is going to need thumbs. He carefully walks around naked. No noise or creak is heard. He smiles as he opens the cabinet. He whispers to himself 'there you are'. He is about to get the vial but before he does that, he notices a small vial with a hair not far from it glowing dimly. He thinks, interesting. Both vials have a similar glow to them that might go unnoticed by someone with regular sight. He finally goes to grab the vial. His wolf guides him to the correct vial, butas he is about to grab it, he is interrupted by a tsk.

"Tsk, tsk. Aren't you a bad pup? Don't you know stealing is not an honorable profession? I'm afraid I'm going to have to teach you a lesson." She throws a vial at him.

Will freezes in place, his quick reflexes failing him.

The woman approaches him. "What am I going to do with you? Hmm." She goes to the cabinet with a smirk in place.

She looks at Will up and down. "You know, I'm in my right to do whatever I choose to do to you, thief. The possibilities are endless." She walks around him. "Should I take something precious away from you? Or perhaps turn you into something? Decisions, decisions. Will you tell me why you decided to rob me? Or are you willing to take your punishment alone?"

Will glares at her.

Emma wakes up in a cold sweat. She gets out of bed, her shirt drenched. She grabs her phone from the nightstand and automatically dials Killian's number.

He answers on the first ring. "Emma, is everything alright?"

She sighs. "I just wanted to hear your voice. I have a bad feeling."

Killian stays quiet.

"Love, I made a promise to you. We will find a way."

"I know, I just can't shake this feeling that something is going to go wrong and I will lose you all over again."

"Love, you will never lose me. I love you. I know things are different right now, but we will find our way. I feel it."

Emma sniffles. "I know. I just can't shake this feeling. We are not going to let her win."

"Aye, I know."

"So, do you really think this plan will work? I like Will, but he is a little reckless."

Killian laughs. "He is reckless, and that's the reason I thought he would be a good choice for the job."

"Alright, if you think this will work, I trust you. I know you have all this experience in plotting and stuff but sometimes you just have to take a risk," Emma says.

"There's my reckless girl. Love, we need to have hope."

Emma snorts. "Now you sound like my parents." She smiles to herself. "So today, Will is going to break in. How will we get her to leave?"

"We could tell her we need to discuss the fact that the trees near the toll bridge are dying. She will jump at the chance to do something about it."

"Hmm, who would have thought the Norn was a nature nut?" Emma snorts.

"Aye, that's part of her. That's the reason she lives in that old tree trunk. Think of her as Mother Nature."

Belle wakes up and quickly dresses. She goes to knock on Will's door, but is met with silence.

She knocks again. "William, are you decent?" She waits for a reply and nothing. She slowly turns the doorknob and enters the room. She looks around; the bed is made and it is eerily quiet. Will is not the type to be so neat. She mutters, 'damn it' and bolts from the room.

Belle finds Emma's room after asking one of the staff. knocks hurriedly.

Emma opens the door and is surprised to open the door to what appears to be a distraught Belle.

Belle enters the room. "Emma, Will is not in his room and I don't think he slept on his bed." Belle is walking circles around Emma.

Emma closes her eyes. "Do you think he went out to clear his head, maybe have a drink?"

Belle turns to Emma. "He doesn't like to drink while on the job. He enjoys his rum like Killian, but not when he is working."

"Do you think he went out and tried to pull the job by himself? With no backup or with the Norn in her home. Is he that reckless?"

Belle smiles. "He is that reckless and I think he felt we had no faith in him. He would do something like that to prove himself."

Will laughs at his predicament. The hag had sneaked upon him, he didn't smell her. She was a tricky one and he had learned that the hard way. He was tied up with some sort of vine, but at least she had dressed him. It was humiliating enough being caught with his pants down. He looked around. She hadn't decided on his punishment yet. He would not snitch, though. He rhythmically moves to test the restraints. He could try a transformation but the hag was crazy; he has no idea if the vines have an enchantment or something else. He takes a whiff and there is no scent. He sighs; maybe he should have listened to Jones.

"Tell me pup, are you ready to talk?" the Norn asks.

Will huffs. "Lass, I'm a thief and I just wanted to be able to claim I stole from the Norn. That's all, bragging rights." He spits and glares at her.

She stares him down.

Will smirks.

"Alright pup, have it your way. But you will have to wait. I have pressing matters to attend to." She smiles sweetly and goes to her cabinet.

Will tries to see what she is doing.

"Ah-ah, no peeking pup." A magical barrier blocks his view. She grabs the vials that she had been using for her glamour potion. This will be her last attempt. The hair was almost gone. She mixes the ingredients and twirls the vial as it turns to a glowing shade of gold. She drinks it. Her hair turns strawberry blonde and her eyes became blue. As she took in her appearance, she shrieks in anger. It didn't work! She didn't look bad, but it was not the image she wanted, and it was the last of the Savior's hair. This was her last attempt, so it had to work. She had been thinking of ways to lure the Savior back to her lair and offer her a deal.

Emma and Belle had come to the same conclusion: Will had gone on the heist alone. Emma had suggested for Belle to go get Killian and they would meet in the woods.

Emma sits in her car waiting for Belle and Killian to arrive but she was starting to feel restless. What if by the time they got there it was too late for Will? She thought to herself 'idiot', but she couldn't blame him. She was annoyed at all the huffing and puffing about strategy and all that shit. No, she is done with that Hag. She gets out of her dad's truck with a chainsaw in hand and starts making the trek back to the Norn's house.

Emma finds the old tree easily and with a smile on her face, she turns on the chainsaw. She's about to take a swing at the tree with the chainsaw when she is thrown back by an energy ball.

Emma stumbles back and drops the chainsaw. She stands up, shaking off the unexpected attack ready to face the old Hag, but is instead met with a young woman with strawberry-blonde hair and blue eyes.

"Hello, Savior. Surprise!" she says as she readies for another attack. "Are you here for the pup?"

Emma shakes her head. "I'm here to take back something you stole."

"Isn't that something. I have a pup waiting for his punishment because he wanted to steal from me, and now you're here to take back something that was offered to me in exchange for saving your life, might I add."

The Norn eyes Emma. "Savior, I shouldn't make an offer, more of a deal really, but I'm willing." She lowers her arms to show there's no threat.

Emma stares at her with a raised brow. "A deal? I don't think so. After the way you tricked Killian? Who did you trick for their youth, because last time I was here, you didn't look like this."

The Norn laughed. "Oh, thank you for noticing, Savior. I look good, don't I? But we're not here to talk about how good I look. I said we could make a deal in exchange for your wolf's love passion. You drink this," she says with a smile on her face as she taunts Emma with the vial.

Emma looks at the purple-ish liquid. "What about Will?"

"Oh, is that the pup's name, Will?"

Emma's eyes blink as she points at the vial in the Norn's hand. "What is that?"

"A simple potion. You willingly drink it and all your problems go away. Your wolf gets his love passion back. The thief, Will, goes free, and no one knows your mother's part in this mess. Do you accept?"

"What will happen to me?"

"Nothing nefarious, you simply sleep."

Emma eyes the vial. "How do I know you will keep your word? You tricked Killian after all, and if I'm sleeping, how will I know you kept your end of the deal?"

The Norn smiles. "Ah, you would have to take my word."

Emma laughs. "How about you let Will go and he can take Killian's love passion with him. Once I know they're safe, I drink your purple thingy."

The Norn paces for a second. "How about I let the pup go with the vial but as soon as they're out of sight, you drink the 'purple thingy' as you so delicately put it. Remember that wolves are fast. Deal or no deal?"

Emma's mind drifts to Killian. He did this for her, so why not make the same kind of sacrifice for him? He was worth it. She smiles and extends her hand. "Deal. I want to see Will and the vial free from you before I put this to my lips."

The smile that graces the Norn's face should give her second thoughts, but she braves on.

"My, my Savior. You have no idea how happy you have made me. Alright, come with me." The Norn waves her hand and the tree trunk transforms into the entrance to her home. They walk in and soon, Emma's eyes land on Will sitting in a chair with vines holding him still.

"Now, pup, Will is it? Alright, your savior here has made a deal in exchange for you, and this." She opens a cabinet door and holds up the vial. "Is this what you came to steal? It doesn't matter now, does it?"

Will's eyes land on Emma while he is shaking his head. Emma simply smiles and mouths the words 'I have to, I love him'.

The Norn waves her hand and the vines drop to the floor. "Alright pup, here. Take this with you and go."

Will hesitated for a second after grabbing the vial and transformed as he ran, holding the vial carefully in his muzzle as he makes his way through the woods.

The Norn turns to Emma once Will is out of sight. "My part is done, now it's up to you. Drink it."

Killian and Belle arrive at the point they were to meet Emma. Killian takes one look around. "Bloody hell." He starts running as he sheds his clothes. Belle is running after him as fast as she can.

Killian has a good start and now has picked up both Will and Emma's scent. He picks up speed, his heart feeling an urgency to get to her.

As soon as Will is out of view, Emma takes the vial and drinks it.

Emma drops to the floor unceremoniously and the Norn kneels next to her. "Ah Savior, your wolf will get his passion back, but it will not be for you. He will fall at my feet, or should I say, Eloise Gardener's." She smiles at her work. When she is about to wave her hand for the tree to provide an eternal coffin for the blonde Savior, she is pushed away from her by a wolf she would recognize anywhere. The blue eyes hold her in place and with a snarl, he transforms back. He drops to his knees next to the Savior. As his tears fill his eyes, he carefully pulls her in his arms and lowers his lips to the crown of her head as he takes her in. "What have you done, you bloody reckless woman? You will be the death of me," he whispers to her. "I love you, I will always love you." He kisses her lips in a chaste kiss that emanated a rainbow light that spreads out, causing an explosion as the tree trunk breaks apart by the force of the light magic. The Norn, blinded by the light, stands in place as her magic escapes her and transforms her into a snag.

Will had run into Belle as they felt the wave of magic hit them. He transforms instantly. He gets up and looks for the vial, only to find it broken. He mutters, "Bloody hell, what was that?"

Belle had fallen backward by the impact but rose up without a problem. "Ouch. I don't know, but I don't think it was anything bad. I mean, I don't feel it was dark." She sighs. "Will, why did you not wait for us? Did Emma find you?"

"Aye, and she made a deal with the Hag. And you all think of me as reckless. I told her not to, but she is a stubborn one. Belle, how am I going to tell Jones I lost his love passion after his love made a deal to save it?"

"What do you mean?"

He shows her the broken vial. "The impact of that magic broke it."

Belle sighs. "Oh no."

Will finally realizes he is naked in front of Belle after he notices she isn't maintaining eye contact. Bloody hell. He looks around for something to cover himself with.

Belle smiles timidly as she points at Killian's discarded clothes. "I think you can wear Killian's. He shifted as soon as he noticed Emma missing. Do you think he got there in time?"

"I don't know. Come on, let's find out. I'm sorry for making this worse." He looks down as they walk back to the Norn's place.

Emma opens her eyes slowly. Killian is holding her so close to him. She breathes him in. "Hey, what's wrong? Who died?" She smiles as she pushes him away to see his face.

His eyes widen and he gives her a big smile. "Bloody hell, woman. Are you trying to kill me? Why don't you ever listen?"

She snorts. "I never do and you love me for it. So what happened here?"

Killian looks around and it seems like a bomb had exploded. He scratches behind his ear. "Darling, I don't know. I thought you were dead and I kissed you and then-"

"True Love's Kiss!" A voice says, startling them.

Emma and Killian look at the source, only to find Belle and Will.

Belle smiles. "This is a rare magic, so it makes sense. Emma, you are the Savior, and you and Killian share True Love."

Emma smiles. "But he doesn't have his love passion, so how?" Her eyes land on Will. "Do you still have the vial?"

Will turns away. "It broke when the impact of that blast hit me. I fell and the vial fell out of my muzzle as I transformed back. I'm sorry."

Killian looks down and he turns to Emma. "Love, I think that it's back. I-" He blushes., "I'm having thoughts and urges that I have been lacking as of late."

Emma looks at him with disbelief. "Are you sure?"

He laughs. "Aye, I'm sure. I want to show you just how much I love you."

Emma laughs and tackles him, kissing him all over the face.

Belle and Will clear their throats as they leave them alone.

"So you really like me, huh?" Emma teases Killian.

"Aye, I do." He smiles lovingly.

The smile fades from Emma's face as she looks around. "What happened to the Norn?"

Killian looks around as well and spots an eerily human-like tree that has a stench he is familiar with. The smell is diluted, but he would recognize it anywhere. "Love, I believe that is her."

Emma gets close to the tree and smiles. "Alright, how about some firewood?" She goes looking for her chainsaw which she finds on the floor. She lifts it up and when it starts after a couple of tries, she gives Killian a wink and chops down the tree with a wide smile on her face.

A few weeks after the disappearance of the Norn, Will and Belle leave to return to Sherwood Forest.

Killian and Emma return to their normal life and in a quiet moment, Killian gets on one knee and asks the love of his long life to be his wife, who simply replies, I thought you'd never ask. With those words, their happy ending begins.

tagging:

The god sighed and shook his head as he lowered his trident to his flank. "Ah, Emma… You remind me so much of my Ursula…" He tread a little further into the shallows before pushing himself up atop a large boulder, curling his glistening platinum tail around the rock and scratching at his beard as he formed his next words inside his head. "Like you, she possessed a compassion towards the human race that I failed to understand for many centuries. It wasn't until that fateful day that the first human sailed beyond the isle of the sirens that I ever had reason to converse with one. I confronted that man, trying to determine what ruse he'd employed to get past my protections and what I discovered was a young man who was simply trying to return home to his ailing mother.

"That man had fought through attacking enemy ships and fierce sea creatures until he was the sole survivor on his vessel. He'd tried in vain to return to his homeland, but he wasn't yet a skilled sailor and had navigated himself in circles before crossing into our realm. He knew who I was the moment I appeared before him, and I could sense his fear and reverence. He was a humble man with a good heart, and it was that humble, pure intentioned heart that my daughter sensed and eventually fell in love with. She urged me to aid the man's return to his land but after being gone so long, there was little left for him to return to. He banded with a few survivors and formed a new village on an island near our realm, eventually marrying my daughter.

"The reason I'm telling you all of this, Emma, is that you clearly felt that same compassion because, like Ursula, you sensed this man's good heart. I never believed it would be possible for a siren to sense such emotion, but from the day you separated yourself from the council, I have known that you were different. A creature birthed to enchant and entice humans to their death wasn't intended to possess compassion - let alone the emotion you're feeling right now."

"And what might that be?" she asked with a sniffle while shifting her position ever so slightly so that she could see Poseidon's face.

"You've fallen in love, Emma, and that is a most powerful emotion."

"Love?"

"It's what is driving you to want to protect him. It may perhaps be part of the instinct that compelled you to rescue him in the first place. But I say that with the warning that I can not promise whether the emotion is reciprocated. Only he can answer that question."

"Is that the reason for these tears? Are sirens even able to cry?"

"You may be the first."

"Is love the reason I feel like a piece of myself may die with him?" she questioned as her fingers unconsciously laced through the matted, scraggly dark hair at the nape of Killian's neck. "If Regina's treachery has taken him from me, I swear, I will find her and…"

Poseidon cut her off before her anger overshadowed her present dilemma. "I promise you, Regina will be dealt with, swiftly and surely. Once I determine my brother's role in this debacle, Regina will likely be stripped of her powers and if I see fit, banished to the Forbidden Isles."

"Banishment to the Forbidden Isles seems harsh, even for what Regina did…" Emma sighed, hugging Killian even closer to her breast until she recalled the damage the kraken had presumably inflicted upon the man she loved and loosened her embrace. "If I am to be truthful, all I really want is whatever is in Killian's best interest."

"If only all sirens were blessed with your wisdom," Poseidon smiled. "Perhaps it is time to grant all of your kind the full range of emotions?"

"Or perhaps it is simply time for us to mend our ways? All humans are not evil, and some of them out there are still your descendants - maybe even Killian here."

"It has been so many generations since I've kept track of my descendants," the deity lamented. "I'm afraid that there is so little trace of my lineage left that it would be nearly impossible to determine. Being a descendant of an Olympian god doesn't necessarily grant that good heart that makes a man immune to the siren song either. Many of my grandchildren's grandchildren succumbed to greed, avarice and other sins of humanity, but as you've said, there are many good ones out there. Perhaps you are right that it is time for the gods to amend our perception of humanity, but I fear the likelihood of that happening is negligible."

"I was afraid of that," Emma responded as her gaze cast downward.

"However," Poseidon continued, "while I cannot directly heal this human, I do have an idea that could expedite his return to his own ship, where he belongs."

"May I go with him?" Emma asked impulsively, her query catching the god off-guard as she raised expectant eyes to meet the god's gaze.

"Emma, are you certain?" the flabbergasted Poseidon inquired.

"I am quite certain. If there is a way to return Killian to his ship and to his family, I wish to go with him."

"To do so, you would have to give up your immortality and all of your magic," he explained.

"Lord Poseidon, I have spent centuries alone. I never desired any companionship until I spoke to Killian. If there is a way to save him and for me to accompany him, I will gladly surrender my immortality."

"I can arrange that, but I do remind you that I cannot guarantee that your emotions will be returned by him. There is no way to make someone love you…"

"It is a chance I will happily take, Your Majesty. My instincts are telling me that he shares my feelings and I can no longer imagine spending an eternity here without him. If he is to return to the land where he belongs, then I know I belong there at his side."

Poseidon nodded as he raised the trident, pointing it skyward. "Then so it shall be," he stated as clouds gathered once again above the bay, swirling into a mighty vortex before the god vanished in a blinding flash of lightning.

*********

A warm, tropical breeze tickled his cheek as Killian shifted his aching body. He could feel the sun on his back as he felt around, grasping and then releasing a fistful of sand. His memory was sketchy as he struggled to lift his head and force his eyes open, not yet certain if he was alive or dead. Maybe somewhere in between?

His head was throbbing too much to hold up so he slid his forearm beneath it and just let it rest there. The simple act of drawing breath was agonizing. Did the dead still experience pain in the afterlife or was this his purgatory? Left broken and abandoned on a deserted beach with the sea just beyond his reach?

Bits and pieces of memories (or maybe, hallucinations) came and went when his eyes would fall closed. Pirates and sinking ships. Palm trees and some subterranean lagoon. A mermaid with long, golden hair and a tail that shimmered like pearls in the sunlight. A huge sea beast with tentacles that were as long as the Jewel from bow to stern. He even pictured a gigantic trident reaching out of the waves.

How hard had he struck his head? he wondered as the fingers on his left hand gingerly touched the open laceration at his scalp, noting the crimson stains on his skin as his hand fell away. Sucking in a deep breath that he immediately regretted, he almost wanted to laugh at his unbelievable situation. What a fine mess you've gotten yourself into, Killian Jones, he thought.

His gaze drifted back to the bay, staring out at the horizon as his vision began to blur and he found himself fighting to remain conscious. He squinted in an attempt to make out a faint blob off in the distance and assumed he was imagining the peal of a ship's bell and approaching voices when he succumbed to the pain-free peace of the darkness.

*********

The familiar bob and sway of the sea was a welcome sensation as Killian began to come around. Breathing was still a chore but even before his eyelids began to part, he knew something was different. The recognizable scents of musty books and linens filled his nostrils along with some sort of strong alcohol - although definitely not the drinking kind. The creaks and squeaks of wood battered by wind and waves was a familiar reverberation in his ear.

He threw his eyelids open and lurched upright, only to be halted and eased back onto the bunk by a large, calloused hand adorned with a single, hefty, carved silver ring.

A ring that even in his discombobulated state, he noticed and identified instantly.

"Liam?" he choked out, his throat dry and burning as though he'd swallowed much of the sand back on that beach.

"Aye, little brother," Liam smiled broadly as Killian's eyes finally focused on his elder brother's bearded and clearly anguished face. Liam's typically perfectly pressed uniform was rumpled, wrinkled and as deeply creased as his face, but Killian didn't yet know that it was the product of days searching for, and then worrying over his younger brother. "Now, will you please lie back down? Doc says you still need a lot of rest to recuperate."

"Liam, I can't believe it is really you. It has been an eternity, it seems… I thought I'd never see you again…," Killian excitedly babbled as clarity slowly returned. The comforting sight of his own first officer's cabin, paltry as it might be, helped him relax as he settled back into the pile of feather-stuffed pillows propped against the stateroom wall. Scratchy as it was, Killian didn't even protest as Liam draped the Royal Navy-issued charcoal grey, woolen blanket over top of his heavily bruised chest. "It is really you, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is really me, brother," Liam replied as he fretted with the bedding, trying to make the narrow bunk as comfortable as possible for his only sibling who had seemingly just returned from the dead. "I was warned you might be a little out of sorts for a couple of days from your injuries, but yes, I am really here and yes, I am beyond happy that we located you alive. It took us days to locate you on that tiny island. You were bloody lucky that the other survivor was one of the prisoners and not one of those pirates."

"Prisoner?" Killian repeated with his face scrunched in confusion and obvious discomfort.

"You really need your rest, Killian, and I need to go make my rounds. We can talk more later…"

"Brother, I don't understand… There was no survivor from that ship, save for myself." Killian became increasingly agitated and shook his head at the wrongness of it all. That motion, of course, only made his achy skull hurt more and loosened some of the bandages Doc had wrapped around his cranium to cover the jagged wound and the uneven stitches he'd used to hold it closed. "I was the only one who survived… I failed all of our men…" Killian squeezed his eyes closed as his wavering voice cracked with melancholy. "I'm so sorry, Liam, but I'm hardly fit to be your First Mate…"

"Brother, please just rest. You're spouting such nonsense. I'll send Doc right in to examine you. Your head injury must have been far worse than he thought to have affected your memory so severely."

"My memory is fine," Killian stated bluntly. "Far better than my performance as an officer…"

"For allowing yourself to be captured so your wounded crew could escape? That's hardly a failure, brother. I recommended you for a commendation for your bravery and I truly feared I would never have the opportunity to pin that medal on your uniform myself."

Liam's words made no sense. No one awards a commendation to a man who failed his mission and lost his entire landing team. He knew he must be dead and this purgatory was a cruel end to his fantastical journey.

"I'm sorry, I've been such a failure, Liam. You do not need to cover for my sins. I am only alive today through the mercy of the gods who sent down an angel to rescue me…"

"Bloody hell, Killian…," an exasperated Liam sighed. "Whatever are you rambling on about? I sincerely hope that either Doc or the lass can talk some sense into you…" Liam snatched up his plumed uniform hat from the writing table as he rose from his chair at his brother's bedside, doing his best to straighten his overcoat to look proper and authoritative, as a Captain should be.

"Lass?" Killian asked in bewilderment. What lass? He could only picture one lovely lass with flowing, blonde hair and emerald green eyes, but she could hardly have followed him here…

"The other former prisoner of those cowardly pirates that we rescued from the island with you, you git," Liam muttered, flopping his hat back atop his head as he shoved aside the heavy canvas curtain that provided Killian's quarters a semblance of privacy from the rest of the crew berths lining the narrow corridor that dissected this deck. It was far more crowded and noisy than his own quarters which were a deck above, spanning the width of the stern, not that he had occupied them for the past few days.

Liam's footsteps resounded heavily on the oak planks beneath his feet as he lumbered down the passageway and rapped on the wall outside of another curtained compartment. The ship's doctor, who's face looked nearly as haggard as the Captain's, drew the curtain open and immediately straightened his posture at the sight of his superior officer.

"At ease," Liam grumbled, letting the doctor know with a casual wave of his hand that military decorum wasn't necessary.

"Sorry, Cap'n. Taking a break from your vigil over the young Lieutenant Jones?"

"More like taking a break from Killian in general."

"Has he awakened?"

"A short time ago - yes. He isn't making a bloody lick of sense, babbling on about being a horrible officer who failed his crew and was saved by some mythical angel. How severe was the injury to his head?"

"How wonderful to hear that he's come around, but his head injury appeared largely superficial. I'll happily give him another once over now that he's awake. Maybe those pirates poisoned him or something that is affecting his mental state?"

"I hope it is something easily remedied or I fear his career may be in danger. I'm going to go fetch the lass we rescued along with him. Perhaps hearing her tale will help sort his head out…"

"Sounds like a very good idea, sir," the doctor responded as his troubled captain departed without another word, trudging tiredly towards the ladder to the upper deck.

*********

The visit by the ship's doctor only left Killian more irritable and baffled by their blatant dismissal of his miscarriage of his duties. They must all be daft, Killian thought. Or they think I am? Maybe he was merely imagining all of this?

Had any of this been real?

As the doctor had replaced bandages and prodded him in every tormenting and unpleasant place imaginable, Killian saw the very real evidence of his injuries. He was peppered with cuts, scrapes and contusions in various stages of healing. Some of the more painful ones were deep purplish while others had begun yellowing. There were red welts on his arms and across his torso that Doc couldn't identify, suggesting they might be burns or some manner of rash, but Killian's mind recalled a vastly different source. He'd been quickly shushed at the mere mention of encountering a kraken.

Doc offered him medicine to ease his discomfort which Killian knew meant the potion they'd sourced in the Far Eastern realm. He didn't know much about the substance, but he declined, preferring to keep what remained of his wits about him. The exasperated doctor muttered something unintelligible under his breath and shook his head at the young lieutenant's stubbornness, but Killian did overhear him mention that Liam had gone to fetch the supposed other prisoner from the pirate ship before departing Killian's quarters.

Killian knew with absolute certainty that no one else had escaped that ship with him, whatever had led to its sinking. Whomever this mysterious woman was that Liam had mentioned, she must be the key to unraveling this insanity. He was anxious to meet her, although he was also embarrassed to have a lady see him in such a disheveled state.

He also couldn't get the image of an ethereal presence to depart his head - one with flowing, pale blonde hair, porcelain skin that nearly glowed in her state of undress, and a supple, shimmery tail fin that playfully flicked water towards him.

No, he scolded himself. She didn't exist. Just a dreamy figment of his overactive imagination…

The sound of hushed voices in the corridor beyond the curtain snapped his attention back and Killian strained to hear what they were saying.

"Seems to be healing well, but his head's a bit out of sort…" Killian heard Doc telling someone that he soon realized was Liam when he heard his brother respond.

"It's unorthodox…," he heard Liam say, but he could only make out portions of the rest. "Doesn't remember… Miss Swan, we're hoping… We realize this is a highly unusual request, but given your time together…"

Miss Swan? Killian knew no one by such name, but why would Liam bring a stranger to visit him in his convalescence? Perhaps he should just pretend to be asleep and they'll go away, not that the ruse had ever worked to fool Liam. He closed his eyelids anyway as he heard the rattle and squeak of the curtain being drawn, determined to ignore his unwanted guests anyway.

"Should I return when he isn't asleep?" a feminine voice asked shyly.

"I swear, he was awake a moment ago, Capt'n," Doc said with an echo of concern in his voice, although Killian wasn't certain if it was directed toward him or if Doc feared the Captain's ire.

"I apologize, Miss Swan," Liam muttered with an audible sigh. "I thought it would do him good to see you - that it would aid his recollection, but he's a stubborn arse…"

"No apology necessary, Captain," the woman replied. Her voice was tantalizingly familiar to Killian, but he couldn't place why. He almost wanted to secret an eye open to catch a glimpse but he didn't dare. "Would it be alright if I sat with him for a spell?"

Oh, bloody hell, no! Killian screamed internally. Liam would never permit such a thing. Having a woman onboard was scandalous enough…

"I'm hesitant to allow that since this deck is less secure than my quarters, milady," Liam answered, only Killian could hear the but coming. "But since this is an unusual situation, I'll allow it. I'm sure I can find enough chores to keep my crew occupied for a bit and keep them away from this deck."

"Thank you, Captain," she responded and Killian could hear her smile in her voice. He was disappointed in his brother and was nearly betrayed by the frown he fought from forming on his own lips.

"I shall check back in a short time, lest my brother or any other sailor here attempt to take advantage of you."

"I am sure your brother will be a perfect gentleman, as he was while we were awaiting rescue. He could scarcely glance at me without blushing…"

Wait… What did she just say? Killian's brain was swirling with new questions as Liam bid the mystery woman farewell for the moment. He wanted so much to look upon her face, but he must wait until he heard Liam's heavy footsteps trailing away.

“Have you lost your group, young man?” she asks with a gentle voice. Henry likes being called young man; it makes him feel important. 

“It’s okay,” he tells her earnestly. “They like to go faster than me. I can do it by myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” the lady laughs. She looks really pretty; her hair is yellow and curly and she wears a poofy white dress with black swirly bits and a black, long-sleeved jacket, the lack of color making it obvious she’s part of the Circus somehow. If this was one of the fairy tales Henry likes so much, she’d be the princess in hiding; here, at the Circus, that just might be true. “I was just planning to walk to the front gates. Would you care to escort me, young sir?”

Henry eagerly takes the hand the lady offers. “I’m Henry,” he tells her as they walk. “What’s your name?”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Henry. My name is Emma.”

“That’s a princess name. Are you a princess?”

“No,” she laughs, “but thank you very much, Henry. I appreciate the compliment. Are you enjoying the circus?”

“Yeah!” As they walk, Henry eagerly tells the lady - Emma, his new friend - about all his favorite bits - the animals and the dancers and especially the magician. Emma has a funny little smile when he talks about that, but Henry doesn’t think to ask about it.

When the front gates are finally in sight, Henry tugs on Emma’s hand. “I like it here,” he whispers. “Do I have to go?”

Emma crouches down, her skirts pooling around her and threatening to envelop him too. “Yes, Henry, you have to leave for now.”

“But why? I want to stay here. I could stay with you!”

“Oh, Henry, I’d like that so much,” she tells him, pulling him into a hug. “You need to go for now, until you’re older, but the Circus will always be here for you, okay? You’ll come back.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Henry dreams of the circus that night, and for many nights after, though the visions his mind conjures up never quite match the mysticism of the real thing.

A week later, the Circus is gone.

(But here, in a small room in a cold, gloomy children’s home - a young boy remembers.)

———

Belle, unsurprisingly, proves to be a determined and reliable correspondent. She’s like his little window into the Circus, even when he can’t be there himself, as is so often the case - especially in those first few years. Five years pass of letters and far-too-rare visits, and yet Killian never feels left in the dark. That’s the magic of what Belle can accomplish with her words - let him feel as if he is present even when he can’t be. 

Her missives contain the important things he asked for, of course - reports of new tents and changes in operations and unusual things his opponent, Miss Swan, is doing. They’re useful words, words that help him plan his own next moves. More than that, though, her letters are filled with wonderful little mundane details that make him smile. Belle tells him about the latest book she’s read and how fast the Zimmer twins are growing up and particularly funny anecdotes she’s heard. There are complaints about the weather, and discussions of the interesting or ominous things she reads in the cards. Always, always, there are chronicles of all the many places she has seen as the Circus crisscrosses the world, recountings of wondrous sights and marvelous people. Belle had wanted to see the world, and she’s getting to, five times over. It’s everything she deserves, only wrapped in an unusual and often demanding package. 

“It’s not too much, is it?” Killian asks on one of the rare instances their paths cross - in Paris, this time, where Killian has come on an errand for Jefferson, sitting in a little cafe in the shadow of Notre Dame. “I never want to ask more of you than you can manage.”

“Don’t be silly,” Belle says, waving off his concerns like the steam from their coffee. “They’re merely letters, Killian. It’s no great bother - especially for something I’d be doing anyways. I’d be writing to you regardless, Killian - you’re my best friend in the world, and I’ll be terribly put out if you ever stop writing me back.”

And that’s that.

(Most days, Killian believes that Belle is a much better friend than he could ever possibly deserve. He makes a mental note to say something of the sort in his next letter back to her.)

(Of course, he forgets - but then again, he can’t imagine she doesn’t already know.)

———

As a child, growing up knowing she was destined for some magical contest, Emma had always been told that she’d understand what she needed to do once her competition actually started. As an adult, now smack in the middle of it all, she finds that is decidedly not the case. Emma does her best, but it still feels like she has no idea what in the world she’s supposed to be doing.

The Circus is meant to be a canvas for her abilities, hers and her opponent’s; that much is obvious. What exactly that means is… more up for debate. Emma tries to take on more of the Circus in little pieces, bit by bit, so that more of its operations run on magic than on man power. It’s more enjoyable to try and come up with new attractions, drawing upon her imagination to come up with something new. It’s not a particularly quick process - Emma spends a lot of time planning each idea, to make sure she doesn’t miss anything, and it means that she can only create maybe two new tents each year. It’s worth it, though, to wander through the finished product, and see the way her most fanciful ideas have come to life. 

(“You need to be doing more,” Regina always scolds her on those rare occasions she makes the effort to visit her student. “This isn’t playtime. You can’t just make the effort when you feel like it, silly girl. Don’t you want to win this?”

“Of course, Regina,” Emma always says, making whatever promises she needs to in order to appease the other woman - all the while knowing that she will continue to act in her own way.)

(For Emma, the best thing about the Circus may be the separation from the woman who took her in. Regina does not often make the effort to check in on how her student is doing - and Emma more than likes it that way.)

There are traces of her mysterious opponent’s work, too. Sometimes it’s in the form of dramatic new attractions, things that push the bounds of possibility and perception; sometimes, it’s with more mundane things, like a wine-sampling tent tucked along a path that Emma is certain never existed before. 

His or her greatest feat, however, is on the members of the Circus themselves. As the years pass by, Emma can’t help but notice that time doesn’t affect everyone who brings the Circus to life, with the exception of the Zimmer twins. It’s been more than half a decade, but Granny Lucas is still as hale and hearty as ever. Not a single face has gained extra creases, or a single head extra grey hairs. Something this unknown competitor did has stopped the clock for all of them within the iron fence, even as the grand timepiece above the front gates ticks on.

It’s an impressive piece of magic - one that must take a considerable amount of skill and effort. It’s the first time Emma wonders if maybe this is a contest of endurance, rather than skill.

Regina won’t tell her, however, and Emma puts the matter out of her mind while she turns her attention towards the night’s performances and the germ of an idea blooming in her head. Something fantastical. Something striking - and icy. 

There’s always room for imagination and for creation at the Circus, after all - and despite her opponent’s impressive efforts, that’s exactly what Emma is counting on to one day prevail in this competition. 

——— 

The Zimmer twins are special, Emma discovers, and not just in the way anyone who has loved a child claims them to be exceptional. In Ava and Nicholas’ case, it’s true. 

There had been something in the air the night the circus opened, the night after the twins were born - something crackling and pervasive and magical. Emma has suspected for years - since that very moment - that the energy was something created by her still-unknown opponent. It’d been like a wave, rippling through them all at once and creating unknown effects. She thinks this might be one of those - powers growing in two children who, by all indication, shouldn’t have received them.

It’s especially noticeable to Emma, who not only has the ability to sense the powers running through their veins, but spends a considerable amount of time with the six-year-old twins. Ava and Nicholas grow up like the beloved niece and nephew of everyone involved with the circus, as though everyone communally agreed to test the proverb it takes a village. While the circus is open to visitors, and the children’s parents responsible for their little cart of carved treasures, everyone else watches the little boy and girl in shifts when they’re not performing - and Emma quickly becomes a particular favorite. She’s never been sure why; maybe they sensed the magic in her own veins, even as babies, and latched onto it. Maybe they simply like the way she thoughtfully humors every flight of fancy. Whatever the case - Emma knows her life would be far less interesting without the two in it. 

Ava has magic that likes to shake out and twinkle at the edges of her soft hair, similar in a way to Emma’s own powers. Unusual things happen around her, if you’re paying attention; lost things are more easily found, snacks and sweets turn up in unlikely places, and on one impressive occasion, a pair of fluffy orange and white kittens crawled out from beneath her bunk. 

“I can fix that,” she tells Emma innocently one day as Emma moves to throw a vase of wilted flowers out. She hasn’t prodded Ava about her powers before - it doesn’t seem the time to bring to the forefront all the things she can likely do, not when she’s still a little girl, not when Emma’s own childhood was largely sacrificed because of her own powers - but it’s a hard opportunity to pass up. It’s worth demonstrating to Ava, anyways, that her powers are simply a part of her, and nothing to make a fuss about.

“Can you show me?” Emma asks. It’s impossible not to smile when the little girl nods eagerly and furrows her brow in concentration, staring fixedly at the wilted daisies. Slowly but surely, the browned tips disappear, the petals straightening from their shrivelled state and the flowers once again lifting upright to seek the sun.

“That’s very well done, Ava,” Emma makes sure to tell her. 

“I know,” Ava replies seriously with all the intensity of a child her age. “Can you do that too?”

“I can.” Emma doesn’t tell people about her magic, usually, but Ava seems like a necessary exception - to let the little girl know she’s not entirely alone in her special, unusual skills.

“I thought so,” the little girl nods sagely. “I could feel it.”

It doesn’t surprise Emma in the least. 

Nicholas knows things that he shouldn’t - knows things that no one should know. Somehow, the stars speak to him in a language only he can understand. Nick sees things to come and things that have already happened, and sometimes divulges them readily and at the most unlikely times. 

“Is the scary lady with the dark hair your mama?” he asks one day out of the blue, startling Emma before she collects herself.

“No. She was my teacher,” Emma explains. 

“Oh.” His question asked, Nick happily goes back to playing quietly with his wooden lion. He’s less prone to chatter than his sister, happy to keep to his own thoughts when Ava isn’t pulling him into some other adventure. Emma rather wonders if it’s not because he has all the things he sees in the stars to keep him company. 

“Is there a reason you asked?” she inquires as casually as she can. “Did you… was there something you saw?”

“She hurt you,” is all he’ll say. “Before you were here.”

Something from the past, then - not so immediately alarming, though a sign she’ll need to be vigilant about hiding certain portions of her memories that young, impressionable and trusting minds shouldn’t be seeing.

“It’s alright, Nickie,” she tells him. “She isn’t around to bother me very often.”

He nods decisively. “Good.”

As he turns his attention back to his wooden lion, bringing a tiger in as well, Emma reaches out for the magic constantly humming about her and draws it into herself, directing to play through her mind and cast something almost like her invisibility cloak around her more traumatic memories to keep Nicholas from seeing. 

“Is there anything else?” she prods, mostly to test and see if the charm is effective.

Sure enough, the little boy’s face twists into a frown. “I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I can’t see.”

“Ah, well,” Emma replies in a purposefully light tone. “Maybe some other time.”

(She is not entirely sure she means it.)

Truth be told, Ava and Nicholas and their wondrous gifts are a beautiful mystery. All Emma knows is that it’s her responsibility to protect them from more sinister influences, the way she wishes someone had done for her. They deserve that. She deserved that. And she’ll be damned if they’re turned into pawns the way she was. 

There are many good things to come out of the Circus - friendship and wonder and home - but Emma thinks the Zimmer twins, and the powers they should be able to wield for good without the interference of people like Regina - are one of the best. 

——— 

There are attractions at the Circus unlike anything you’ve seen before, that you think may only exist within these iron gates. The Circus is a place where the otherworldly and impossible come to life.

This tent contains one such wonder, advertised with simple but mysterious words. This marker swirls and glistens in the moonlight, coaxing you inside to discover its secrets.

Stepping through the tent flap, brisk air tickles at your face - the first sign of what’s to come. Twisting through the interior are all manner of transparent structures, arranged in neat beds. The Ice Garden - just as promised. Each creation appears impossibly delicate and fragile, and by all logic, should be impossible on a warm summer’s night. There are lilies and roses and daisies, sculpted topiaries, winding vines, flowers that remind you of an illustration you once saw of tropical flora. A raised bed of cacti and succulents sprawls along one wall. Opposite, an apple tree, laden with fruit, arches gracefully at the edge of a silver-stoned path. There are little crystalline plaques, too, for all the plants whose names you’d never begin to guess: Shooting Star. Gayfeather. Anemones. Candelabra Primrose.

Every inch, every label, every petal, is made of ice.

Even at the Circus, such a thing should be impossible, This tent may be slightly, inexplicably cooler, but it’s by no means chilled enough to maintain this icy wonder. Though you know you shouldn’t touch, you can’t help but graze your fingers along an icy petal, just to make sure it isn’t cleverly blown glass. It’s a joyous mystery when they come away cold and wet, the sculptures revealed as ice in truth.

There’s no explanation for the Ice Garden - how it can exist at this edge of the Circus, seemingly unburdened by the laws of nature.

The longer you spend in the sparkling, colorless chill, the more you come to realize that beauty doesn’t need an explanation anyways.

———

Killian - 

I know it’s not quite the update you were asking for, but I still feel compelled to share - something wonderful and charming and amusing, and so delightfully human. I couldn’t quite resist writing to tell you. 

I could be wrong - but I believe a little fanclub has sprung up to trail the Circus. You’ll think it silly, Killian, but I am starting to recognize faces here - not of Circus members (I am not nearly so unobservant, or so rude not to recognize them by name after all these years!) but of visitors. There are a handful I could swear are coming over and over again. I’ll have to ask, next time I notice.

(Not that I can begrudge them of such - I certainly would be doing the same, in their shoes! It’s just that the fortunes get rather repetitive. I should probably let them know that the stars of fate do not change nearly as quickly as they seem to believe…)

There’s a certain awe, or maybe more like peace, that they wear on their faces as they move about the grounds that’s unique from all the other looks I see - almost like they’re coming home. I certainly know something about that - I think so many of us do. It’s wonderful, really - the way these visitors love the Circus so much that they feel compelled to return time and time again, joyously retracing the same paths over and over. It’s clear they love this place the way we do. Isn’t that just what we wanted, anyways? To make something for others to love, to play a part in bringing it to life? 

(Yes, I obviously remember that you’re also doing this for your mysterious competition - but I don’t believe someone makes something so beautiful without a generous dose of love as well. Don’t try to deny it, Killian - you know I’m always right.)

I hope you are well; no other news from here. As always, I’ll let you know if anything changes. 

Best wishes,

Belle

——— 

In time, the Circus gains followers.

It was probably inevitable, in a way; as the Circus winds its way across the world, through large cities and small towns, it touches countless lives as it goes, some more impactfully than others. There are those who visit once, and remember it fondly; those who take the opportunity to visit whenever the Circus is in their area, and look forward to it; and those who hold the memories close to one day tell their disbelieving grandchildren.

And then - there are the Rêveurs.

The Rêveurs start almost like a book club - groups of people who meet to reminisce about their favorite attractions, all the sights and smells and tastes that make the whole experience unforgettable. In time, the groups morph; they begin to go to the Circus together, and then travel to visit other Rêveurs when the Circus comes to their area. Particularly eloquent members begin to write into their local newspapers and magazines, beautiful editorials that convey love and wonder and coax thousands of others through the twisted iron gates. It becomes an entire movement, based off of a shared love, of people coming together to experience the Circus over and over again.

It is easy to spot the Rêveurs, if you know what you are looking for. In one of the editorials, an adherent mentions his own preferred way to experience the Circus - to blend in as much as he can, in all black and white, while still setting himself apart from those who bring the experience to life by adding a single touch of red. The trend catches on quickly; wandering the grounds, it is easy to spot splashes of red in the crowd, handkerchiefs peeking from pockets and roses or carnations in lapels and gloves and ribbons in hair. 

Some Rêveurs make sure to visit new attractions each time they visit; some prefer to see the same over and over, lingering in the acrobat tent or on the carousel for hours. In a way, they prove that there is no right or wrong way to experience the Circus - there will always be new things to see, and old favorites to return to. 

The members of the Circus are aware of the Rêveurs, too. Indeed, there are benefits to being in the same audience with that little flash of red, as performers bring out their best, most dazzling tricks and attempt new daring feats. Watching carefully, one might see a vendor slip a cup of cocoa or an extra serving of toasted nuts to a man or woman with that bare hint of color. All visitors to the Circus are valued, but the Rêveurs are treasured, in a different way, that makes every person involved in the endeavor want to do just the slightest bit more to bring the experience to life in a new way. 

The performers and vendors and other members of the Circus are its engine, in many ways - but the Rêveurs just might be its heart. 

———

Killian - 

I just realized that it’s been a while since my last letter - two months, I believe! Everything is perfectly fine here, I assure you. In fact, I haven’t written because there’s been nothing particularly notable to report. I’ve been watching for new additions, just as I always do, but nothing has appeared. Ah, well. We must be in a quiet stretch on that front.

Meanwhile, the Circus trundles onward, as it so often does. This week, we’re in Morocco. I’ve never been - and oh Killian, it is wonderful. The air is hot and dry and tinged with all kinds of spices that I can’t quite identify. And the food! A little group of us went and wandered in one of the markets, trying things from the stands. I’ve never tasted anything like it. What boring lives so many people lead, happy to stay on their own little island and pretend they know everything. This is so much preferable. The weather is a wonderful respite, too, from the cold I know must be sweeping through now that December is well and truly here.

I do not know if we’ll be home for Christmas; I rather doubt it. I’ll miss our usual holiday feast, but I trust that you’ll have a lovely time with your brother instead. My regards to Liam, as always.

Yours &c.,

Belle

———

Killian is lucky, in a way. After all, he has Belle and Liam, who both know about this competition. They’re his support system, the people who keep him grounded to life outside of all this - especially Liam. Lord knows Mr. Gold has never sought to do that. He doubts Miss Swan has that. Maybe he’s wrong; for her sake, he hopes he is. How lonely it must be to keep that secret, otherwise. 

Liam’s apartment is like a sanctuary at the end of a long day, where his brother waits with dark spiced rum and a roaring fire. Sometimes they venture out for dinner; some nights they stay in, and have the landlady send up something to eat. Mostly, Killian enjoys the peace of being in company that never expects more of him than he’s sure he can give. All Liam expects is companionship, and maybe for Killian to come with a nice bottle of spirits every so often. Killian can more than handle that. 

(They do not mention that Liam does not seem to age, the same way all those attached to the Circus do not. If his brother has even noticed, he remains blessedly silent on the subject.)

“Do you wonder sometimes,” Liam asks one night, “what would have happened if you hadn’t been selected by Gold? If you had turned him down?”

Killian shrugs. They’re in the middle of their third drinks - just the time for philosophical questions like these. “Not really,” he admits. “What’s the use? It happened like it happened. You wouldn’t have as nice a place as this, that’s for damn sure.”

Liam snorts, and the atmosphere turns more jovial for a few minutes as both men indulge in a drunken laugh before things turn thoughtful again. “If you had to do it all over again… would you?”

“I would,” Killian agrees. “We were a couple of scrappy orphans, no prospects, nothing. I’ve never been given a reason to truly regret it.”

“Then I’m happy for you, brother.” Liam tops off their glasses and raises his drink in a toast. “To good decisions, then!”

“To good decisions,” Killian echoes. “Or at least ones we haven’t yet regretted.”

———

Some attractions are more conventional in name, their promises familiar and comforting in that way that the expected can be. But this is the Circus, and conventional simply doesn’t exist here in the same way. 

You enter another tent to discover a hall of mirrors. It is a common enough attraction, at its core, one you have seen in other carnivals and street fairs. But true to the promise of the Circus, this version of such a fun house classic is more than you’ve ever seen. There are tall, full length mirrors, as you’ve come to expect, but small mirrors too, clustered on tables in every nook between their larger counterparts to reflect the lantern light in every direction. The mirrors don’t just distort your own reflection either; in addition to mirrors that cause your reflection to look taller or shorter or wider, there are mirrors to make you look older or younger, mirrors which change your hair, mirrors which duplicate your visage over and over again until you appear to be surrounded by a crowd of your own self in the mirror. There are even mirrors which somehow make it appear that you are someplace else entirely - by the seaside, the water slowly soaking your shoes, or in a fragrant flower garden, or wandering amidst ancient ruins. It is a clever trick, and one you won’t pretend to understand. In your heart, you never want to, for fear of ruining the illusion.

The world feels bright and new under the moonlight as you exit back outside the tent, like the hall of mirrors has helped you find a new way of seeing.

(And maybe, you realize, that’s the entire point.)

———

Killian takes small comfort in the fact that Mr. Gold seems pleased with his efforts. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows that somehow he’s supposed to demonstrate his abilities and magical knowledge on the canvas that is the Circus, but that only tells him so much. Killian adds attractions when he can, crafting things like the Hall of Mirrors in careful dioramas before sewing the plans into his master book, but it’s so hard to know if he’s on the right track. 

Mr. Gold has never been particularly involved in Killian’s life, and that doesn’t change now that the competition has well and truly begun. As a child, Killian had been largely self-taught, relying on the books that his teacher provided and the man himself only dropping in periodically to test his knowledge and comprehension. This feels like much the same thing; once a year, Mr. Gold will appear in Killian’s office after one of the Circus dinners, or outside his flat door without warning. There may be a polite inquiry about what Killian is currently working on, especially if the visit occurs in his cramped and ruthlessly organized office; more often than not, there isn’t. Killian will make polite inquiries about his mentor’s health and business, all of which are carefully avoided. Mr. Gold will state that he is satisfied with the work of his student - exactly that, and nothing more. 

Killian never expects an expression of pride; after all, he’s never received anything of the sort in all the years he’s been under his teacher’s direction. Theirs has always been a distant relationship, if it can even be called that. 

“How will I know I’ve won?” Killian dares to ask on one of these visits. “What do I have to do?”

“You’ll know, dearie,” is all his teacher will say. “Trust me, it will be very obvious.”

It is not. 

But Killian works onward, carefully building and manipulating things. Who knows? Maybe, one day, he’ll understand. 

———

The relationship between the members of the Circus and the Rêveurs has always been unusual. If it weren’t for the fact that the two groups are inextricably linked, and indeed obviously treasure one another, the interaction almost might be called respectfully distant. There exists an unspoken, but obviously adhered to, separation between the two - that there are Circus folks and there are Rêveurs, and they do not socially interact. Though a vendor or performer might, surreptitiously and casually, mention an anticipated next stop to an awed visitor with that single splash of red, they will not be found together in the light of day, strolling in the public parks or sharing a coffee in one of the cafés. The Rêveurs, largely, prefer it that way; the mystical quality is somehow kept alive when the people of the Circus only seem to dwell within its gates.

Of course, Emma has never been one for formality, or fitting in with the rest of the crowd. 

If pressed, she’ll claim that Marco is an anomaly - a man who fits between both worlds, and therefore special. It’s her own kind of loophole in the intricate rituals of the Circus and the Rêveurs. 

(No one ever presses, though - to do that, they’d need to know that Emma writes to Marco in the first place.)

Marco, in truth, has been involved in the Circus since the very beginning - though he did not always know it. An Italian by birth, living in Germany and creating exquisitely crafted cuckoo clocks, Mr. Marco Gepetto had been the very man contracted by Mr. Booth, the architect, to build the massive timepiece at the front gates, back when this whole endeavor was still coming together. Marco hadn’t been aware of that, at the time; all he’d known was that an Englishman had offered him a frankly absurd amount of money and next to no direction, only to create something unusual and extraordinary for a circus venue he was helping produce. With his rambling imagination and careful craftsman’s hands, Marco had more than delivered, creating the masterpiece Emma has found comfort in watching many times. 

That clock had always haunted him, he’s tried to explain to her many times during their correspondence, his mind running wild wondering exactly where it had been installed. Mr. Booth had sent a note declaring the producers delighted by the result, and Marco had never heard a peep again. Emma cannot blame him for wondering, truly, after all the months he had invested in the clock and all the personal touches he had poured in. The truth, he confides, is that he believed - nay, believes it to be his greatest work, all the while unaware that so many others were similarly touched. It was only years later that Marco had realized the grand project he had unknowingly helped bring to life, when an acquaintance had insisted they visit the traveling circus setting up just outside of Munich. 

“It was wonderful,” he gushes to Emma as they walk down the streets of Naples several years later, the older man happily pointing out the location of all the haunts of his younger days. “It was more than I ever could have imagined - and so well situated! So perfectly blended with the rest of the design! I must tip my cap to Signore Booth for his work, and all his compatriots.”

Marco had fallen in love with the circus on that first night, as a venue for his masterpiece and as a creation all its own. It was impossible not to, he had claimed later in the first of many editorials and subsequent letters - it was like the Circus called to him, begging him to uncover all its secrets. It may be the work of several lifetimes; perhaps, that’s just the appeal. 

He didn’t particularly mean to spearhead the Rêveurs movement, he’d explained to Emma in one letter. It was simply that he’d fallen in love, with a place and an experience, and wanted to share that with everyone else. It was just that he was the first, the first to not just talk about the Circus but publish his thoughts, that had made him the unexpected figurehead of the group. He’d been the one to come up with the idea of that touch of red, too, though he never admits it unless pressed. 

Letters flood in, from across Europe and the globe, wanting to compare experiences and share in the joy of the Circus. Marco gladly responds; many, indeed, become friends. But none is quite like Emma, who he only first knows as a woman with unusual insight into the Circus when she first begins writing, just another person who reaches out after one of his editorials. He assumes she’s just another of his Rêveur correspondents at first, but her thoughts, so carefully measured but fond, strike a chord somewhere in Marco. A friendship blossoms over dozens of letters exchanged, comparing experiences and details noticed and treasured - until, finally, this summit, as Marco had visited an elderly aunt while the Circus docked along the Italian coast. 

He takes the revelation that Emma isn’t merely some visitor, but a core member of the Circus, with an unexpected lack of surprise. “I wondered if you were rather closer to the matter than you let on,” Marco explains, patting her hand before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “I shall consider myself uniquely lucky to have earned your friendship.”

And he has. Marco possesses a sharp mind and an affection for the little details that Emma loves, and an easy-going manner it proves near-impossible not to be charmed by. He fills something like a fatherly role, for Emma - always encouraging and delighted to hear about the latest improvements to her show. She doesn’t tell him that all the magic she does is real - but somehow feels that he understands, anyways. Marco is special like that, and perceptive. Somehow, Emma doubts that he’d be much surprised if she revealed the whole mess of the competition.

Marco may be physically distant from the ever-changing Circus grounds, and may not fully know what’s going on - but he’s a pillar of support, all the same, like Emma has never known.

(She only hopes he isn’t one more thing that’s just too good to last.)

——— 

Killian - 

At long last - an update! I feel like it’s been so long since I’ve had anything to report to you. Not that I don’t enjoy our correspondence, of course - it’s always so wonderful to share with you a little slice of my life here and hear from you in return. I simply feel so much better when I have something concrete to report to you, as we agreed.

I’m stalling, though. The truth is… I’m not entirely sure how to put into words exactly what this latest tent contains. It defies description, I find. The little sign along the path reads ‘Wishing Tree’, but that doesn’t describe much, does it? That could be anything. The Wishing Tree, in truth, is… oh, where do I start? It is somehow both earthly and otherworldly. It is both wondrously fantastical and firmly rooted in the soil. It exists both on this plane and in the world of dreams and aspirations. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that it is a contradiction, in the most spectacular way. Most simply put, if I stop beating around the bush, it is like a living, growing wishing well - but so much better than that, in its symbolism. There are no words to do it justice.

If you couldn’t tell already, Killian, I am insisting that you come and visit the Circus grounds next time it is convenient. There is no other way to fully grasp the delight of this latest addition. If I were not so terribly fond of you, I’d offer a hearty ‘Bravo!’ to your competitor - so count yourself lucky!

Yours,

-Belle

———

The Circus’ tents are filled with wonders - large and small, loud and quiet, and everything in between. What unites all the disparate attractions is a mystical quality - one that’s hard to put into words, but that makes every move and every moment greater and more magical than any similar display you may have seen before.

The particular tent in front of you is tall, but narrow, with a delicate wooden sign carefully placed to the side of the silvery-paved path leading beneath the entrance flap. Wishing Tree, it reads in a painted cursive script. An attraction you’ve never heard of.

Lifting the tent flap reveals just what was promised on the placard - a tall, elegant tree, all in the colors of the circus, with white bark and black leaves. The tree’s branches twist and curve around the tent, creating a structure almost reminiscent of a basket. Where it could be grotesque, the way branches stretch and dip around your body, but the effect is somehow comforting - like the tree protects all that it surrounds. It is otherworldly, in the truest sense of the word, an effect only heightened by the clusters of pearly white candles on each branch. By the entrance sits a small table, with a basket of candles and a crisp white card, embossed with a simple instruction:

Make a wish.

A wish is a sacred thing, and this is a place that respects that. After making your own wish, lighting your candle with one of the many already waiting on the tree’s branches, you place it in the highest nook you can reach where two branches join. There’s a profound symbolism to it all - one wish ignited by another, left to become part of a beautiful mass of light, illuminating this little corner of the world in soft and beautiful light. 

(That light will stay with you long after you slip back through the flap of the tent.)

———

At Belle’s urging, Killian makes the trip to see the Circus, and especially this new attraction, when they pass through Edinburgh. It is not precisely convenient - there are multiple trains involved from London, after all - but there’s no real telling when it will next be in the city, and he trusts Belle’s judgement that he must see this Wishing Tree for himself.

She’s right, of course. The Wishing Tree defies all conventional description. There’s a sense of possibility, and hope that just can’t be captured in a simple letter. Killian is sorely tempted to take a candle and light a wish of his own, but ultimately resists. The Wishing Tree isn’t just for some passing fancy - it is for the deepest dreams of one’s heart. As long as Killian is still unsure as to what his own dearest dream might be, it feels more appropriate to refrain from adding his own candle to the glowing branches. There will be time, later. 

His immediate business for the evening concluded, Killian takes the time just to wander the grounds. It’s something he hasn’t had the opportunity to do in far too long - there’s always been something to worry about, something to take care of when he comes to the Circus. This is a bit of a chance to try and experience things the way all their unknowing visitors do - to see the beauty, and the wonder, without analyzing anything further. Once he clears his mind, it’s easy to see the things the way that normal visitors do, the way something special sparkles in the very air.

There are still stops to make, of course; Belle would never forgive him if he didn’t pop into her tent. The fortune teller’s tent is made up to be an eye-catching oddity, but there’s still something welcoming about it that always soothes Killian - though maybe that’s just the knowledge of his dearest friend waiting just inside. Just inside the tent flap, dark curtains speckled with silver flecks like stars drape, giving way to a beaded fringe that softly clicks when touched. He’s been known to fiddle with those beads as he sits and talks with Belle, like a soothing sort of fidget. Beyond the beaded curtains sit three comfortable armchairs with a draped table at their center; Belle always does like the romance of reading for couples. There are no crystal balls, or posters about lines on palms; just Belle, the table and chairs, and her deck of tarot cards. Killian knows one of the curtains stretched behind her hides the entrance into her private quarters, where she’s been known to duck for a quick cup of tea, but no one else who didn’t know would see that. The whole effect is decidedly unusual, even mystical, but in a way that feels cozy. It’s like sitting in someone’s living room, sharing a bit of conversation - but the conversation concerns all manner of possible futures, and how they’ll come to pass.

Belle looks like herself, mostly, elegant in shades of white and grey and black and silver. She hasn’t leaned into any of the stereotypes or cliches - no scarf around her head or massive gold earrings or patchwork skirts. She looks like she could be any shop girl, or personal secretary, or even a beloved female relation in her neat dresses in playful patterns, accentuated with pretty bits of lace. There are more formal options in her closet too, he knows, provided by the Circus organizers for her use, but she likes this better; it makes her feel more like herself, and not entirely subsumed by the role she plays. 

“You came!” she crows with delight when he ducks his head past the beaded drapery. He hadn’t let her know he was coming, this time, happy to let it remain a pleasant surprise. Not that it matters much - Belle’s face would light up in delight in the same way, even if he had warned her to expect his visit.

“Of course I did, love,” he assures her with a grin. “You insisted, didn’t you? I seem to remember a very commanding letter, telling me I must come see this wishing tree for myself.”

“Yes, but there was always the chance you would get stubborn on me, or get called away on business for Jefferson, and I’d have to send another three to five letters until I finally guilted you here.”

“Alright, I suppose that’s true,” he admits. He does tend to get rather sidetracked much of the time, especially when there is work to be done and new, exciting ideas to explore.

“Instead, here you are! Only weeks after I wrote. A rare instance of agreeability - there’s hope for you yet,” she continues, only to plow forward before he even has a chance to defend himself. “But tell me - have you seen the Wishing Tree yet? Or did you come straight here first? I’m touched, of course, but really, you must —”

“I’m not nearly so foolish as to come here first, knowing you’d demand my own opinions on the tent just as soon as I arrived,” he teases fondly.

“Wise man. Tell me then - what did you think?”

“It’s everything you promised,” he tells her. “Utterly indescribable. I’m glad you insisted I come.”

The beam that graces Belle’s face at that simple agreement is a sight to behold.

“You’ll stay for a few days, won’t you?” she asks - cajoles, really, though Killian won’t take  any convincing. “It’s been so long.”

“Of course. We’ll have dinner tomorrow, and you can tell me everything you’ve seen since I last saw you.” It’s an easy promise to make, and one he’ll be even happier to keep.

Though Belle is an expected friendly face, one Killian had already built into his loose plans for tonight, the person he runs into as he wanders down the path away from her little tent is rather more unexpected.

“Mr. Jones,” Miss Elsa Frost smiles warmly - a member of the creative team of the circus, whose eye for details had been invaluable in creating this world so many have fallen in love with. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor did I,” Killian admits, executing a short and polite bow of greeting. “Especially not here, so far from London. May I escort you around the grounds, if I may be so bold?”

“You may,” Miss Frost says, slipping her delicate hand into the crook of his proffered arm. “I was just about to go see the magician - Miss Swan, was it? I’m told she should have a performance starting soon.”

“Then it will be my honor to accompany you.”

Though Killian has visited the Circus on several occasions in the past years, on business and to see Belle and to examine the creations of his competitor, he’s avoided this tent. It somehow feels like cheating, to watch Miss Swan like this with full awareness that she’s his competitor when she hasn’t been privy to the same knowledge. That’s not to say he hasn’t been tempted; across all the spiraling stone paths, her magic calls to his own like a siren’s song, drawing him in. Tonight, with a companion on his arm, he finally has the excuse to cave. As they approach her tent as others trickle in ahead of them, Killian makes sure to draw a spell around him to mask his own magic like a cloak, the same one he’d used that first day he’d seen her. Even if he feels guilt at the advantage, Killian isn’t quite sure he’s willing to tip his hand yet, no matter how often he’s been tempted. It’s not the time for such a revelation. 

(He doesn’t notice, beside him, the way Miss Frost’s forehead briefly creases as the spell settles around his body; it would not matter if he had, anyways, and the lady is more than happy to hold her tongue on the matter.)

The magician’s tent is small, intimate - a small clearing surrounded by a double ring of chairs. It’s a subtly ingenious way of heightening the drama and the enchantment of the performance: there is, quite literally, nowhere to hide, every angle visible to spectators as they space themselves around the center ring. A lesser magician would never be able to pull it off; it’s lucky, then that Miss Swan doesn’t have to rely on tricks.

Killian is the only one that notices that the tent flap has disappeared, two minutes past the hour. Everyone else is too busy whispering to each other, speculating about where the illusionist is and when the show will start. Unlike the rest of them, Killian waits patiently, knowing that the show has already begun.

No one misses the next trick, as a stream of flame chases around the tent above their heads. Gasps echo from the crowd, in excitement and wonder and no small dose of fear. A handful turn towards where the exit once was, only to discover that the way has been sealed and blocked by chairs during their inattention. Gasps turn to screams, panic quickly catching, until - 

A single figure stands from the audience, a woman with dramatic black skirts and what appears to be a men’s top hat. As she moves towards the center of the ring, she casually tosses the hat onto the seat she had occupied - and as if on cue, the streams of fire chase around the tent once more before plunging downwards, downwards into the hat, which somehow serves to contain the flames instead of catching on fire. As the rest of the audience comes back to their senses, turning their attention towards the slight blonde woman now at the center of the tent, she flicks a finger, sending the hat tumbling through the air to land in her hand, where she jauntily tips the black felt back onto her head and takes a dramatic bow.

And like that, the magician begins her show.

The displays that follow exceed Killian’s feeble memory of her audition, those several years ago. There are little miraculous bits she’s still using - the chairs still levitate, and the hat replaces the jacket as it turns into a beautiful black raven to fly about their heads - but there are new bits, too, as items disappear and reappear and visitors discover all manner of unexpected items in purses and pockets. Somehow, it all flows together seamlessly, one display of ability and control into another. At the very end, the fire returns again, chasing around and around and around her body until she can’t be seen anymore —

And when the flames disperse, all on their own, there is no one to be seen at all. The tent flap appears once again, and they all file out, awed in a way they hadn’t expected. 

It’s beautiful, mysterious, magnificent - just like the woman herself. And Killian can’t remember why he ever stayed away. 

———

Wandering the grounds of the Circus, it is impossible not to notice the statues scattered along the path. Some are monochromatic, fully pristine white or glistening black; some are so vividly realistic, in black and white and flesh tones, as to seem almost lifelike. There are single figures and couples, male portrayals and female, all beautifully detailed and caught mid-action. There is something mystical about them, something you can’t quite put your finger on but know separates them from anything else you’ve ever seen - a feeling that saturates the very air within the iron fencing. 

Examining the statues reveals that the life-like state of the statues is no trick, no clever construction of hard stone and a steady chisel - no, these are merely people mimicking statues by standing so still and moving so slowly as to trick the eye. This isn’t some mere street performer, either, like you might see near the buildings tourists frequent en masse. No, this is something more special, more deliberate, more enchanting. It is almost like a dance, performed on a timeframe only the dancer can perceive. Watching closely, it is possible to see the movement - though it will take much patience. It is easier, in some ways, to pay careful attention to the stance of the living statue at the beginning of a set period, and then see how it has changed some minutes later.

It is said that if you wait long enough, the statues will bend enough to pluck an offering from your very hand. However, it takes a certain kind of person, with a certain kind of fascination, to even try. After all, why spend so long examining statues, when there are so many other wonders to see? 

(Just before you walk away, you could swear the living statue of a young man winks an eye, all in impeccable slow motion - just one more memory of the Circus to treasure in your mind for years to come.)

——— 

The Circus returns when Henry is ten.

Ten is a sensitive age; it’s an age where one is still young enough to be excited about simple, playful things, but believe oneself to be too old to show it. Perceived maturity is beginning to be tantamount at this age, as is the idea of being cool.

Henry, for all his efforts (and a good bit of maturity, in truth), is perceived as neither. 

“The circus is for babies,” Jack Hastings declares in the schoolyard when Henry makes the mistake of mentioning that he’d seen the tents. A keen observer might find humor in the fact that Jack’s proclamation was made as he and the boys played with a collection of small wooden soldiers; the boys, however, are not yet adult enough to see the irony. “I’m not going.”

“I don’t know,” Henry ventures cautiously. “I think I might like to go. It isn’t very often something like the circus comes to town.”

“That’s because you’re a baby,” Jack taunts. “Henry’s a baby! Henry’s a baby!”

“Am not!” Henry bites back hotly before anyone else takes up the chant. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Then prove it.”

That’s how Henry finds himself examining the black iron bars that encircle the circus tents, searching for a way to slip in. It’s a dare - to sneak in, in daylight hours, and come back with something to prove it. Henry had agreed in the heat of the moment. Now, with school over, Henry’s got to do the deed, while all the other boys wait back in the schoolyard.

While Henry remembers the Circus practically crackling with its own special energy, things are quiet in the light of day. He supposes that makes sense; the Circus operates from sunset to sunrise, and it’s still an hour until dusk. Its performers need to rest and prepare and the like, like anyone else, and this is the time they get to do that.

After spending far more time than necessary carefully examining the outer fence, Henry finally finds a little out of the way stretch, framed by the back of two tents with no one in sight. The bars will be a tight squeeze, but he sucks in his stomach and holds his breath, and after a little bit of wiggling, manages to twist his way through. Quickly brushing himself off, Henry searches around for something he can bring back as proof for the other boys. The easiest thing to do would be to tear off a bit of fabric from one of the tents, but he struggles to bring himself to do it. The tents feel special, nearly sacred, somehow; it would be the worst kind of crime to ruin them in any way. Maybe, if he ventures a little further in, he can find something else —

“What are you doing?” a girl’s voice sounds, interrupting Henry’s thoughts. 

Whirling around, Henry is met by a blonde girl he could have sworn wasn’t there before, about his age, dressed in a black and silver striped dress. He didn’t know people his age were allowed to join the circus; it catches his attention nearly as much as the look on her face. Though her words are accusing, her face only shows curiosity. 

That does nothing to temper Henry’s shame, for better or worse. He didn’t exactly count on getting caught, after all. “There was a dare,” he blurts out. “To sneak into the circus.”

“Well, you managed that,” she observes. 

“Yes.” The silence sits heavy between them. Henry knows he ought to leave, but also feels like he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he finally cuts in - practically begs - once the quiet gets too much and he can’t take that curious stare anymore. “I can slip back out again, or pay the admission, or —”

That finally makes her smile - a bright, lovely thing that makes something stir within Henry that he’s never felt before. “It’s quite alright, Henry. You don’t need to leave. Nick saw you coming.”

He has many questions about that - how she knew his name, what in the world saw you coming means - but he reaches for the easiest first. “Who’s Nick?”

“My brother,” the girl beams. “Twin brother, really. I’m Ava.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” It’s obvious that there’s no real point in offering his name; Henry is curiously less concerned about her unnatural knowledge than he figures he really ought to be. 

“Likewise,” Ava replies with that same smile, offering her hand for Henry to awkwardly shake. 

(For the first time in his life, he’s left wondering if he should have kissed the back of her offered hand instead. Then again - that sounds gross.)

“Come with me,” she commands with a little nod of her head. Even knowing he ought to slip back through the fence, Henry can’t help but follow, pulled along in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. “You picked a good day to come - Nick says the Circus will be closed tonight for inclement weather,” she adds with a hand waved towards the quickly gathering clouds.

“Yes, they just called it,” adds a different voice - another boy, this one also their age and with a remarkable resemblance to Ava. The biggest difference, really, is the boy’s light brown hair, a contrast to her cheery blonde. It’s obvious this is the twin brother she mentioned - Nick, who somehow knows things.

“He was there, just like you said, Nickie,” she laughs. “I don’t know why anyone bothers to doubt you.”

“They don’t know better,” Nick shrugs.

“Nick has a gift,” Ava explains. “He sees things that others don’t - and they always come true.”

“Oh.” Henry isn’t really sure what to say to that, honestly. He doesn’t disbelieve it, really - Ava did know things she shouldn’t have, without what they claim being true - but he’s a little too flabbergasted at it all to say anything more comprehensible. Besides, if such a thing were to be true - well, it makes sense that it’d happen at the Circus. Where else is magical enough to shelter people with such talents?

Ava breezes right past it though. That must be characteristic of her, if the way her brother stifles a smile is any indication. “There’s always a party in the acrobats’ tent whenever the weather is too bad to open. It’s the biggest, you know.”

“You can come too, if you want,” Nick adds.

Despite the tempting offer, Henry frowns. “I’m not part of the Circus, though. Won’t anyone mind?”

“Circus people are welcoming,” Nick shrugs. “They won’t mind.”

“Besides, everyone thinks we need friends our own age,” Ava chimes in. 

As the sun starts to creep below the horizon, Henry lets the twins lead him across the circus grounds. He wants to go, really - besides, there’s no reason not to. There’s no one waiting who will care if he doesn’t show up for dinner, or even for bedtime. 

(Nick probably already knows that as well; perhaps that’s why neither of them ask whether he needs to be home.)

The inclement weather party is a different kind of marvel than the otherworldly splendor of the open circus that Henry remembers. It seems like everyone is crowded into the tent as raindrops start to patter down upon the canvas, yet somehow the space never seems claustrophobic. Half the collected mass is in their black and white and silver circus clothes, while the other half wears street clothes in all manner of colors and styles. Laughter colors the air, as small groups congregate only to disperse and remingle again. It feels like a family, like a great big reunion, even though Henry is sure they’re not all related. 

(Then again, maybe family doesn’t have to be linked by blood and genealogical trees; maybe family is something that can be crafted with those you choose and care for.)

Ava tugs on his arm before he can get too lost in his thoughts and marvelling at the spectacle of the tent. “You should meet Emma,” she says. At her side, Nick nods in genial agreement. “You’ll like her. She’s the magician.”

She doesn’t quite bodily haul him across the tent space, but it’s close. Henry would complain, but it isn’t hurting; he can tell she’s just eager to share her and Nick’s world in a way she hasn’t with outsiders before. At least, Henry hopes she hasn’t shared all this with outsiders before; Henry’s never really had the chance to be special. It’d be a nice change. 

Eventually, she halts in front of a cluster of women - three brunettes and a blonde. All smile fondly as Ava approaches with Henry in tow. “Emma, I want you to meet someone!” Ava bursts out as they pull to a stop.

“I can see that,” the blonde chuckles as her companions move away. Henry’s distracted for a moment by the movement of the other three ladies, but forces his attention back to meet the magician’s eyes.

And it’s her - the nice lady from the last time he was here. Henry’s face flushes red as he remembers his youthful question - Are you a princess?. She still looks like a princess, four years later, only in a burgundy dress with her hair in a simple bun instead of her sumptuous black and white dress from the last time they met. He can see the moment recognition sweeps across Emma’s face, and knows she remembers too. 

“Henry, was it?” Emma smiles down at him. Somehow, he manages a nod of confirmation. “It’s lovely to see you again, Henry.”

Ava’s face drops a little in disappointment, and a hint of confusion. Seems this is one thing her brother’s visions didn’t reveal - or at least one thing he didn’t share with her. “You know each other already?”

“Only a little,” Henry hastens to explain. It somehow feels very important that Ava know he didn’t deceive her in this way. 

“Henry and I briefly crossed paths the last time the Circus was here - what, four years ago?” Henry nods again. Emma and Ava and Nick and the rest of the Circus may have been to so many places since them that they don’t remember exactly how long it’s been, but Henry could probably tell them down to the day if he just had a couple of minutes to think. “He was kind enough to let me escort him back to the front gates. I must say, I didn’t expect to see him here tonight, though… is there anything I ought to know?”

“No!” Ava assures quickly. It’s not remotely convincing; Henry barely manages to smother a smile as she continues her blatant evasion. “We should go get a little something to eat. Come on, Henry, let’s go!”

To be fair, the spread that Ava leads him to - Nick pulling up the rear, laughing - is very impressive. There are all manner of little finger foods to carry with him, savory and sweet, and an older lady the twins call Granny who presides over the whole thing and makes Henry take another sandwich. All of the circus members - and it feels like Henry’s introduced to every single one - seem to treat the twins like a niece and nephew, or maybe even children. There’s an affection in the air amongst everyone that’s almost palpable, and like nothing he’s ever encountered before. It’s hard not to feel a little jealous of his new friends; it’s everything he’s ever wished for himself. 

Eventually, he’s dragged across the grounds to what they’ll only call the cloud room after a stop by Emma again for a set of umbrellas that seem to actively repel water. 

“It’s my favorite spot,” Nick explains as they shake off their umbrellas just inside the tent flap in a dim antechamber. Henry had barely caught a glimpse of the signage before he’d been bustled inside; Atmospheric Wonders had been less than illuminating a descriptor. “Ava’s is the carousel.”

“I like the animals,” she shrugs. “They’re interesting.”

“Yeah, well, so is this,” her brother quips back. “Henry, look.”

And when Henry does - it’s more than his imagination ever expected.

Somehow, there are dozens of fluffy clouds floating within the confines of the tent, the top of the peaked canvas not even visible for all the clouds in the way. They come in all sizes, all winding around a central, silvery structure with a platform at the top and a slide spiraling back down to the ground. Somehow along the stretch from the ground to the indiscernible peak, the stripes shift into a night sky gently dappled with stars. It’s mystical, and marvelous, and unlike anything he’s ever imagined. 

Henry has barely processed what he’s seeing before Nick takes a flying leap onto a cloud hovering at chest height. Miraculously, it somehow holds his weight, bobbing gently in the air under the change of balance but showing no signs of capsizing.

“It’s really very sturdy,” he calls from his perch, grinning with glee. “There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

Carefully, Henry steps onto a different cloud hovering about his knees; that’s less distance to fall if there’s any problem. Under his feet, the cloud isn’t exactly firm, or stable - it’s more like if you try to step onto a mattress - but he can also feel that he’s not at risk of crashing down. Somehow, it’s just as safe as Nick promised. 

(How did he miss this before? Now that Henry’s here, he’s not sure he ever wants to leave.)

Ava clambers up onto a cloud somewhere between him and Nick, abandoning grace to pull herself to standing. “It’s a newer tent,” she explains, brushing her skirt free of imaginary cloud dust and casually reading Henry’s mind. Maybe her brother isn’t the only one with special powers of sight. “It only went up a couple months ago, right, Nick?”

“January,” he confirms. “Just after the new year’s party.”

“Not a lot of people know about it yet - but it’s one of our favorites now. Nick and I like to come on the nights we’re not busy with other things.”

Across from them both, Nick obviously grows impatient with all the chatter, leaping to another, higher cloud. “Race you to the top!” he yells back, quickly becoming obscured from sight as he scrambles higher and higher.

Ava stretches her hand across the divide to help him forward. “You’re going to love it,” she beams.

Henry takes her hand, gladly, and lets a smile crease his face even as hers stretches impossibly wider. 

He does love it, just as she promised. The view from the top is spectacular, like something out of a fairy tale, an impression only magnified by small tufts of cloud still hovering around, inviting them to lounge. It would be a good place just to sit and think, Henry thinks, if you lived with the Circus and had that chance. 

Time passes both quickly and slowly at the top of the tower as the three of them sit and talk for what must be hours. Henry feels as if he’s known the twins forever, not just a night - like he fits with them, somehow, in a way he never has with his schoolmates or the other children at the Home, and can’t explain.

(It’s the same feeling he remembers from the first time he visited the Circus, four years before. Of belonging. Of home.)

All too soon, things much end, however. As the conversation encounters a rare lull, Henry sighs heavily, knowing he must draw this to a close. 

“I have to go,” he tells his companions - now friends, he thinks - with the kind of regret that’s practically palpable. 

Ava nods sadly; Henry scrambles to his feet to help her do the same. It’s what a gentleman would do. “We know. But this was lovely.”

“And you’ll be back,” Nick says decisively. “I know it.”

It’s not worth arguing with the boy with a gift. 

Getting down from their perch takes a little more boldness. Technically, there is a slide they could all take advantage of, but Nick won’t let that stand. 

“You’ve got to jump, Henry,” he cajoles. “It’s so much more fun. You feel like you’re flying!”

“More like falling,” Henry mutters. Even if he knows that Nick wouldn’t try to hurt him, like some of the boys at school might, looking down from this height makes his stomach turn. 

Suddenly, a soft hand slips into his own. Ava, who slipped up beside him while he was distracted by the height. “We’ll do it together,” she promises, and somehow - Henry finds himself nodding.

Nick lets out a wild whoop and throws himself off the platform, gleefully tumbling down and down. Ava squeezes his hand tight, just the once, and then she’s running too, bringing Henry with her as they leap. It feels like he’s left his stomach up at the top, but it’s a little freeing too. At the bottom, a particularly soft cloud cushions their fall, surrounding them like a hug. Henry even finds himself laughing along with Ava and Nick as they pick themselves back up. 

Ava walks him back to the main gates under the marvelous umbrella, Nick letting them go on their own after offering Henry a jolly wave goodbye. The door in the iron bars opens without even a squeak, letting the both of them slip through. 

“I don’t want to leave,” Henry confides, the words spilling out of him almost without permission. “I don’t want to go back to the real world out there.”

“You’ll be back,” Ava promises. “We’ll see each other again - I promise.”

He wants to believe her - he does. But it’s a mean world out there, and he’s long since learned that nothing is guaranteed, and —

Ava presses up on her toes to drop a quick kiss on Henry’s lips - his first. It’s just a little peck, really, but it makes them both blush and sends something hopeful in his soul soaring above all the other negativity. 

“To seal it. The promise,” she explains.

No explanation was needed, really - not to the perfect ending to this dream of a night.

(He does not return to the Circus this time, the Sisters punishing him with extra chores when he sneaks back into the Home long after bed checks. Though he would like nothing more than to return back to the Circus and his new friends, he somehow can’t regret it. Every moment was worth it.

Later, he finds a single glove, white with shiny black buttons, tucked into his pocket - proof for his dare. He never shows it off to the other boys; the little scrap of fabric is too personal, and too precious. Instead, he tucks it into the old cigar box he keeps all his treasures in, amongst the perfectly round stones and colored bits of glass and a brightly colored birds’ feather. Let them think he never managed it. They’ll forget soon enough anyways. 

We’ll see each other again, Ava had promised - and Henry intends to wait.)

——— 

There’s a new attraction at the Circus again, Killian - the most wonderful carousel. There’s the usual carved horses, of course, all wonderfully detailed, but there’s all manner of other creatures too - giraffes and elephants and a particularly clever ostrich. There’s even some mythical creatures too. I’m particularly fond of the gryphon, though I suspect you might prefer the dragon. There’s even a bench seat with a kraken twining around it! It’s truly charming; the kids love it, obviously, but it’s wonderful to see the delight of grown men and women too. I believe I saw a young couple squabbling over the cow yesterday; the lady won, of course. Wise man. 

If you hadn’t guessed already, the carousel is very obviously a creation of your winsome competitor. The ride travels through an enclosed portion at the back, ostensibly to parade the figures and their riders past a scrolling display of landscapes; however, having ridden the thing myself (I couldn’t resist, Killian! And obviously chose the gryphon, though I was tempted by a polar bear), it’s obvious that this tunnel somehow bends reality, stretches the track much further than it should ever go. Magic is obviously at play, here, though I believe the visitors are too enthralled (and, as usual, too oblivious) to realize. 

There’s something else a little unusual about the carousel: Mr. Booth’s part in bringing it to life. He was here in Brussels to oversee installation, or I might not have believed it. You know as well as I that usually, new installments just… pop up, without explanation. His craftsmanship is evident in the construction, too, if you know to look - the smooth curves and the intricate carvings and the way the peak of the striped roof stretches up towards the sky. It’s lovely, really, and undeniably a joint effort between Mr. Booth and Miss Swan. 

Does that mean he’s aware of her abilities? I can’t say for certain, but I have trouble imagining otherwise. It could be interesting to see if you could enlist him in a similar effort - though of course, that’s entirely up to you. I’m merely reporting your opponent’s most recent move on the chessboard, so to speak.

(Do come see the carousel, though; I promise you won’t regret it.)

Affectionately yours,

Belle

———

Killian folds Belle’s latest letter carefully, considering her words as he meticulously files the pages away, just as he always does. The new carousel sounds beautiful, of course; Miss Swan’s creations always are. The fact that she enlisted August Booth to create it captures his attention the same way it had Belle’s. That’s something he never considered - drawing upon others’ skills to create something that is not entirely mechanical, but not fully dependent on magic either. He should have thought of it sooner - after all, the Circus as a whole operates in a similar way, weaving enchantments in amongst all the physical manpower needed to bring the whole thing to life. It sets Killian’s mind running in other directions, other ideas that could be brought to life in the same way. And if Booth is aware of the things Miss Swan can do… perhaps he can serve as an intermediary, of sorts, in a way that could bring this competition to a new level.

But Killian is a patient man, a planner through and through. It’s his greatest advantage in his employment and in this game. So before he lets his imagination run away with him, drafting things that can never come to fruition, he calls upon Booth at his office to test the waters of what is possible. 

“I didn’t expect to see you, Jones,” the other man says, smiling genially as he comes out from around the back of his heavy wooden desk to offer a handshake of greeting. 

“It was a bit of an unplanned visit,” Killian admits as he seats himself in the offered chair. 

“Well that’s quite alright. What can I do for you? Is this about the Circus, or are you finally looking to build something more comfortable than that little flat of yours?”

“It’s about the Circus.” Killian lets his gaze glance around the room before he speaks further, considering his next words. Though the furniture in the office at Booth’s architecture firm is heavy, with dark wood and intricate carvings and tall bookshelves lining two walls, the whole thing manages to avoid a feeling of claustrophobia due to a stretch of tall windows along one wall. A panel of stained glass is installed in the middle, with beautiful swirling patterns in all kinds of colors. The whole effect is a little whimsical, while somehow still ordered and elegant. In that moment, Killian can see exactly why August Booth was chosen as a partner to produce the Circus. 

Drawing his attention back to Booth, Killian finds the man patiently waiting for him to start speaking, prompting him to gather his thoughts. “I understand you had a hand in creating a new attraction - a carousel.”

“Ah yes,” August smiles. His tone is fond, almost like a parent speaking of a favorite child. “Marvelous, isn’t it? Though, of course, I can’t take full credit - or even most of the credit, really.”

“So you’re aware of others’... unusual contributions, shall we say.”

Booth makes an amused, guttural noise from the back of his throat. “I may be a skilled designer, but not nearly enough to create space that’s not there. And I’m not nearly oblivious or egotistical enough to believe I can. Besides, Miss Swan was involved from the beginning. The carousel was her idea.”

That’s one question answered. “So how much did Miss Swan tell you about her… abilities, I suppose? And her influence on the Circus?”

“A rudimentary explanation, I believe - just as much as I needed to agree to assist her. All her illusions are real, true magic, and she’s engaged in a competition to be played out at the Circus.” Realization suddenly lights his eyes. “I suppose that makes you the competitor, then? She didn’t seem to know who they were.”

“Aye, I am. And I would appreciate it if you would keep that fact between us. This particular game doesn’t precisely encourage familiarity between contestants.”

August waves him off. “Of course. Now, are you here just to talk about the carousel - or do you have something else in mind?”

“You read my mind,” Killian says, letting a smile spread across his face. “I have an unusual idea, one that I think you can be of assistance with.”

———

Emma should have known that her opponent would hear of the carousel, and of her partnership with Mr. Booth. What she hadn’t expected was for Mr. Booth to send her a letter, detailing an idea her competitor had brought to him.

One they want her involvement in as well.

It’s a simple idea, on the surface - a maze of rooms. Its brilliance is in how it allows the two of them to interact and compete directly as they build off of each others’ ideas. Once the maze is brought to life, once visitors enter the tent, they reach a hallway lined with doors, each leading into other rooms with other doors, and so on. Some will be hidden; some will be obvious. It is entirely up to Emma and whoever she is competing against to build out each room, testing the limits of imagination and reality and magic. 

It’s like a puzzle on a massive scale - each piece fitting into others which in turn fit into others. It’s fascinating to see the things her opponent comes up with over time - creations that play with structure, with scale, like golden bird cages and a room where everything appears so large as to dwarf the viewer. She treasures exploring each one, finding all the hidden doors and discerning the way everything fits together. 

Emma has a niggling feeling that this is not exactly how their competition is supposed to play out - but as she opens another door, she can’t bring herself to care. 

——— 

Maybe it’s ridiculous - but Killian feels like he comes to know the lovely Miss Swan a little better through the room maze and each addition she crafts from her imagination.

She focuses on creating an atmosphere, he finds - the little things that make each space feel like an environment, rather than a room. There are lush green jungles and arid desertscapes and the illusion of a lovely rose garden. He wonders if she feels trapped; all the illusions of open spaces make him think she might. 

He can tell she truly loves the circus in all the little details she weaves in, too. It must take her incredible effort, but it’s worth it to see how leaves glisten with dew and the barest scent of earth or flowers tickles his nose and heat or chill dances along his skin. There’s pride to be found in the work she creates - all the things that take each room of the maze from the illusion of a space into something tangible and believable as its own natural world.

She’s smart, too: the hatches and doors out of her rooms are cleverly hidden, and often require searching for a key first. Killian thinks she might be trying to stump him, for all the time he spends searching for the way out in some rooms. Would she laugh if she could see him? Is he reacting in exactly the way she anticipated, or even intended?

(Would he even mind?)

He’s not such a fool as to fall a little in love with his opponent in the rooms that she builds, but he does delight in receiving these little insights to her personality. It reminds him that Miss Swan is more than his opponent - she’s a person, and one he’d love to know under other circumstances.

Only time will tell whether that makes things easier or harder.

———

To no one’s particular surprise, Regina does not approve of the maze.

“This is a waste of your time,” she proclaims to Emma on one of her rare (and never welcomed) visits. “You’re supposed to be competing, not… collaborating.” She spits out the word like it’s a profanity; who knows, it likely is in her mind. Emma wouldn’t be entirely surprised. 

“Isn’t this just a different way of competing?” Emma asks. Truthfully, she doesn’t see the fuss. “I’d think it would be easier to compare, when we have to share the same structure. Well, even more than we usually do.”

“This is not how things are supposed to work,” Regina snaps. “I didn’t train you to be so stupid about this, Emma. You know better - this is… frivolous!”

“I like it,” Emma says, letting her voice display a quiet defiance. “I think it’s wonderful.”

That’s why she’d led Regina to the maze in the first place, instead of simply taking tea in her compartment as usual - a little childish thought that maybe her mentor would see all the careful crafting she had put into each chamber. That maybe she would appreciate this unusual way in which Emma was stretching her abilities beyond what she thought was possible, challenged by the necessity of working around someone else’s ideas in the most literal, compressed way. That maybe she would be proud.

Pride, at least for others, is not something that’s in Regina’s vocabulary, however - something that Emma has never been more aware of than in this moment, standing amongst the hedges of a shifting maze within a maze. It’s an ever-changing creation, one that Emma had been particularly proud of.

It’s easier simply to wind their way to the closest exit than to attempt to convince Regina any further; Emma has long since learned her mentor is an immovable force. If Regina hasn’t been swayed by the creativity and brilliance of seeing the maze in person, no words will do it. So they’ll exit the maze and slip back into the backstage rooms, where Regina can berate her about her work ethic and how it seems like Emma doesn’t even want this while still failing to offer any concrete details or advice, until Emma can make her escape to perform another show, displaying her abilities to a kinder audience. That’s how these things always seem to go, and now that her foolishly hopeful little bubble has been broken, there’s no reason they won’t go that way again. 

Then again, there’s alway room for surprises and changes from the norm; Emma should know that, after so many years here at the Circus. As they exit into the chilled night air, Emma - and more importantly, Regina - clearly didn’t expect to run into Mulan as the sword swallower wandered back towards her own lodgings.

Most days, Emma almost forgets this other source of magic buzzing around the circus. It’s like white noise, almost; something Emma is subconsciously aware of, and can focus on when she chooses, but fades into the background most of the time. They’re friendly, but not quite friends - happy to spend time with one another, but rarely seeking each other out. Mulan is closer with Ruby, or with Belle. It’s easy, in that way, for Emma to forget the higher force that binds the two of them together - Regina herself, who has been a teacher to both of them. 

It is visibly obvious the moment they catch sight of one another: both straighten to their most rigid posture, Regina’s face shifting into something even more haughty than her usual mien, and Mulan shifting to something cool and dangerous. The air between them practically crackles with restrained magical energy, sending the hair on Emma’s arms to stand on end. Emma sends a silent thanks to whomever may be listening that this meeting occurred firmly in public; while the confrontation is primed to be bad as it is, she wouldn’t relish being forced between them in a private setting. Or a dark alley.

For all of the danger sparking the air, it is almost anticlimactic when each party finally finds their words. “Regina,” Mulan says, coolly polite and with the barest incline of her head. Regina only jerks her chin in a broken nod in response. 

And then they’re moving their separate ways, the whole thing over. Maybe it’s better that way; it would be a pity if the Circus was razed to the ground, after they’ve all put so much effort into the venue. There’s a story there, though, one Emma doesn’t know but can’t help but wonder about. She’ll have to ask Mulan, later; she knows very well that asking Regina will bear no fruit. 

(She never does, of course, just another intention lost to time and her mentor’s berating. Not that it would have done any good, anyways. Mulan keeps her secrets locked as tight as the most impressive safe.)

———

Emma knows Belle, of course - they’ve both been with the Circus for more than a decade, and Emma isn’t entirely self absorbed. They’re even friendly, in that way two people who work together but aren’t particularly close can be. But never once in all that time can Emma remember actively seeking the other woman out - for her skills or anything else. 

Belle’s particular skill unsettles Emma, she supposes. It feels a little hypocritical - Emma has magic, after all, she shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable about fortune-telling. There’s something about the talent to see glimpses of the future, however, that has never sat quite right in her mind - that has always made her ever so slightly uncomfortable. It’s not Belle’s fault; Emma knows as well as anyone that sometimes, these kinds of gifts choose their recipient instead of the other way around. 

There’s something in the air, though, something Emma can’t quite identify. There’s a niggling feeling of anticipation, like a reverse deja vu, where Emma knows something is coming, but doesn’t know what or how or when. She’s never been particularly good with that kind of uncertainty, searching for control wherever possible. It’s that search for control that brings her to Belle, seeking answers anywhere she can find them. Unusual times call for unusual measures, or some other such cliché. 

Emma goes at night, while the Circus is open, in between her own performances - just like any other querrant. It’s a simple thing to blend into the crowd - after all, no one is expecting  the illusionist to wander among them, especially in a dark coat and skirts turned crimson red with the touch of a finger. It takes no magic at all to slip down the silvery paths and duck into a tent labeled Fortune Teller: Feats of Fate and Prophecy. 

Belle snaps into character as soon as Emma brushes past the beaded curtain welcoming visitors into her space, only to relax again as she recognizes Emma’s face. “What a lovely surprise,” she comments with a pleased smile. “Sit down, sit down. What can I do for you, Emma?”

“I was hoping for a reading,” Emma explains as casually as possible - as if this is no great favor. Still, it shoots the brunette’s eyebrows up towards her hairline in surprise. 

“I must say, I didn’t expect that,” she comments. “I don’t believe you’ve asked such a thing of me before.”

“I haven’t felt the desire before.”

“Ah. You must face some kind of crossroads, then.” 

“Truthfully, I am not even sure enough to say that much,” Emma admits. Summoning a few coins into her hand, she pushes them across the table - payment for services rendered, as is typically custom in Belle’s little nook. “I hoped you might be able to shed more light on the matter than I can currently discern.”

Belle pushes the coins back. “Keep your money. Consider this a gift for a friend. Now, shall we?” As soon as Emma nods, Belle begins shuffling the cards - a quick, hypnotic motion, as each card flies past again and again. Once she’s satisfied with the shuffle, she carefully fans the cards across her table, face down. “Pick a card to represent yourself, if you please.”

Emma contemplates her options; truthfully, the tarot has never called to her, and this moment is no different. After some short examination, she selects one barely visible towards the left-hand side.

Belle chuckles a little as she turns the card over - and Emma can see exactly why, as soon as she sees the card. The Magician. 

“Now, this card often represents a plethora of abilities or options you may not be fully aware of, especially in the face of impending change or disaster,” Belle explains. “And that may still be the case. However, under the circumstances, I suspect this card is supposed to be taken rather more literally in this particular reading, Madame Magician.”

Belle shuffles again, before cutting the deck into three portions and directing Emma to select one. Replacing the selected stack back at the top at the pile, she quickly doles the cards back out, in practiced patterns and an unexpected elegance. There are flashes of cups and swords on the cards between them, interspersed with picture cards of women and wheels and a couple reaching for one another.

(Emma does not think she has the time for whatever a card like The Lovers may symbolize.)

“I see what you mean,” Belle says after a long moment. “There are significant changes here - in circumstance, in thinking, and in feelings. Whatever knot you have been working at in your mind will begin to unravel - one change that will spur many more. Now these changes - they seem imminent.”

“How imminent?”

Belle cocks her head, examining again. “There’s rarely an evident timeline that I can see,” she admits, “but I would wager in the coming weeks or months.”

Emma nods. It’s not really an answer - but it feels like validation, somehow. Like someone else can sense that something is on the horizon. 

“Now, I asked about a crossroads, before we started,” Belle continues. “The changes that are coming - they will not be your crossroads. This will not be the moment you have to make that decision. But each change will compound upon each other until it leads you to that crossroads - a choice you’ll make that will change everything, again. It will not be for some time yet, but those seeds are being sown now.”

Emma nods slowly, taking it all in. There is an odd comfort in Belle’s words, even as Emma tells herself not to put too much stock in it. “Thank you,” she finally says. “Is there anything else you can see?”

Belle shakes her head ruefully. “Not that I can see now, no. But I’ll keep looking. Sometimes, these things make themselves clearer given a few hours to think on them.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

Emma ponders the words as she emerges back into the night. A momentous change to come seems inevitable - both from her instincts and Belle’s own readings. All that’s left to do is brace herself and face that change with an open mind and courage.

The weeks and months to come may change everything - and Emma intends to be ready for it. 

———

We’ll be back in England next month - just in time for the rains, I’m sure. As if they ever stop. I anticipate many inclement weather parties in my future, and I don’t even need the cards to tell me that. 

Speaking of which - be on the lookout for something, Killian. Change is in the cards and in the air. Something is on the horizon, and I think it’s best you be ready for whatever that might be.

We’ll have tea one afternoon next time I’m in town, and you can buy me an absurd amount of books. I have several recommendations to give you from the last batch. I expect you’ll feign interest and the time to read, just as always, but I don’t particularly care. You’ll do it because I’m your friend, and you love me.

Yours &c., 

Belle

———

That same feeling of anticipation, of something in the air, only intensifies when the Circus returns to London for a short stretch. It’s been growing ever since Emma spoke with Belle, becoming more urgent as time goes by. A breaking point must come soon - though what that will herald, Emma doesn’t pretend to know. There’s no use continuing to worry over something that will only reveal itself at the right time.

Emma throws herself into rediscovery instead, wandering all those places she used to know. It’s hard to call London home, even though she grew up here - that designation has only ever belonged to her cramped and cozy little train compartment - but the city is familiar in a way that’s comforting. She spent the first 24 years of her life here, after all; even trapped under Regina’s thumb, she was able to discover little corners of the city all her own, park benches and cafe tables and backstage theater rooms. 

(She doesn’t intend to visit her benefactor during this stop, if she can at all help it; bringing Regina into things always invites trouble that Emma would rather avoid.)

It’s raining on their first day in town, of course, like her own meteorological welcome. Emma smiles a bit at the thought of the clouds and raindrops and wind whispering a hello - though truthfully, she’s seen odder things. She’s orchestrated odder things. The soft patter of raindrops on her umbrella is almost soothing as she walks down the cobbled streets to a favorite remembered cafe. Emma loves the Circus with every fiber of her being, both as her creation and as her home; still, sometimes it’s nice to escape for an afternoon and enjoy the anonymity of people watching or reading a nice book. Some days, she wants that distance; to be just another face in the crowd.

The afternoon passes quietly and uneventfully with her tea and scone and a silly novel. It’s easy to blend into this little corner of London, tucked into the corner of a quiet street off the main road. Emma has always liked this place, and tries to visit whenever she’s in the city; it’s something about the way that light dapples through the wide windows at the front, always perpetually just the slightest bit grimy, like dirt had accumulated just as soon as some poor soul had taken the efforts to clean them off. The used bookstore just across the street is a wonderful bonus too, where Emma sometimes finds unexpected treasures. Here, she can be just anyone else - no expectations, no grand fate. Just a woman at a weathered table. 

All too soon, the clock on the wall chimes 4pm, prompting Emma to gather her things to leave. This time of year, even though spring approaches, the sun still sets early, heralding the opening of the circus’ wide gates. Emma is lucky enough to set her own performance hours during the night, generally aiming to do three or four shows in an evening; however, it’s still important that she’s fully ready for the evening by the time the first visitors trickle into the grounds, regardless of the fact that she won’t make her own dramatic entrance for at least another half hour. 

As she bustles out the door, she mentally runs through her checklist for the night of tricks she might like to perform. That’s the freeing thing about performing with real magic; not having to depend on mechanics means that she can improvise, that every single show can be different as she feeds off the audience and her current whims. 

She’s so busy running through her possibilities for the night that she doesn’t notice she’s grabbed the wrong umbrella - not at first, at least. It’s just one amongst a cluster of black fabric in the umbrella stand, each nearly identical to each other. Emma’s put a special charm on hers that repels the rain; that slight buzz of magic is the only thing that differentiates hers from all the others. She picks it out by the feel alone, absentmindedly, before exiting into the deluge.

Something is off, though - something she realizes the further she walks from the cafe and comes back to full awareness. The charm on the umbrella is wonderfully effective, as always, but there’s something… wrong about the magic. Emma’s own magic has a particular warm feel to it, one that largely fades into the background of her mind until she barely notices it. This, though… the buzz continues, like a pricking or a tickle under her skin. Foreign.

Not hers.

Realization draws her up short. This umbrella - clearly imbued with powerful magic - magic like her opponent would possess - in the cafe at the same time - 

A polite clearing of the throat causes Emma to whip around, revealing an unexpectedly familiar face: Jefferson’s assistant, the handsome one, who she remembers lurking at the edges of ballrooms and the back of theatres and in the densest of crowds. Jones - something with a K. Or a C? Kelvin? Carson? No —