#If they were already seeing it bringing 'peace' to the 'chaos' of Camelot | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mimiswitchywrites · 4 years ago

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Not A Burden: Chapter 2

TW: SH references, attempted s****de and references, child/s***al a**se references (not graphic but enough that could be triggering)

Materlist or read on AO3

1.9k words

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Lancelot was once again mounted on his horse with the girl leaning on his chest, though this time she seemed mostly conscious. After some riding, she turned round to face him, as best she could.

“What is your name, Sir Knight?” Her voice was still raw but she spoke firmly.

“Lancelot. May I ask your name, My Lady?”

She smiled at this, and he returned a small one. “Miriam. I believe I have heard your name before, maybe you have passed through a village I have stayed in before.”

“Have you stayed in many villages before?”

Her face dropped and she turned around, facing forwards once more. Lancelot, not fond of the idea that he had offended the lady – Miriam – apologised. “I meant no offence My Lady, I only thought that talking might make you feel a little happier, but I understand that I was wrong.”

She smiled once more, though he couldn’t see, and she took a deep breath. It still hurt to swallow and she made a note that, if she were to go through this experience again, she would avoid consuming something that would make her vomit as she had to the night before. While her arms throbbed, she was at least used to that feeling and could cope with it, but a throat that burnt as hers did was quite the inconvenience.

“I’m not offended, Sir Lancelot. My past is just not something that brings me much joy.” They sit in silence until she adds “But I appreciate the sentiment. What makes you happy, Sir?”

“Your insistence in calling me Sir certainly makes me smile.” She laughs at this, but it quickly ends in another painful round of coughing. He hands her his waterskin which she gratefully takes.

“You must have been on some fun travels as a Knight of the Round Table? You seem to be a chaotic bunch.” Now it is his turn to laugh, she doesn’t know the half of it. She enjoys the feeling of his chest vibrating on her back and lets herself lean against him a little more. It has been so long since she had been this close to someone so kind.

“You could certainly say that. Well, there was this one time that Merlin, the King and I…”

He told her lengthy tales of his and his friends adventures, skilfully avoiding all mentions of Merlin’s magic, and for the first time in months (or was it years?) Miriam felt content. Not happy, not by a long stretch, but her mind was quiet, and she felt safe against the kind Knights chest. Feeling safe is such an underappreciated sensation.

The sun had set before they stopped for the night which made setting up camp rather a difficult task, but Merlin managed, as he always does. He made a small fire with the help of a silent spell and prepared the evenings meal as quickly as he could before arranging everyone’s sleeping mats. He gave the girl his mat and she nodded her thanks in return. He was yet to check her bandages or even ask her name, but he wasn’t sure if she would want him to. She had been so attached to Lancelot (who could blame her though, he thought) that he worried she wouldn’t want to listen to him. He was no strong knight, and he was likely to hurt her a little as he cleaned her wounds again, so he thought it best to at least wait until she had eaten.

Dinner was well received, mostly. Gwaine, Merlin noticed, was still not all there and hardly touched his food. He decided to do something about it.

“After so long being friends, do you really think now is when I would poison your food, Gwaine?” After a beat, the Knight turned to his dark-haired friend and forced a pathetic attempt at his usual grin.

“What’s wrong? You’ve hardly talked since this time yesterday, and I know you didn’t fill your waterskin earlier.”

Maybe not a win then, Gwaine frowned.

“If you won’t talk to me then I shall just sit and keep you company, though I will have to tend the girls wounds once I have built up the courage to.”

“Miriam.” Gwaine murmured, his voice gravelly from so little use.

“Who?”

“The girl, her name is Miriam. I heard Lancelot call her that.”

“You’ve been listening to everyone talk, then?”

“Occasionally. Contrary to popular belief, I do listen.”

“I know you do.” They sit, watching the fire. “You should eat some more; you know how your head hurts and the world spins when you’ve not eaten enough.”

Gwaine grunts in response but eventually eats another spoonful, face scrunching up in response.

“It’s not actually bad, is it?” Merlin frets.

Shaking his head, Gwaine does his best to respond naturally, “No, not bad, eating just isn’t so appetising at the moment.”

Merlin stares at him, mouth open. Upon his loud exclamation of “What?”, the rest of the Knights look up at the pair too. Gwaine’s cheeks burn, not having the brain power to joke his way out of this one. He takes another large spoonful, forcing it down while making direct eye contact with Merlin. “There, happy?” He puts his still practically full bowl by the rest in need of washing and returns to his mat. “Now, if it is alright with you my friend, I would like to sleep so would you kindly remove your lanky arse from my spot?” He flashes the shocked Merlin a sarcastic smile and lies down.

The rest of the camp stares at the not-so-jolly Knight’s back and then at each other. This is rather an unprecedented situation. Even when mucking out the stables as punishment for creating chaos, Gwaine is still more, well, Gwaine-like than he is now.

Merlin, still a little shell shocked, sits next to Miriam where he asks if he can look at her wounds and does so in silence.

Arthur lay on his back, staring up through the canopy, with Merlin curled into his side. The boy had given Miriam (he liked that name, it suits her) his roll mat and so, as the generous king he is, Arthur had offered Merlin some space on his. It wasn’t weird, he was sure any of the other knights would have offered the same if he hadn’t got there so fast. Maybe, he began to fret, he offered too fast. Does it seem like he wanted the raven-haired man in his bed with him? It’s not like he didn’t want him there but not like that, that’s what the blonde told himself, anyway. Maybe, if he said it enough, he would believe it.

Miriam, sat on the other side of the dying fire, watched the King. She could tell he was worrying about something, the way he tapped his fingers on his stomach and sighed every few seconds made it obvious. After a while, the pressure in her bladder got the better of her and she stood, making her way further into the woods to alleviate herself.

The King removed his arm from around Merlin and stood, grabbing his sword and following her, gesturing for Percival to stay where he was on watch.

Miriam had an amazing ability to disappear, he thought to himself as he strained his ears to find her. Suddenly, as he turned to his right, she stumbled into him, hissing as she hit her left arm against his chest plate.

“What were you doing?” he demanded, eyes softening as he saw the tears in hers.

“Fucking pissing, I wasn’t aware I had to ask permission for that, Your Highness.” She bowed dramatically, and then hugged her throbbing arm into her stomach, heading back to camp and leaving a flabbergasted king behind her.

He watched her as she went, stabbing his sword into the dirt in frustration. He didn’t mean to be rude and he certainly didn’t mean to hurt her like that. It had been a long trip and hopefully, he thought, he could make peace with her before they got back to Camelot. Sighing, he pulled his sword back out of the dirt and headed back to Merlin and, more importantly, bed.

The next morning, Elyan woke to Lancelot and Arthurs hushed argument next to him. He listened without opening his eyes, wanting to get as much rest as possible before another long day of riding. Lancelot seemed angry at Arthur for shouting at Miriam and hurting her? No, that couldn’t be right, Arthur wouldn’t hurt an already injured enemy, let alone a female guest. He opened his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows so they knew he was listening. They continued on at each other:

“She should have told Percival where she was going!”

“Did you tell her that she needed to do that? Have you even told us that we need to give everyone permission to empty our bladders? I can say for sure that I don’t want to know every time you take a piss behind a tree, Sire.” Elyan bit his tongue so he wouldn’t laugh at how much Lancelot sounded like Merlin there. His snort didn’t go unnoticed, and Arthur dragged him into the heated debate.

“Elyan, help us sort this, Lancelot here thinks I am a terrible king—”

“I never said that, I said that you hurt our guest, scared her, and told her off for alleviating herself.”

“—and I think that is, quite frankly, bullshit. Thoughts?”

Elyan stared at the two, eyes jumping back and forth as he tried to figure out the best answer. Of course, he agreed with Lancelot – Arthur didn’t exactly have much in his defence – but he couldn’t exactly disagree with his King.

“Have either of you talked to Miriam since last night?”

They both faltered. No, then.

“Maybe starting there is a better idea than asking the person that has been awake for mere seconds.” And with that, Elyan stood, dusted off his trousers and turned to leave the camp, “I’ll be behind that tree, nature calls, I hope that’s alright with you both.” And off he went, rolling his eyes as he did.

The day was not off to a good start.

Miriam, having moved as soon as she saw Arthur approaching Lancelot (who had been next to her that night), was sat next to a sleeping Gwaine. Merlin was right, he did have a headache, and he was hoping that more sleep would fix this (it wouldn’t). Finally giving up, he groaned and sat up, jumping slightly as he noticed the girl sat by his feet. She was staring at Arthur, looking bitter, and anxiously picking at her bandages.

Gwaine took a deep breath, psyching himself up, and shuffled so he sat closer to her.

“Hello.” His voice was deep and shocked her out of her seething state. She turned, analysing him.

“Good morning. You are Gwaine?”

He nodded. “Miriam?” She nodded back.

“What has the Princess done to get you in such a state?” At her confused look, he expanded, “Arthur.” She nods, smiling.

“He’s rather a rude one, isn’t he?” Gwaine’s face lights up at this, it is perhaps the happiest he has looked for the last two days.

“He has his moments, that’s for sure,” he pauses, watching his King, “But he is actually quite the just king, if you can believe.”

She squints at Arthur, looking him up and down, and hums – not sure she does believe.

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maaaddiexo · 4 years ago

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Chapter Three

Arthur Pendragon

Series: The Black Spear

Mainlist | Serieslist

A land lost to fire and magic but never forgotten.

A girl once of noble blood.

A boy blind to his own luxury.

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Controlled chaos ensued for the next five minutes. Guards and Knights scrambled for extra weapons as the warning bell was rung from the highest tower. Arthur stood off to the side speaking with his father and Morgana. Merlin spoke with Gaius by the bushes urgently. With everybody distracted by something, Y/N pulled Clarice off to the side.

“I want you to leave. Get out of the castle and get to the others. Take them back to the camp.”

“What about you?”

“You look like a servant. I’ll get too much attention wearing this. You have more of a chance if you go alone.”

“We took an oath, Y/N. I won’t break it and leave you behind.”

“You have to.”

“You’re sitting ducks here. The guards will never get in position in time.”

“Clarice, today is not the day to be stubborn. If this is the day I die then it has been an honour to serve with you all. You have made my life amazing and exciting. Something a noble life could never be. Now go!” Y/N could tell Clarice didn’t want to leave her behind, but the blue-eyed girl turned her back and ran towards the maze. Once she was out of sight, Y/N turned and searched the crowd for a familiar face. It was Arthur she spotted first. He wasn’t necessarily tall, but he was taller than a lot of the people there.

“What’s going to happen?”

“The guards will form a circle around us. They’ve barricaded the castle doors already. We won’t be able to get in but if they think we’re in the castle when we’re out here we might be able to buy ourselves a little more time.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

Arthur didn’t have an answer for her. “Look, just do what I tell you to, okay? It’s for your own safety.”

“Are Suron’s men good fighters?”

“They’re a well-trained army,” Arthur admitted and then gave Y/N a small smirk that didn’t seem entirely real. “But mine is better.”

The warning bell mixed in the air with shouts and war cries. The battle had begun. Y/N heard as swords clanged and men screamed in the distancce. She heard the sound of the castle doors being broken down and wondered how long they would be in the castle before they realized nobody was there.

She stood between Gwen and Arthur silently. In front of them, a row of knights stood in position, waiting for the garden doors to be broken down. Y/N covered her mouth with her hand to silence her heavy breathing. Somebody grabbed her hand in the darkness and she realized it was Gwen. The girl inched forward so that she was slightly in front of Y/N. When Y/N realized Gwen was protecting her, she felt her heart tighten. These weren’t her people and she owed them nothing yet they were willing to lay down their lives for her. In that moment – looking at the back of Gwen’s hair – she decided that when the gardens doors burst open and all hell broke loose, she wouldn’t stand idly by. She took an oath; not that of a princess but of a Protector.

When the garden doors finally fell, there wasn’t an immediate onslaught of invaders into the garden. They walked calmly and slowly over the doors and stopped on the other side. A man at the front with a receding hairline and a large scar running down the majority of his face sneered.

“Uther Pendragon. You’re looking pretty rough these days.”

“Yes. That happens when I’m constantly having people break into my castle,” the man responded wittily. “Leave now and we will not fight you.”

“That’s too bad,” the man chuckled. He tightened his grip on his sword. “I was kind of hoping for a fight.” And then he swung.

A guard met his blow with a block but stumbled under his force. As the other invaders rushed forward, so did the rest of the Camelot guards and knights. There were louder cries of war and pain as men from both sides fell and rose. And unlike last time, Y/N could see who it was crying out in pain and that was somehow worse. Y/N felt herself back up further and further until her back brushed the large hedge.

“It’s fine,” Gwen said over the sound of metal on metal. “Arthur has trained his men well. They’ll hold Suron’s men off until the rest can get here.”

“Arthur looks like he’s itching for a sword,” Y/N breathed, staring at the boy beside her. He was practically vibrating with adrenaline, shifting his feet and fisting his hands. He smiled at every step forward his men took and felt every blow his men felt. When one fell, he instinctively reached for a sword that wasn’t there. Y/n felt for him and had to look away.

“He might need one. We’re severely outnumbered- wait. Who’s that? Up on the balcony.”

Y/N followed Gwen’s line of sight and spotted a figure running along the balcony above the garden towards a banner that hung down. They were dressed in shades of black with a ripped jacket and worn boots. A mask covered the lower half of their face but when they turned, Y/N saw the glimpse of braided fire red hair and wild blue eyes.

Y/N smiled and shook her head as she watched her friend disarm an invader and frisk him for his weapons. “Should’ve known she’d never leave me behind.”

“What?” Gwen asked.

“I said could you hold this for me?” Y/N handed the borrowed crown to Gwen without waiting for a response. “Thanks.”

“Wait? Where are you going?”

Y/N didn’t answer. Clarice was already bringing her hand behind her head to throw a sword and Y/N had to be there to catch it. She was happy her dress was light and billowy as it was light when she ran and both Arthur and Gwen failed to grab it and hold her back.

As the sword summersaulted through the air, Y/N ran for the table covered with delicious foods. She stepped on a chair and then the table before jumping into the air to grab the sword. When she had it firmly in her grasp, she felt the power and confidence flood her body and smiled up at Clarice just as her friend repelled down the blood-red banner.

“You’re stupider than I thought if you actually thought – even for a second – that I was going to leave you behind.”

Y/N smiled and to the onlookers, it looked out of place. The two girls held swords comfortably – as if familiar with wielding them – and were surrounding by battling and fallen soldiers. But had they been dressed like the rest of fighters, nobody would have been able to pick them out of the crowd. They fought just like the men but were more graceful and with Y/N’s billowing dress, Arthur thought she looked like a goddess.

“Where did they learn to fight like that?” Arthur asked nobody in particular.

“They look like rebels,” Uther replied.

“Look!” Morgana yelled and pointed to the same balcony Clarice had come from. More female rebels flooded the balcony and repelled down the banners and made quick work of cutting down the enemy. They didn’t stop to cry when they sustained an injury and they didn’t grimace when they were splattered with blood.

“I’ve never seen such talented rebels,” Arthur told his father.

Uther was in complete awe and admiration as he spoke. “I don’t think they are.”

“But you said-”

“I-I was wrong.”

When Arthur focused on all the girls and not just Y/N’s graceful fighting style, he realized his father was right. They fought much like his own soldiers – the same techniques and moves – but with more grace and efficiency. They were dressed like rebels but no rebel he knew of fought like a knight.

There were only a handful of Suron’s men left and they were quickly surrounded by both of the other parties. Still, they went down fighting but were slaughtered within minutes. Arthur watched Y/N fight with the elegance of a princess and the fierceness of a knight. She was unstoppable and she knew it. When the last invader had fallen, there was a moment of silence before one of the knights sheathed his sword and began to clap. Slowly but surely, everyone still standing in the garden began to clap and Y/N smiled, walking over to the group of royalty. All were shocked into silence except for Uther, who had seen this sight once before.

“You’re Keepers of the Black Spear.” It wasn’t a question. Y/N smiled.

“Yes.” She gestured to another girl who stepped up beside her – no older than she – and pointed to the insignia stitched into the shoulder. “You recognized our mark?”

“No…no. I’ve seen this once before. When I was a boy.”

“Who are the Keepers of the Black Spear?” Morgana asked.

“It’s believed they fell into myth long ago,” Uther said. He still couldn’t take his eyes off the girls in front of him. “The Black Spear was the alias of a man long ago. He was good but did bad to achieve it and thus gained many enemies. According to legend, he hired only the best of fighters which happened to all be women. They were the best-trained fighters in the world. But they were also guardians. Protectors. It is said they keep the world mostly at peace, eliminating threats and creatures of magic.”

“Actually, just those who perform bad acts. Human or magical, we have no quarrel with those who do good.”

“How did you come to be a part of this…organization?” Arthur asked.

“They were the ones who found me and the few survivors after Coventry was attacked. The men were taken to nearby towns and the women to the Black Spear’s camp. They’ve raised me and have become my family.”

Arthur pursed his lips and stared at the crown in Guinevere’s hands. He tapped it. “I guess you won’t be wanting this back?”

“I appreciate all that you have done for me, but I am a Keeper now. My royal life is in the past, and that is where it is meant to stay.”

Arthur nodded firmly and stepped forward. He looked at Y/N once again and took in her appearance for he knew this was where they parted. Her hair was now a mess and covered in blood, which had run down her face like rain down a window. Her dress was ripped and Arthur spotted a few cuts on her arms. By all definition, Y/N was a mess, but she was still beautiful. Fierce and beautiful.

“Thank you for coming to our aid. I see you have no loyalty to anybody and yet you risked your lives for Camelot. Thank you. Camelot owes you a debt.” Someone in the background muttered, ‘Oou. The Prince owes us one. Fancy’.

“Maybe I’ll come collect it one day but for now, I think it best if me and the girls get as far away from Suron as soon as possible.”

Arthur laughed. “Good idea. It was an honour to meet you, My Lady.”

Y/N stuck out her hand for a shake but Arthur treated her like the princess she once was and not the commoner she currently was and kissed the back of her hand. Y/N rolled her eyes but let it happen. When Arthur stood up and rolled his shoulders back, Y/N leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“If you ever want to play damsel in distress again, head north and travel beyond the mountain ridge.”

Arthur gave a humourless laugh. “Right, okay.” Like he would need help from a girl ever again. This was the one and only time a girl would save him.

Y/N gave him a brilliant smile. “See you around, Art.”

#camelot #merlin #the adventures of merlin #arthur pendragon #prince arthur #king arthur #arthur pendragon imagine #arthur pendragon fanfiction #merlin imagine #merlin fanfiction #camelot imagine #camelot fanfiction #love #romance #fantasy #adventure

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shireness-says · 5 years ago

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Took My Soul, Wiped It Clean

Summary: Killian generally loves Storybrooke and its close-knit feeling, is happy to be raising his family here, but those close ties also often mean that everyone is sticking their nose into everyone else’s business. Can’t a man keep any bloody thing to himself? Rated T for language. ~5.5K. Also on AO3. A sequel to “If I Could See Your Face Once More”.

~~~~~

A/N: I’m back, with more of my 5B divergence! And fluffy this time. I’d recommend reading “If I Could See Your Face Once More” before this, but I suppose it could stand alone as a fluffy thing. Title taken from the same Kodaline song as the first, “All I Want”. Super thanks to my super beta, @snidgetsafan.

I do add in a non-canon character in this installment. Though he’s pretty much just mentioned here, he is important later in this ‘verse, and is taken from literature. I’d love to hear your guesses about who he is, and what I’ve got planned! I’ve got a lot in my head for this divergence ‘verse, so if you ever have questions or ideas that you want to see, just shoot me a message.

Tagging those from the first: @thejollyroger-writer, @profdanglaisstuff, @captainsjedi, @ultraluckycatnd, @superchocovian, @snowbellewells, @killianjones4ever82, @wellhellotragic, @ohmakemeahercules, @let-it-raines, @lifeinahole27, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @spartanguard, @courtorderedcake, @justanotherwannabeclassic

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

His daughter is meticulous.

It’s a ridiculous word to ascribe to a toddler, he knows, but that’s the only one he can come up with. She eats her macaroni one silly shape at a time and watches her feet take every step and says each of her words very carefully, like she wants to get every sound right instead of just chattering away. They hear her practicing words in her crib at night sometimes over the baby monitor. It’s adorable.

Fatherhood is more than Killian could have ever imagined when Emma first told him she was pregnant. It’s more than he imagined when he found out they were having a girl, or when Charlotte was first placed in his arms, still damp and squirming and perfect. It’s the greatest, best responsibility of his life, waking up every morning and trying to be everything his daughter thinks he is, because it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that she adores him. Daddy’s girl, Emma says.

(He’s fine with that.)

Killian is a little terrified some days, because the truth of the matter is that he’s not certain he’s as much of a hero as his daughter believes him to be. He’s lived an awfully long time, and done some terrible things in those years, and it terrifies him to think that his little girl might find out some day and lose that gleaming trust she has in him. In the meantime, he’s doing his best to be the best man he can be - gentle and kind and honorable, the kind of man he may have once been, hundreds of years ago.

That’s a worry for later, though. Right now, he’s more worried about picking up his little girl from her grandparents’ for a lunch with Emma and an afternoon out.

The door has barely opened before Killian hears her little voice, pitched even higher in her excitement as she shrieks out “Papa!” Gods, but he loves that, loves the way she lights up like the brightest star when she sees him, and all because of him.

“Well hello, my little bean,” he coos, stooping to scoop her into his arms, already bundled into her winter coat and mittens and hat. She’s no longer bean-shaped in the least, but the nickname had stuck, even after she was born. “Did you have fun with Grandma and Gramps and Leo this morning?” If the change of clothes is any indication - they definitely didn’t send her off in this fluffy skirt this morning, though the striped tights are a nice touch - it seems like they might have. A messy morning, at the very least.

“Yeah,” she responds with that toothy smile he so loves, reaching to press her little hands against his cheeks so his face scrunches up - a favorite game of hers.

“We did finger paints,” David explains. “They’re still drying right now, and her clothes too, but Snow and I will bring them the next time we come by the house.”

“Thanks, mate,” Killian smiles back. Sometime in the past few years, between monsters and death and children, he’s grown quite close to Emma’s father, their former animosity nothing more than a distant memory these days. “Maybe you guys could come around tonight. In the meantime, the little lass and I have a very important lunch date.”

David’s eyebrows rise in what must be anticipation. “Are you going to…”

“Aye,” Killian quickly responds before the other man can finish. Talking about it will only encourage his nerves, and he’s trying his hardest to avoid that right now.

“Good luck, then,” David replies, reaching out to clap Killian on the shoulder. Before he can say anything else, though, a loud cry echoes through the house. “Listen, I’ve got to go check on Leo and the twins so that Snow can keep sleeping, but…”

“We’ll call you,” he promises.

“Great. Okay, then, we’ll talk later. Bye, Princess!” As soon as grandfather and granddaughter exchange waves, the door closes, Charming hastening back down the hall into the rest of the house and his own child’s crisis.

“Do you want to go see Mama, my Charlie girl?” Killian asks as they climb back down the porch stairs.

(Henry had come up with the nickname, claiming that Charlotte was far too frilly and fussy for such a calm, curious, and unshakeable infant. It had stuck, mostly because it suits her. Charlie. By this point, Snow is the only one who still calls her Charlotte.)

“Yeah. Mama now,” she agrees, nodding decisively. She sounds absolutely determined - and absolutely precious.

Charlie ends up being put back down once they reach the pavement of Main Street, just as always. She’s a fiercely independent thing, his little lass, and he’d been expecting it; lately, he always factors extra time into wherever they’re going so that she can toddle carefully along to her heart’s content. She’s a little star in her own right, too, garnering all manner of waves and little bows as they slowly make their way down the sidewalk. Storybrooke has rather swelled in population since his return from the Underworld; Merlin had ultimately returned the citizens of Camelot to their home by joining all the realms together, once and for all. Later, the population of the Land of Untold Stories had been brought into the chaos when the Dark One had attempted to attack Storybrooke and sweep away his wife and unborn son, opening a gaping portal between the two dimensions in the process. Ultimately, his attempt had been unsuccessful, the Dark One being destroyed by the combined forces of Emma, Regina, Merlin, and just about every other magic wielder in a variety of realms, from Maleficent to Elsa to the fairies, but the Untold Stories residents had stayed to try and move their own tales forward. Killian likes most of their new inhabitants, possibly excepting the relocated Lost Boys, but it is always a little bit of a shock to walk down the street and see Vikings and airship captains and everything else under the sun, all trying to pay homage to himself and his daughter as members of the royal family. While each individual realm has their own government, they’re all under the overarching rule of Queen Snow and King David as rulers of the United Realm - a unanimous decision by the various heads of state. Storybrooke is technically a democracy with Regina as its mayor, though no one had actually run against her in the last election. Killian doesn’t think that it was a matter of fear, for once in her life, but rather every one of the townspeople recognizing that they had no desire to deal with all of the bureaucracy of local affairs and the diplomacy required to deal with every realm from Arendelle to Camelot to Oz - not to mention, dealing with the dwarves. Especially not dealing with the dwarves. Regina seems to be the only person who actually thrives on that much paperwork and the minutiae of local government, and so they’re all happy to let her.

(Killian’s own family had expanded with the arrivals from the Land of Untold Stories, his very angry and long-lost half brother and said brother’s adoptive father. Nemo had been delighted at the opportunity to become a little family; Liam had been less excited. Part of that is likely due to Nemo needing to be hospitalized for the injuries that drove them to the Land of Untold Stories in the first place, injuries he’d sustained the last time both surviving Brothers Jones had met, the other due to the death of Brennan, their father, also at Killian’s hands. It’s all a mess, and they’re still trying to come to terms with the whole thing. For the moment, they’re all operating under a truce. It helps that both men adore Emma, and especially Charlie; after Henry had insisted the submarine captain watch the animated movie of his namesake, Nemo had been the one to gift their daughter upon her birth with the stuffed fish that had become her very favorite. Killian will never understand how the other man can be so tickled by his cinematic reincarnation. Regardless, he’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep the peace if it means Charlie gets to grow up being doted upon by Uncle Lee and Baba Nemo.)

By the time they finally make it to Granny’s to pick up lunch, they’ve had to fulfill the routine of up and down and up and down several times over. Charlie is a curious little thing, though her natural caution and methodicalness keeps her from wandering out of sight, his little girl almost as careful about checking that he or Emma is in sight as they are. Still, he swoops her up once the white fencing of the diner is in sight, tickling her sides until she giggles just before they walk in the door. Granny smiles at them both - well, mostly Charlie, the widow Lucas still gruff with everyone but her expanding gaggle of pseudo-grandchildren - as Killian deposits her on one of the red vinyl stools.

“The usual, Captain?” She asks, fixing him with a piercing look over the top of her spectacles. Every time she does so, Killian finds himself grateful that it’s only Ruby who’s susceptible to the full moon; he wouldn’t want to meet Granny in wolf form, not one bit.

“Yes, please.” It’s nice, having established himself so firmly in this town as to have a usual order at the local diner - a grilled cheese and onion rings for Emma, a BLT and fries for himself (mostly so Emma can steal them - she likes having options), and a bowl of macaroni and cheese for the little lass. Today warrants a little something extra though, he thinks. “And a generous slice of that marvelous chocolate cake as well, if you don’t mind.”

Granny snorts a laugh as she finishes writing out their order on the ticket, sliding it through the order up window so the cook can get started on their order. “So today’s the day, then?”

Killian stiffens at the words. “I won’t pretend to know what you’re talking about.”

Granny rolls her eyes at that. “Sure you don’t. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, Captain, but you’re a terrible liar. Unlike your girlfriend,” she makes sure to emphasize the title, “you only get dessert on very special occasions. Do you have something to celebrate today, Hook?”

His cheeks are noticeably burning red, but Killian still keeps his silence.

“Suit yourself,” Granny shrugs, mercifully taking pity on him. “Now hand over the little angel, she’s got to pick out the noodles.” It’s always Charlie’s favorite part, and despite the older woman’s teasing earlier, Killian feels a rush of affection at the gesture.

“I do it,” Charlie pipes in. She’s got that determined set to her eyebrows - just like her mama’s, really - and is already scooting to the edge of the stool to try and get herself down.

“Oh no you don’t,” Granny replies, much to Killian’s relief. Let her be the bad guy here, not that Charlie will put up the same fuss with the Widow Lucas as she would at home. “If you’re going to go in the kitchen and pick your noodles, you’ve got to let me carry you, little missy.”

Charlie doesn’t look happy about it, but the promise of fun shapes wins out apparently as she holds up her arms and willingly lets the older woman pick her up. As soon as the bow ties and corkscrews and whatever other kinds of pasta are in sight, she’ll doubtless forget any frustration about not being allowed on her own two feet.

Killian is so busy watching his Bean as she’s carried away that he doesn’t even notice Ruby coming to lean herself across the counter from him, sporting a grin so wide it might better be described as bared teeth.

“So, you got a plan?” she quips. Damned wolves and their damned hearing.

“There’s no plan,” he all but growls back. Killian generally loves Storybrooke and its close-knit feeling, is happy to be raising his family here, but those close ties also often mean that everyone is sticking their nose into everyone else’s business. Can’t a man keep any bloody thing to himself?

“Oh, that’s no good,” Ruby replies. Obviously, she hadn’t picked up on the hint to drop it that his tone had carried. “Women like when there’s a plan, you know, you really shouldn’t ask her —”

“Maybe my plans are none of your damn business!” Killian bursts out, only the memory that this is the middle of the lunch rush keeping him from shouting the words in Ruby’s face.

It doesn’t faze Ruby, however. “Oh, so that means you do have a plan,” Ruby replies smugly, crossing her arms across her chest. Somehow, the smile stretches even wider. Killian just glares back. “Alright, keep your secrets,” she finally concedes, hands raising in surrender. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“I’ll let you know if I need it,” he growls out. Granny walks back through the door with Charlotte at that moment, blessedly distracting Ruby. Killian takes the chance to check his mobile telephone (he long since knows that it’s a cell phone, or just a phone, but it still makes Emma laugh to hear him act confused about the devices); happily, there’s a message waiting from his Swan.

E: Are you and Bean still coming by the station with lunch, or should I meet you at Granny’s?

K: We’ll be there soon, love - just picking up the order now. We’ve a surprise for you.

In only a few more minutes, their order is ready to go; except for cooking noodles, everything else in their meal is pretty quick. With Charlie already swinging his hand back and forth, he gratefully accepts the bag Granny offers onto his hook; one of the few things that have changed in the timeless diner since his arrival after the First Curse is that paper bags with handles are kept around especially with Killian in mind so that his only hand can be left free. Now that he has their lunch in hand, the nerves suddenly make themselves known in a way that they hadn’t previously. On the surface, this is just another lunch, but Killian knows very well that this is a lunch that could change everything.

Some of those nerves must show as he exits the diner and nearly runs into Robin.

“There’s my favorite Jones!” the other man crows as Charlie happily latches onto his legs in a hug, tweaking her little ponytail. Turning his attention to Killian, though, Robin is less complimentary. “Are you alright, mate?”

“Fine, just a little stressed,” Killian replies shortly.

Robin nods knowingly, and Killian thinks he might be about to let it go. Until the thief speaks, that is. “Ah. So today’s the day then?”

“Does everyone in the bloody town know?” Killian demands, rolling his eyes in a move Emma would swear he’d picked up from her (she’s not entirely wrong). If not for the heavy bag on his hook, he’d probably have thrown up his hands dramatically as well, but he doesn’t think the onion rings would respond well to such treatment.

“Well, we’ve been expecting this for a while,” Robin explains. “How old is the little lass?”

“Twenty months.”

“Right, so a few months before that. We’ll call it an even two years - that’s how long we’ve been waiting for you to make a move. Though I will say, it doesn’t help that one of the dwarves owns the jewelry shop.”

“Of bloody course,” Killian mutters, mostly to himself. Gossips, the whole lot of them.

Inexplicably, Robin still smiles and leans around the cute little leech still suctioned to his legs to clap Killian on the shoulders. “Look, you don’t need to worry. It’ll all be alright.”

“Easy for you to say,” Killian mutters back. Robin’s living some kind of idyllic life, with a wife and children and a seemingly endless supply of confidence. Killian has been around a little too long to maintain that type of optimism.

Robin shrugs. “Maybe. Still, you and Emma are one of the most solid couples I know, even without throwing True Love into the mix. I think, deep down, that you’re just as confident nothing can shake that. Have a little faith, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” Killian replies, smiling weakly. It’s the best he can manage at the moment, when his stomach is trying to tie itself into an intricate series of sailor’s knots.

“Good luck, mate.” With a final squeeze of the shoulder, Robin starts trying to peel Charlie off his legs. “Feel free to send Henry over tonight if need be. Charlie too, of course, Vera would love to see her.”

“I’ve already set up for the lass to spend the night with Nemo and Liam, but thanks for the offer, mate. We’ll have to arrange for the girls to have a play date in the coming week regardless.”

“Indeed. Well, again, good luck, and let us know how it goes!”

The sheriff’s station is conveniently only two blocks away, making for an easy trek that even his daughter’s little legs can handle. Another decided plus of going to Granny’s; they’re close enough to their ultimate destination that he generally can just let her walk instead of trying to juggle carrying both their lunches and his toddler at the same time. Today, though, they stop at a bench a block away from the entrance of the station, where Emma can’t yet see them. Tugging on Charlie’s hand to make sure she stops, he carefully rests their lunch bag on the bench before extricating his own hand from her tiny grip to reach into his jacket pocket for the little velvet box.

The ring box.

Robin is right, in a way - this has been a long time coming. But in all the emotional upheaval of his return from the Underworld and their daughter’s impending arrival, marriage hadn’t taken priority. They already knew they were true love, about to raise a teenager and an infant together and committed in every way that counts; a wedding was just a legal formality at that juncture. Some might have argued that Emma’s pregnancy with Charlotte was a compelling reason to get married, but Killian actually found it more of a reason not to. He loved her - loves her - and has always seen marriage in their future, but vainly, he doesn’t ever want it to seem like they got married because of their impending child. After Charlie was born, they’d been so busy and exhausted and consumed with just making it day to day with two kids, one of them a baby. A wedding hadn’t been logistically possible at that point, at least not the way they or her family would want to celebrate it. No, as much as they love each other, waiting had been the right decision.

Now, though… now, there’s no longer any reason to wait. Now too, Killian finds himself yearning for that kind of commitment, to pledge themselves before all and sundry and cement things in a way he has trouble describing. Consciously, he knows that nothing will change with a white dress and a signed paper and a pair of rings, but that doesn’t stop him from dreaming. Emma and he had talked about marriage together before and established that it was something they both want in the future; now that things are finally starting to calm down and settle back into a routine in their lives, it finally seems that the moment is here.

(There’s the point, too, that they’re starting to talk about another baby, and Killian knows that if they welcome another child, they’ll be thrown right back into that cycle of happy exhaustion and put off getting married for another several years. On the less romantic side, it’s better to stage a wedding now, when they both have the time to commit to it.)

Charlotte is obviously confused by this unexpected pause in their path, a deviance from the usual routine. “Mama now,” she tells him - not the question another child might ask, but something more akin to a reminder, like her father might have forgotten that they have an appointment to keep. It’s just another manifestation of that meticulousness that he finds so adorable - the way she likes to know the plan and stick with it.

“In a moment, sweetheart, we’re just stopping here for a minute,” he assures her before producing the little ring box. “You see this, little love?” Charlie nods solemnly, reaching out a little hand to stroke along the soft green velvet. “This is a very special gift I’m going to give to Mama. Now, do you think you can keep it safe for me until it’s time to give it to her?” With any other child, it’d be an insane idea, but he knows his daughter.

And his daughter is meticulous.

(Besides, they’re only a block away; he’ll keep an eye out, but doesn’t anticipate any problems. She’s a careful little thing, after all.)

Charlie’s nodding eagerly anyways, a precious smile running across her face at the prospect of helping with the surprise. “Yeah! I do it!”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he praises, pressing a quick kiss to the soft hair on the top of her head. Quickly, he unzips her little parka to get at the miniature leather jacket she wears underneath, so much like Emma’s and his own, to tuck the box into the pocket where it will hopefully be more secure. Hats and gloves and all matter of outerwear get shoved into the pockets of her winter coat, creating so many opportunities for the ring to be disturbed; hopefully there will be less chance of that happening inside.

After resecuring all her layers, they continue their trek to the station, and walk through the front door only minutes later. Emma is alone in the office today, something of a rarity. Though David may have stepped down in order to pursue life as a farmer, returning to his sheep and to rule the United Realms alongside Snow, only helping at the station when absolutely necessary, the sheriff’s department has acquired several new deputies in the meantime, in order to deal with the increase in population.

Mulan had been the first person Emma had approached after her father had made his intention to leave known. The warrior had been a natural choice for her impressive skill set and level-headedness, and it had worked out well that the woman in question was a bit at ends after Ruby had left for Oz and a life with Dorothy. A deputy position granted her purpose and some sense of roots, and she’s flourished here, becoming Emma’s trusted right hand.

Dorothy had been an easy choice too, though she’s less available, forced to split her time between Storybrooke and tamping down trouble in Oz. The principality of Munchkinland supposedly operates as a democracy, one in which Ms. Gale holds no elected position, yet somehow she’s still the only one who can settle the frequent disputes that erupt between different factions. Killian would swear that it’s an entire population of dwarves, some distant cousins of Leroy and Doc and all the rest with all the trouble they manage to kick up.

Emma’s last deputy, Fitz, had been more of an unexpected addition - a former army colonel who had arrived with the other migrants from the Land of Untold Stories, looking for some kind of new purpose and to escape the long shadow cast by his cousin. Killian had been suspicious of the other man at first, but he’s more than proved his worth in the past two years, especially in aiding with the defeat of the Dark One by protecting Belle. It helps that the other man is one of the most amiable, easy going people Killian knows, armed with an easy smile and a self-deprecating sense of humor. Killian had worried that the former colonel might bristle as having to play deputy after so long as a leader in his own right, especially as a man from another time and society now under the command of a woman, but truthfully, Fitz just seems delighted to be surrounded by three strong women bossing him around. Now, Killian counts the other man as a friend, one of his regular drinking buddies alongside David and Robin.

Today, however, he knows that Emma is alone at the station - Killian had made sure to check the schedule last week and seen that Dorothy is off, Mulan is tackling a self-defense presentation at the elementary school, and Fitz is handling patrol. If all goes well, he can have an uninterrupted afternoon with Emma and their little lass.

Emma looks up at the sound of their footsteps, and immediately breaks into a wide smile when she realizes who’s there to see her. “Hey, you,” she greets, the affection obvious in her voice. How far she’s come from the skittish, closed off woman Killian had met in the wasteland that’s left of the Enchanted Forest; how far they’ve both come, really. Killian certainly wasn’t anything like the caring family man and loyal friend that he’s become back at the beginning.

“Hello yourself, love,” he smiles back, bending to kiss her. “Are you having a good day so far?”

“Eh. You know. Hit or miss,” Emma replies, simultaneously bending to hoist Charlie into a hug. As excited as their little girl had been to see her mother when he had picked her up from the Charmings’ an hour ago, now she’s more anxious to wiggle her way back down to the floor and run over to the bottom drawer of the file cabinet where they keep a handful of toys for her. “What am I, chopped liver?” Emma mutters. Even if she’s rolling her eyes, there’s still a smile on her face. They do manage to find a bit of humor in the frequent caprices. “Anyways, yeah, it was fine. Mostly dealing with paperwork, really. Leroy and one of the Vikings had a little bit of a spat early that I had to go referee, but that’s kind of just Tuesday. Not a big deal. You?”

“Uneventful so far.” Hopefully not for long, since he’s showed up with a ring and a question. “I finished with the docking fees this morning, then turned the office over to Mr. Smee for the afternoon and went to pick up the Bean.” While Killian serves as an additional standby deputy in the Sheriff’s station if need be, much like David and Robin, he’s actually found employment as the town’s harbormaster. It’s not always the most interesting job - mostly, he manages the monthly docking fees, though his position also involves inspecting the occasional imports from other realms and monitoring the office radio in case anyone gets into trouble or runs out of gas on the water - but it’s steady and dependable and lets him feel like he’s doing something productive, maybe even something good. The hours are a plus, too, as is continuing to be the boss. Killian still doesn’t take orders well from anyone but Emma.

“Is that lunch I see?” Emma asks, almost demands, zeroing in on the bag still hanging on his hook.

“It is indeed,” he replies, setting the sack on her desk. “Your favorite - grilled cheese and onion rings.”

“God, I love you,” she declares, leaning up for another kiss with a happy smile on her face.

And all of a sudden, the moment is here. It’s as good a lead-in as any. “Well, I’m very glad to hear that, love.” Gods above, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous - not before that first date, not when he was standing in front of her door in New York. Maybe when their daughter was born, but that’s a slim thing. “Charlie, sweetheart, can you bring me that gift for Mama?”

“That’s right, I get a present!” Emma teases. That doesn’t last long though, her laughing tone giving way to a gasp as Charlotte rounds the corner of Mulan’s desk, her parka already shed and wrestling the ring box out of her little pocket. “Is that…”

“Aye, love.” Killian runs his hand along Charlie’s hair as she reaches him before plucking the box from her hands. “Good job, little love,” he murmurs with a smile. Now is the moment though, so he turns back to Emma and sinks to one knee as he props the little box open. Nestled inside is a ring that he thinks is perfect for her - somehow both sturdy and delicate at the same time, with a white gold band and two smaller round diamonds flanking a larger oval-cut diamond, a medium size that stands out without being ostentatious. He’d seen it in the window of the jeweler’s and just known it belonged on his love’s finger. Some things are simple like that; falling in love with Emma had been.

“It’s been a long, winding road to get here, my love, but I wouldn’t want to walk it with anyone else,” he begins. Hopefully the tears starting to glimmer in her eyes are a good sign. The soft smile on her face and the happy crinkles around her eyes certainly suggest so. “When we met, I couldn’t think of anything but my own revenge - but you made me want to be better. You still make me want to be a better man, for you, for Charlie, for Henry, every day. You’ve given me the most precious gifts of my life in your love and our children, and no matter what the future might hold, I just want to face it together. I may not be a perfect man, but I can promise you this: I will always, always be by your side.” Killian takes a final deep breath - it’s the moment of truth, so to speak. “So, Emma Swan, woman of my dreams and love of my life… will you marry me?”

It feels like he waits for her response for an entire lifetime - no, a whole eternity, even if it must only be seconds. But then her smile widens and Emma sinks to her knees, bypassing the ring in his hand completely to grasp his face between her hands and stroke along his cheeks with her thumbs as her delicate fingers curl around his neck, behind his ears and into his hair. “Yes,” she breathes, tears slipping from her eyes as she nods. If there was ever a moment the word emphatic was created to describe, this is it. “Yes. Yes! Of course I’ll marry you, my pirate.”

They really probably should worry about the ring in the box - namely, slipping it on her finger where he hopes it’ll never move again - but that seems like such a secondary concern when Emma’s kissing him for all he’s worth. Somehow he finds both his arms wrapping around her back to pull her closer, his hand still clutching the little green velvet box as Emma’s tongue slips into his mouth. Kissing his fiancée doesn’t feel wildly different from kissing his girlfriend yet, but he’s sure that given the chance to say that word a few more times - fiancée! - he’ll change his mind. For now, he’s more concerned about lips and tongues and the positioning of noses and the way Emma’s lovely breasts press just perfectly against his chest.

“Yes,” she tells him again as they break apart, and one more time as he finally works the diamond ring past the knuckle of her fourth finger. It’s nearly a perfect fit; just a small spark of magic is required to tighten the band to her exact specifications. It seems fitting for their relationship, somehow, which has been infused with the magic of Saviors and True Love since the very beginning.

Charlie choses that moment, of course, to tire of searching through her toy drawer and wander back over to see what her parents are up to. “Mama sad?” She asks, his clever girl noticing the tears still glistening in Emma’s eyes (and probably his own too, if he’s being very honest).

“No, baby, happy,” Emma laughs. “Mama is just very, very happy, and it’s spilling all over the place.” Killian understands that perfectly; he’s so happy, he feels like he’s overflowing with it.

There are worse complaints to have.

Soon, they’ll have to turn their attention to all kinds of wedding planning and spreading the news to their friends and family, but he’s happy for the moment to instead focus on having a nice lunch with his daughter and fiancée at the former’s urging (“Eat now?”). Both his girls are very excited about the chocolate cake, and the sooner they finish their entrees, the sooner they can dig into dessert.

After all, Granny was right; they’ve got a lot to celebrate today.

#captain swan #cs ff #my writing #Took My Soul Wiped It Clean #If I Could See Your Face Once More #5b divergence #no more angst #just cute kids

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mostnoblelancelot · 3 years ago

Text

homecoming | guinevere & lancelot

@ladyxguinevere @gxpendragon

tw: miscarriage, grief, suicidal ideation

The feast was raging on inside, as these things had the tendency to do. There was a cool distance between she and Arthur. Maybe it wasn’t a visible one, but she could feel it all the same. At a certain point, everything was too raucous for her to handle anymore and she slipped out, doubting anyone would notice. She may have been the queen, but she wasn’t the center of attention tonight.

Actually, she was banking on that as she wound through the corridors, gradually putting the noise behind her, and made her way to an isolated balcony. It was on the side of the castle where the sea was visible all the time. In the evening, all she could see were whitecaps. With a deep breath, she leaned against the stone wall and contemplated going down closer to the beach, letting herself get swallowed in the waves.

That thought waned when she felt the presence of someone approaching. In spite of her heavy thoughts, she turned to him with a small smile. “Welcome home, Sir Lancelot. It seems you have served your King well.”

Given the underlying cause of their return, a feast felt somewhat insensitive at least and outright offensive at most. Perhaps few could see it, but Lancelot could tell that neither his King nor his Queen were in the mood for celebrating. He could hardly blame them, and he couldn't fail to notice the distance between them either. He doubted anyone was privy to all of Arthur's secrets, but he knew the king better than many and how the news of their lost child had struck all the joy from his eyes. It wasn't his burden to bear, but the knowledge weighed heavily on their party as they returned home in spite of their success.

The mood of the feast didn't so much as flicker when Guinevere slipped out. He gave it several minutes and followed, guessing at her destination from previous encounters. He returned the smile with a small one of his own as he stepped out onto the balcony. "Thank you, my Queen. It is an honor, as always. I only wish the circumstances had been better."

Her eyes tracked him easily as he stepped toward her. She was grateful for their proximity and for the distant soundtrack of the ocean’s churning. It would be easier to speak privately, if she decided she had something to say. She still wasn’t sure that was the wisest course with Lancelot; he was so close with Arthur. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Lancelot with her life, or possibly her secrets, but she didn’t want to force him into an uncomfortable position. She also didn’t know what he knew. He seemed to intuit plenty, as he had followed her in the first place. His words stabbed at her a bit, because a bitter part of her wanted to ignore the possibility that Arthur had come home just for her – not with his distance over the evening, and the fact the campaign had also ended in victory beforehand.

“Victorious circumstances and a feast aren’t to your liking? How would you like things to improve?” She asked, trying to sound curious instead of harsh or acerbic. Maybe distraction would be good. “I will see if I can accommodate your needs.”

The atmosphere was much improved from the contained chaos they'd left behind. The ocean set up a lulling background noise, and he found her a typically peaceful presence, if currently a sad one. He hadn't had a clear agenda in following her here, only a vague intention of smoothing whatever rift had occurred between her and Arthur, if that were possible. He'd sworn to protect their lives with his, but it was more than that. He wanted to shield them both from suffering as well, and that was beyond his power. For all his gifts, he was still just a man.

He lowered his head at the veiled criticism in her words, even if she hadn't intended for it to be there, because he knew the truth. If they'd returned to Camelot purely because of her misfortune, they would have been home sooner. It wasn't until the campaign was successful that they'd been able to find adequate reasoning for it. "I would like my King and my Queen both to be happy," he said quietly. He was in no position to ask her for anything and didn't want it to seem like he was now, but that was the honest answer.

She sighed, instantly shamed at his reaction. Of course he’d known what she was saying. It wasn’t subtle. While she hadn’t contained her emotions since her loss, she hadn’t shared them with anyone either. It had the same bottling effect, and now it all seeped out through her words. While she sincerely doubted Arthur would notice, Lancelot was more sensitive and had clearly done just that.

His answer was maddeningly proper, though, and gave her no insight into how open she could be without imparting new information. “I don’t know if Arthur is. I can only speak for myself, and I am not – but it is not anything you can change. You bear no responsibility for my current state. I apologize for taking it out on you.”

"You need never apologize to me, my lady. Certainly not for expressing your feelings," he said gently. He didn't hold her accountable for what she said in grief. Perhaps she was right and there was nothing he could do, but he saw an opportunity there to try to mend things between the two of them. She clearly had no idea of Arthur's feelings. He tried to determine whether it would be betraying Arthur's confidence to tell her so and decided it wouldn't hurt to share his observations--but it might very well help.

"Arthur is very much grieved. He hides it well, but the loss affects him greatly." He also knew, as well as she did, that Arthur would never let his feelings get in the way of duty. It occurred to him how much more difficult that must make it for Guinevere. No matter the circumstance, he could never put her first even if he wanted to. He would always be a king before he was a husband. Sadness for her stole through him as he imagined how lonely that must feel.

Guinevere wasn’t sure if she was grateful for Lancelot’s description or if it was torture. Either way, it wasn’t something Arthur had shared with her. But it laid to rest the wondering if Lancelot was informed. Any words she could’ve said caught in her throat. She quickly redirected her focus out to the night sea, hoping she could avoid dissolving into yet another puddle of tears. It would be more humiliating in front of him, her husband’s knight, than it had been when she was by herself. Ultimately, his words didn’t provide comfort; they just added to her grief. She knew Arthur would never share them with her.

Maybe she was too angry, too isolated, too frustrated. She was too tense. Maybe it was her fault their child was forfeit now. There was no way to know. The midwife had only said ‘these things happen.’ After that, there had been no more explanation. The only possibility she’d been able to imagine was her own culpability. Arthur hadn’t even been home.

Finally, she twisted toward Lancelot again. She’d kept her eyes from spilling onto her face, but her throat was thick. “It means little if he won’t tell me that himself. You know that. I cannot do anything with the information second-hand.”

He waited while she wrestled her grief back into manageable form. He'd have felt guilty for bringing it up, except it had already been there, unacknowledged but easily the largest thing in any room. He marveled a little at her strength when she turned back to him and her eyes were dry. He had the sense that he'd taken a misstep, but he wasn't sure exactly what it was until she spoke. Then he knew. She thought that Arthur confided in him more than he did in her, but he wasn't certain their king confided in anyone. If he had, Lancelot had not been privy to it.

"He tells no one. You have much in common that way. But perhaps you need not suffer in isolation," he offered quietly. He was out of his depth here, trying to mend a marriage that he wasn't a part of. He was half-expecting her to remind him of his place--not that she was prone to such things--but relationship counseling was far outside the description of a knight. Still, he suspected that Arthur needed consolation nearly as much as she did, and there was no one better suited for it than the other.

Maybe because he’d sought her out, she didn’t feel he was prying or speaking out of turn. He was clearly concerned. She almost believed, through no fault of his own, that it was for both she and Arthur. With a sweeping glance throughout their periphery, at least as much as she could see, she verified they were alone. “If he tells no one, then how do you know its the truth you’re speaking now?”

She asked, not aggressively but curiously. “The simple truth is I am already in isolation. I know it isn’t the typical way a queen, or a wife, acts, but I have little trust in those here and the only one I’ve relied on is Arthur. But he’s here less frequently these days and he has other things pressing on him.” She glanced down at her feet. “Though I will go to our shared chambers tonight, I am alone with this.”

Warranted or not, his concern for Guinevere was as real as his concern for his king. They didn't know each other as well, had spent far less time together, but his loyalty to both was deep-rooted. "Because I have eyes to see," he countered gently. He'd been there when Arthur received the news, and there was no doubt in his mind that he suffered greatly over it. "Why do you think it is not?" Arthur likely hadn't said as much, but he rarely did, so that meant little.

He considered that, but he couldn't find a way to argue the point honestly. In truth, he thought she was wise not to trust most in the castle. The majority of the knights were good men, but like him, they were Arthur's men. The same could not be said for the rest of those who resided there, with their watchful eyes and vicious gossip. It struck him again how lonely she must feel, bearing all of that on her own. "Then perhaps you would consider me a friend," he offered quietly. He was no substitute for her husband, but at least she wouldn't be wholly alone.

She dared raise her eyes to him as he spoke gently. No amount of stubborn pride would be able to counter his words. She didn’t ask for details because she didn’t want them. Even as she pondered over Arthur’s possible feelings on this matter, she hadn’t wanted him to hurt. Selfishly, she wanted him to ride to her rescue, to just show up the way he had so often before they were married. Then it had seemed no worry she had was too small; this particular worry was far beyond the cares she had shared with him. “Because I am the one who failed this time,” she finally admitted. It was just a small portion of what pained her, but it felt safe to say so now. “I cannot think of his disappointment in me. I could not bear to hear him express it.”

His next wish, nearly covered by the sounds of the water, earned a hesitant nod. She pressed her hand to her mouth to prevent any other sound, for the moment, and allowed a scant tear to fall. “I don’t know if I can go through this again.”

"In what way?" His brows drew together and he shook his head once, decisively. "This was not your fault." In truth, he didn't have a lot of evidence to support that idea. He hadn't spoken with the midwife, and he knew little about child-bearing. But he couldn't imagine anything Guinevere could have done to cause it. It was like blaming her for taking ill. No mortal could control it. "If the king is disappointed, I imagine it is with fate and circumstance, and not with you." Again, he didn't have any evidence to back that up. It wasn't like Arthur confided in him, or anyone that he knew of, but he hoped it would console her regardless.

His lips parted slightly in surprise, and for a moment, it seemed he had nothing to say. He mourned her situation all the more since he doubted she'd be given that option. The king required an heir. "Perhaps you will not have to," he said finally. "It would be cruel of fortune to strike you so again." Far from sounding reassuring to his ear, the words felt more like a bad omen. Lancelot wasn't superstitious, but he didn't like the way they hung in the air after he'd said them. Perhaps someone else would have been better suited to comfort her. He didn't seem to have a talent for it.

Guinevere thought on the things she’d heard contained within whispers. First, that the child was not Arthur’s, that she had bedded someone else. That was obviously the only explanation for the fact they’d had a fruitless union for over two years. Then, tonight, she’d heard tellings that she was mad and lied of being pregnant, or that she had killed the baby with her own hands, that it was evidence of her unfitness to be queen. Nearly nothing hurt as much as thinking Arthur would believe any of the things she’d heard – and that had been with her mostly staying shut in her chambers. She offered him a dull, insincere smile, clouded by the tears she’d allowed to gather. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the courtyard rumors will resonate more than fate or circumstance.”

She glanced over at him, unsurprised by the way he rejected her words. He was undoubtedly loyal to Arthur, and that probably made it pointless for her to truly confide in him. Her fears counteracted the needs of the country. She’d already gathered the idea that Arthur wasn’t so comfortable in his kingly status as he likely should have been, and the populace also had their doubts about his lineage or power. The story of his rise to the throne was incredible, and many had some difficulty believing it. While she believed he was a good and capable king, she understood the doubts. She also understood the reality of her situation: an heir would give his reign legitimacy and staying power. “Is your own mother still alive?” She finally asked, knowing hers wasn’t and it would quite likely serve as backing for her worries.

He'd heard many of the same rumors, but not from any sources he considered reliable. He did his best to shut them down whenever he could do so without making things worse for her. The nobles were worse than schoolchildren when it came to gossip, and he didn't care to participate in it. He could see why she preferred the company of the knights whenever possible. "I hardly think our king is swayed by gossip," he assured her. In his current state, he wasn't even sure Arthur was truly hearing much of anything that didn't directly pertain to his duties. His tunnel vision, apparently, did not include Guinevere in its scope.

"I do not know. I was raised by the Lady of the Lake. Whether she is truly my mother, she never said. But she is living, yes. She will likely outlive all of us." Fae were practically immortal, as far as he knew. His gaze shifted out toward the water, a small smile on his lips. He had not seen her for many years. She didn't encourage him to return now that he'd joined the world of men, but his memories were fond. "How did your mother pass?" He knew that her mother had died and she was raised with only brothers, but he didn't know when or the circumstances.

Guinevere gave him a fleeting smile as she fought the urge to make her immediate point. No matter how true it was, she didn’t want to speak it. The words forced themselves out all the same. “Our king is not necessarily the same man as my husband,” she pointed out. “As a king, he blocks the words out. As a spouse, he is not around to witness or believe. He relies on accounts from others within Camelot. Have you ever been married?”

She accepted his words, his answer to her question, with a nod. “She feels like your mother, regardless of the details. I am glad you still have her. My mother died giving birth to me. I never knew her and my father has said precious little about her, so I know very little. I would rather endure the loss of a child than prescribe a fate that would force a child to endure the loss of its mother. Is that terrible to admit?”

"He is always a king first," he agreed gently. He was beginning to have an idea of what that meant for her, and the thought filled him with sorrow, particularly now that the rift between them seemed greater than ever. "But I believe he is wise in choosing his sources, and he would most like to hear from you." Arthur's feelings were as inscrutable to him as they were to her, if not more so, but he imagined the level of trust between husband and wife was greater than most.

Her question forced a quick smile from him, as though she'd called his bluff. "I have not. Is it so obvious?" At his age, he probably should have taken a wife, but he'd never met a woman he cared for as much as he cared for being a knight. It seemed wrong to force a woman to always be second just for the sake of saying he had one.

"I'm sorry. That must be difficult for you." He frowned in sympathy. He tried to imagine being raised without a mother and found it impossible, although he had no trouble imagining the absence of a father. It didn't seem to have affected him the way it had her though. He'd never felt wanting with the Lady of the Lake, but he hadn't had a lot of typical human families to compare the experience to either. "You have endured both. You are perhaps best qualified to make such a judgment."

Guinevere nodded, because Arthur was always a king first. Perhaps she should have embraced her own role with more vigor, but she couldn’t do as he had done. She didn’t have advisors, people to train her or show her the way as Arthur did. She needed someone like Merlin, though not Merlin exactly because she wasn’t overly fond of the man. “It matters not who he chooses, Lancelot.

While there is debate whether he is the true king or not, so some agree and some disagree, there is no debate about me. I was not anyone’s first choice for queen, except his.” She sighed. “And even that, I thing, was not about me being queen as much as it was about his desire not to marry someone else.” She gave a soft, one-note laugh. “No, that is why I asked. I think you have ideals about what it entails, though, and I didn’t know if those were earned or if they were speculation.”

The humor faded with their other serious topic, though. “I don’t know any other way. I think it is why I am more suited to be around men than women, though. Or maybe that is a result of my personality.” Her next sigh was shaky. “As it turns out, childbirth is no joyful event either way. And growing up with only one parent was lonely. I don’t know if two would have made a difference, but in our case… Arthur is gone so often. If he dies…” she shook her head. She couldn’t really contemplate that potential series of events. “I do not think I can do this again, but I don’t really know how to prevent it, either. No more than I know how I could avoid my own demise.”

"Then I would hope he would hold his own opinion in highest esteem on the matter." He tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly. He didn't know what she meant by that comment, and given her current mood, he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. She had a lot of heavy things on her mind, and it seemed to be dredging up more to keep it company. He wasn't aware that Arthur had reasons other than love for marrying Guinevere. "If it is worth anything, I think you make a fine queen," he offered with a small smile. "And I think many of the knights feel the same."

"Speculation, I'm afraid. But that does not make them wrong." It wasn't the first time someone had called him idealistic, and it likely wouldn't be the last. He thought there were worse things to be. It certainly suited him better than cynical. "I would not let any harm come to you, or your future child," he promised. If would ease her fears at all, he was happy to make it. If the king died, there was no guarantee the Knights of the Round Table would continue. Lancelot's allegiance was to Arthur and Guinevere. "I would not wish it upon you. But I think you are stronger than you know."

‘Arthur’s opinion’ made her smile; she knew he had a high opinion of her. She knew he had wanted to marry her because he loved her, not be forced into a political marriage that held no real affection. The smile was meant to be fleeting, but it gained new life at Lancelot’s reassurance. “Is that possibly because I’m not a proper lady, so I’m just as content to ride horses or get dirty with you lot?” She asked. “I fear the main role of a queen is to hold her tongue and I am not always successful at doing so. But I appreciate your insight and your favor.” Feeling something as foreign as a smile on her face made her a bit anxious to find distance from the heavier topics and feelings that had been on her mind.

She even gave a small laugh in the effort to shake off her gloom. “No, it does not make them wrong,” she conceded. “I have my own impressions and some of them are still quite fanciful, in spite of the less charming realities.” She swallowed hard. She was slipping back down the slope into the melancholy she’d been carrying on her shoulders for weeks, and his promises weren’t necessarily preventing. They were helping, were soothing, but they weren’t preventing her from doing it. “Sometimes I’m tired of being strong. I don’t know if it is because I’m not as strong as you think, or if I’ve relied on that for too long. Where do you find strength when you need it?”

It was a relief to see a smile on her face, however fleeting. Maybe he wasn't the worst choice for cheering her up, even if he also wasn't the best. "That may play a significant role," he agreed with a small smile. "But is it so terrible to be liked for your truest self?" G was easy to get along with and relate to, and while those qualities weren't the ones expected of a queen, they had a way of endearing her to the knights. They would all lay down their lives for her out of duty, but he suspected many would out of plain devotion.

"Perhaps hope is best held onto." He nodded. He didn't think either of them indulged their fancies so far as to neglect reality, even if it might have been more pleasant. As quickly as her melancholy had lightened, she seemed to slide back into it, but he hadn't hoped to cure her misery in one conversation. The loss of her child was something only time could lessen.

"My strength has not been tried as yours has," he admitted, shaking his head. It was humbling to admit that she was stronger than he was, but it seemed fitting to him. A queen should be strong, and a knight merely a means of support. "When I need strength, I think only of what needs to be done, and not whether I can do it. So far, it has proved effective." There wasn't a lot of room for self-doubt on a battlefield, and he didn't take well to it anyway. It saved time to assume he could handle whatever came at him, and he was usually right.

Reluctantly, but with amusement, Guinevere shook her head. “No, it is not. However, I think it likely only Arthur’s knights know anything of my true self, so that expression is rather limited. That is the problem. Or, rather, that is a significant part of the problem.”

She placed her hands on the wall, leaning on it for support as she listened to his words. She was tired still from all she had been through. Pregnancy and childbirth, however short-lived, had taken a lot of her energy. It was getting better, but she still found herself unable to sit or stand for too long without feeling a bit weakened. “So you’re saying I should believe I can do anything and I will be correct?” She asked, mostly to clarify. “What if I wanted to fling myself over this wall? What would you say then?” It was sarcastic and black in spirit, definitely not in keeping with the hope he had been speaking of and even tended to exude. It wasn’t even necessarily true; death was an end, a stoppage of progress, and she didn’t like that thought. She would much rather remain and try to turn her circumstances into something pleasant. The question, the morbid wondering, still remained.

"There seems to be little room for true selves in the castle," he agreed quietly. He didn't feel that people wouldn't accept him for who he truly was so much that he didn't even know that person. He had no idea who he actually was beneath the many qualities and skills the Lady had given him. Maybe he was just as he seemed, or maybe he was a very convincing actor. Even Lancelot couldn't tell the difference.

His brow creased slightly in concern. She looked exhausted, and he worried he was keeping her from rest. He might have made his excuses and left if not for her next comment. "That's a rather fanciful interpretation. No." He glanced down. Perhaps he'd misspoken. "It's merely a way of focusing on practical matters and not allowing self-doubt to interfere." His eyes flickered back up to her. He didn't know her well enough to tell whether the comment was serious or in jest, but it was far more morbid than anything they'd been discussing so far. "I would never stand by and allow you to come to harm."

Guinevere nodded. He was correct. It also gave her the momentary, pleasant distraction of wondering what she didn’t know about him, about the other knights. But he was the one who had noticed she was leaving, the one who had followed. Perhaps that was why she wondered about him more than the others. “So what’s something I don’t know about you? If we’re standing here, we’re technically not in the castle.”

She’d closed her eyes, but just for a moment. They snapped open and to him with his flat denial. “And how does one tell the difference between doubt and legitimate culpability?” She asked softly. Once their eyes met, she looked out at the sea again, leaning onto her elbows and perching more on the ledge. “What would you do? Jump in after me?”

He considered for a moment and decided on a less serious answer. He knew it wasn't the sort of thing she'd been asking for, but their conversation was heavy enough without him adding nameless insecurities to it. "I make very good flower crowns." He smiled quickly. It was against a knight's code to brag. It felt unfamiliar to him, but it was just a small thing and not a skill he ever had occasion to use anymore.

"There is always time for self-reflection after the fact." He looked down when she looked away, and then his gaze drifted toward the sea as well, gauging the distance from the water and the roughness of the waves. He thought a strong swimmer might survive it. Given the topic of conversation, he didn't like that she'd moved nearer to the edge. "If I could not prevent you from jumping, then yes," he said softly. They weren't empty words. It was his job to lay his life down for his queen, and it was as simple as that.

Guinevere was quiet as the tried to imagine him making flower crowns. Her eyes darted to his hands, but she couldn’t examine their details. He was a large man, overall, and she imagined his hands the same. That they were nimble enough for more delicate work, like flowers, was a bit of a paradox. She wanted to know more, but instead of asking, she smiled softly. “I never would have guessed, Sir Lancelot. I’ve not had the patience for such a task, so perhaps if I ever need one, I will seek you out.”

Her smile faded and she swallowed hard. “At times, I feel invisible here. If I were to do something of that sort, I would not do it while someone was nearby. I would do it while no one was watching.” She glanced over at him again. “Do not risk death for me. If ever it happened, you would be a great loss.”

"Please do. It is always a pleasure to use one's skills," he chuckled. He hadn't made one in years, but he was sure his hands remembered how to do it. It was a silly thing for a knight to be able to do, a reminder that he had not been raised in a castle just as she hadn't.

His smile faded as well under the somber topic of conversation. He wasn't sure why she was telling him such things, if it was purely hypothetical or if she might really be considering death. Certainly, she'd given it enough thought to know how she wouldn't do it. In any case, he would be keeping a closer eye on her while he was in the castle, though he doubted that was often enough to make a difference if she truly wished to harm herself. "And you would not? Death is the least of what I would risk for you, my queen."

Guinevere smiled, however small it still was, at the thought of asking him for one at random and wearing it, claiming she’d made it herself in an effort to keep his talent a secret and to keep herself above derision for accepting a gift from a man who was not her husband. “Perhaps when you’ve not been gone fighting. Surely you have friends, or lovers, to seek out. You could quite likely land in any bed you wished, if you just spoke the desire.”

She shook her head. “I do not think I would be,” she admitted. She had already added enough reprimand, in a general way not specific to him, of the absences of the knights and the king. She did not feel the need to point out that, even if she were to, it would take time for anyone to notice she was gone and still more time for anyone to attempt to do anything about it. “I do not want anyone to die, or worse, for me.”

He would have happily obliged and kept the secret between them. Secrets with his queen wasn't very honorable, but it was a harmless one. "I have not the desire," he said softly. "And my friends were with me." He had lovers occasionally, but he seemed to be growing out of the habit in search of something more lasting. It was likely well past time for him to take a wife, but he wasn’t in any rush. "I think you undervalue your importance." Far be it from him to contradict a monarch, but he didn't like how little regard she seemed to hold for herself. "Let us hope it will not come to that," he offered, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

It wasn’t a great leap, but his simple statements made it clear to her they lived very different lives. They were very different people. It also reminded her that, although the Round Table concept was meant to cast them as equals, Lancelot was Arthur’s friend, one of the closest to him. While it was Arthur’s presence she’d craved, Lancelot and Arthur and the other men had all been together. Once the thought had pressed into her mind, she was sure she’d never felt so alone. There was no envy, no anger, no argument. There was only numb acceptance. She’d made her bed, so to speak.

All she could do was sigh. Her thoughts were trending toward self-pity in a way she didn’t accept from herself, even if it was internal.

“Perhaps,” was all she said to dismiss it. She offered him a small, polite smile. “I think there may be a few steps yet between the current situation and flinging myself from a building. Although if I had to return to that feast….” she tilted her head. “I think you are quite likely to be the only one who notices I’ve gone. Will you promise not to say anything? Go back to your friends, relax and enjoy a celebration with them. You’ve worked hard and you deserve it.”

He didn't know what he'd said to empty the expression, the life for lack of a better word, out of her face, but it was clear that he had. He did his best to hide his own concerned expression. Perhaps he could speak to Arthur about her. It would be out of turn, but if her suffering continued like this, it was worth the risk of his displeasure.

"I'm pleased to hear it." He nodded. Given her previous statements, he wasn't sure he believed her, but all he could do was accept it. It was as she'd said. If she wished for death, she wouldn't tell him first. "Of course, my queen." He bowed his head. He recognized a dismissal when he heard it. He probably would return to the feast, if only because his absence was likely to be noticed at some point. Despite their success, he was no longer feeling much in the mood for a party. "Should you need anything, I hope you won't hesitate to call on me."

He was gentle and gallant, polite moreso than many others in the castle. She wanted to tell him there was no way she would call on him if she needed something. It wasn’t that he didn’t seem reliable, but he was in her husband’s echelon, available to Arthur. In the hierarchy of things, she fell somewhere below there as a priority and she knew it.

Instead, she gave him a soft, genuine smile. “Thank you, Lancelot. You’ve been most patient. I bid you good night.” With that, she turned to find her chambers and, maybe, some rest.

#chat: guinevere #gxpendragon #ladyxguinevere #homecoming #verse: original backstory

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shireness-says · 6 years ago

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If I Could See Your Face Once More (5/6)

Summary: This time, there’s no celebration at Granny’s when the latest crisis has been resolved. Instead, they’re left to deal with the body of Killian Jones. A 5B canon divergence where Killian dies in Camelot, never becoming a Dark One. Rated T for language. Also on AO3. ~9K. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

A/N: Remember how I said I’d fix the angst? This is me fixing it. I hope you enjoy how it pays off. We’ve just got the epilogue left, which I’ve already got written and just need to tweak, so that will be posting in the next couple of days.

Thanks to @snidgetsafan for betaing despite any residual anger from the last chapter. I love you, babe.

Tagging: @thejollyroger-writer, @profdanglaisstuff, @captainsjedi, @ultraluckycatnd, @superchocovian, @snowbellewells, @killianjones4ever82, @wellhellotragic, @ohmakemeahercules, @let-it-raines, @lifeinahole27, @kmomof4. Shoot me a message if you want to be added to the list!

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Killian moves about the Underworld in a daze after Emma and her family leave. What’s the point of anything without her?

He’d promised he wouldn’t let Emma and their what-might-have-beens be his unfinished business, but he doesn’t feel ready to move on yet either. Call it madness, or hopelessly waiting for a sign, but he still feels that buzz of anticipation running through his empty veins, like there’s still something’s coming - even if he can’t put his finger on exactly what that is. From what he understands of this light to the other side business, it won’t work until he’s ready anyways. There’s no point in forcing it.

(Now, stuck alone in the Underworld for the foreseeable future, it seems unbearably optimistic to have promised he would move on when he has to spend the rest of his eternity knowing that he has a child he’ll never meet. That’s the very definition of unfinished business. And yet, he’ll still do his very best to find a better place, if only because Emma asked it of him.)

When he’s not consumed by self pity, Killian tries to throw himself back into a routine. He bites the emotional bullet and dedicates his days to closing up both the Charmings’ loft and Regina’s mansion, making sure that everything is cleaned and the drop cloths are replaced on all the furniture to protect it - from what, he’s not sure, considering they don’t particularly have to worry about sunlight fading the fabrics, but it seems important regardless. That’s how they’d found things, after all. Eventually, he’ll focus on repairs to his own home as well, but first things first. He’s back to working evenings at Liam’s bar as well - just as much a distraction for himself as to reassure Liam that he’s as well as can be managed. It’s not pleasant, and there are still moments where it feels like a wave of pain for all he’s lost is trying to drag him under, but he’s muddling through. He has to.

Even in his haze of pain and loneliness and apathy, it’s impossible to miss the changes that suddenly hit the Underworld, only days after the departure of his friends and family. Despite the red tint to everything and the overwhelming state of disrepair, there’d been something of an order to the underworld, even if just in the way it mirrors Storybrooke above. Now, however, it’s chaos, elements from different realms springing up willy-nilly - vines he recognizes from Neverland and streets turned to the distinctive golden paving of King Midas’ kingdom and Camelot’s stonework, all constantly shifting and changing from day to day and hour to hour. There’s no order anymore, no constancy - like whatever, or whoever, was controlling the Underworld has abruptly stopped doing so.

He goes to Liam’s out of habit, sidestepping yellow bricks as Wonderland mushrooms sprout from the curbs. Even after the disillusionment he’s suffered in the past several weeks where his brother is concerned, Liam is still older and possibly wiser, and it’s hard to shake centuries of instinct after all. He’s been down here longer, anyways, and information tends to trickle into the bar one way or another. It doesn’t hurt either that Liam has a clearer head to process things than Killian does at the moment.

Unfortunately, Liam doesn’t have any more clue than he does, and is far too concerned trying to cut down the Dreamshade bush that’s ironically decided to sprout just outside the bar to spend his own time digging further. He’s not without ideas of how to find out, though, and that’s almost as good.

“Your lad left his storybook behind, didn’t he?” Liam asks. Killian’s a bit too emotionally weary to bother with the correction - and it’s not strictly wrong, anyways. “I know it was writing itself before. Maybe it can tell you what’s going on now, too.”

It’s a brilliant idea - one Killian is shocked that he himself didn’t think of sooner. He’s choosing to blame the worry and distraction and melancholy for that. It’s easy enough to run back to the Victorian house and up the stairs to the room that should have been Henry’s, where the leather-bound volume waits patiently on the desk where the lad had left it before his departure. Part of Killian wants to look right away, but whatever is happening to Underbrooke effects Liam just as much as him. Best they both find out together.

Liam has just finished with the damned bush when Killian gets back, not that he’s confident it will last. The place that the Dreamshade chose to sprout in this new, chaotic state of the realm is a little too ironic for Killian to believe it’s a true coincidence. At least it can’t poison anyone down here, not when all the inhabitants are already dead. He’s more than happy to set aside the gloves and pruning shears, though, to follow Killian back into the bar and take a look at the book.

“What have we got here,” Liam mutters as he flips to the last pages. Blurs of words and glimpses of colorful illustrations flash by before he lands on the desired pages. Both Killian and his brother fall silent in concentration as they read the words. Killian can only truly speak for himself, but he thinks they’re both anxious to find out what’s going on.

What they discover, however, is so much worse than Killian ever expected.

He’d expected to find out that the portal had somehow skewed the environment of the realm of the dead, or that his and Emma’s true love test had set off some kind of delayed reaction. Hell, maybe even that they’d somehow managed to link all the different realms up above for some inexplicable reason, causing that to be suddenly mirrored down below. Somehow, the truth is simultaneously more ridiculous - and infinitely more terrifying.

As it turns out, Hades was able to turn his and Emma’s failure in their quest for the ambrosia to his favor. As it turns out, true love can do some pretty powerful things. And as it turns out, Hades has managed to untether himself from the Underworld, escaping to wreck his havok instead on Storybrooke and the world beyond with the Olympian Crystal at his disposal.

Killian can’t help the sense of growing horror as he reads about how Hades had collected one of Emma’s hairs from the loft and combined it with Killian’s blood from his stay in Hades’ torture chamber to create a vial of pure true love. Now, after the fact, Killian faintly remembers reading about the Crocodile doing the same thing with Snow and David, but had never stopped to think about all the things that pure essence could do. In that moment, though, both of them were so happy just to know that their love was true; would anyone truly think about the dangerous potential this love held?

They couldn’t have known, anyways. It’s a surprise to both Killian and Liam that Hades wasn’t ruling over the departed souls by choice, but by curse, tied to the in-between world against his will and longing to return to his home on Olympus. Perhaps with a stop to take over the Land Without Magic first. And with the combination of the Crystal and bottled true love, he’d done just that. Now, with its ruler having severed his ties to the realm, the Underworld was effectively left unchecked, the landscape trying to adapt to all the different souls within its bounds all at once and dissolving into chaos instead.

“Oh, this is bad,” Liam mutters as Killian frantically flips to the next page of the book. He’s desperate to see what’s happening, to see if everyone he loves is alright, but he’s met only with blank white paper and a rising sense of panic. If Hades is planning something, Emma, her family, and all their allies will undoubtedly try to stop him, putting themselves in grave danger in the process. God, he only hopes they haven’t already. The book is his only window into their world up above, and with the page stubbornly blank after detailing Hades’ appearance in Storybrooke, he’s in the dark.

“Aye, this this bad, Brother,” Killian agrees. They’re talking in circles just repeating each other, but what else is there to say?

“Maybe it will all be fine,” Liam suggests unconvincingly. “He doesn’t need to necessarily be... plotting anything more than getting out of here. That’s possible, right?”

Killian doubts it - it seems out of character for the god who beat him into a pulp for daring to bring some semblance of hope here in the Underworld just to be in the Land Without Magic for a little sightseeing tour.

Before he can say any of that, however, King Arthur bursts into the bar, disrupting whatever semblance of peace they were pretending to possess and likely proving Killian’s point.

Instead, Killian groans, dreading the inevitable confrontation. “I need a drink,” he mutters, stalking around the bar. Unfortunately, he doesn’t move quick enough for Arthur to miss seeing his face.

“You’re dead,” he says, somehow managing to make the words sound like an accusation. “You’re supposed to be dead, I’ve seen the stone myself.”

“Aye, well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Killian fires back. “Seeing as you’re the one who killed me.” He quickly throws back the drink he’s poured , not at all sure what he’s actually swallowing. It hadn’t mattered at the moment - dark and alcoholic being more important in the moment than the specifics, and damn the fact that it’s not even two in the afternoon. 5 o’clock somewhere, or whatever absurd saying David and Leroy were so fond of.

“That’s right, I did,” Arthur replies, sounding disgustingly almost proud of that fact. What an arse. “But if I killed you… how am I still seeing you?” he ponders. Almost immediately, though, his expression turns from confounded to dangerous, and he harshly grabs Liam by the front of his crisp shirt. “What kind of trick is this?” he demands, shaking Liam (much to the other man’s consternation, if his brother’s expression is anything to go off of). “Tell me, demon!”

“If there’s any demon here, it’s you,” Killian bites back, moving back around the counter to try and separate the two men.

“It has to be a trick,” Arthur continues to insist. “You’re dead!”

“Yes, well, if you’re here, so are you,” Killian finally snaps, finally reaching his brother and the disgraced King. Arthur’s grip loosens in his shock, making it quite easy to pull them apart. There were probably - okay, definitely - more delicate or considerate ways he could have gone about breaking the news, but it’s hard to care too much when faced with such an absolute arse as Arthur.

Quickly, though, he pulls himself together and becomes confrontational again. Damnit. “You’re lying,” he hisses.

That’s somehow the words that mark the end of Killian’s patience. “Fine. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to, but it doesn’t change the fact: you are dead. As a doornail.” And with that, he turns back to the book, ready to sweep it back up and get as far away from Arthur as possible.

Liam, for better or worse, is more understanding. “Look, what’s the last thing you remember?” he asks, managing to put on a patient facade. Killian will give him points for that, at least, even if he’s faking it - it’s more than Killian has managed.

“I was on the Troll Bridge in your charming little town,” he snaps, “and then I was here.”

“Obviously, you’ve missed something in between,” Killian mutters under his breath, stretching over the counter to snag the bottle of whatever again. Liam flashes him an unamused look at that. Only when he raises his eyebrows, a move Killian first picked up centuries ago, does Killian understand; maybe he knows something.

He tries a little harder to suppress his knee-jerk sarcastic reactions after that, even if Arthur does deserve them.

“Think harder,” Liam coaxes. “Did you see anything else in between?”

Maybe Arthur is even more childish than Killian thought, as Liam’s encouraging yet authoritative voice actually makes him settle into thought like a scolded boy, a frown marring his face with the effort. “There was a man,” he finally says, “a tall, thin man in a striped suit.”

“Hades,” Killian supplies impatiently, only to earn another dirty look from Liam for his efforts. Git.

“Yes, that’s what he called himself,” Arthur agrees, less confrontational now that he’s concentrating. Thank the gods. “He was carrying on about having a realm to conquer, which of course I had to correct, since Storybrooke is mine —” (Killian can’t help but snort at that, Liam’s disapproval be damned - it’s just too ridiculous) — “and then he…” Arthur cuts off abruptly, sinking into the nearest chair. It’s hard not to realize what the mad king remembered.

“And then he killed you,” Killian finishes. “Snapped your neck? Crushed your heart? Smote you with the Crystal? Regardless, welcome to Underbrooke.”

Liam huffs a bit at Killian’s indelicacy, but there’s a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as well. “Regardless,” he says pointedly, “what are we going to do about the Hades situation?”

“We?” Arthur scoffs. “I don’t remember agreeing to help you… gentlemen with anything. We’re here, Hades is there; I don’t see any problem.”

Killian grits his teeth to suppress the urge to snap at Arthur. “The problem,” he grinds out, “is precisely that Hades is up in the living world. Where he has already killed you, and gods only know what other plans he has for the world at large. Tell me, don’t you have a pretty little wife in Storybrooke? How do you know something won’t happen to her if Hades is left to his own devices?” As Killian talks, he allows some of the old pirate drawl to creep back into his voice, a casual sense of danger he hasn’t had to call upon for a while. Frankly, he’s rather out of practice.

Thankfully, it still seems to work well enough on Arthur, who blanches at the words. “Fine,” he hisses. “What do you suggest we do, then?”

That stumps Killian, leaving the three men in an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Liam cuts back in again.

“What about the pages?” he suggests. “Hades obviously didn’t want anyone looking at them for a reason. Maybe it wasn’t just about the Crystal - maybe the key to defeating him is in there too.”

“Yeah, but Liam… we don’t have those pages. You threw them down the well at the Apprentice’s house, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re gone,” Liam points out. “Hades was very specific that they were put in the well - not destroyed in any old fashion, specifically put in the well. I’d bet you anything he got a hold of them fully intact, it’ll just be a matter of finding them. And that’s where you come in,” he shifts to address Arthur. “You’re some sort of monarch Killian’s said, or at least you were. Where would you keep the one thing that revealed your weak spot?”

“Right where I could see it,” Arthur replies immediately, like it’s obvious. And maybe it is - Killian can’t say he wouldn’t do the same thing.

“His throne room,” Killian says immediately. “It’s the only place that makes sense.”

“I agree,” Liam replies. “I say we get down to the library as soon as possible.” When Arthur makes no move to leave, both Jones brothers waiting to make sure that the disgraced king doesn’t try to run off or double cross them again - though Killian doesn’t know who exactly Arthur would betray them to in Hades’ absence - Liam gestures sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “After you, Your Majesty.”

With the two of them glaring at him, Arthur doesn’t have much of a choice, it turns out, and reluctantly sulks to the door. Killian chooses to believe that the end justifies the means.

It’s not exactly smooth sailing getting to the library and its elevator to Hades’ cavernous lair, as they’re accosted by an unexpected and unwelcome face.

“Where are you boys off to?” Cruella simpers, striking what she must think is a seductive pose. It’s not even remotely close to that; between the bizarre dye job and the disturbingly tight pants on her chicken-like legs, not to mention the enormous fur coat of unknown origins, that was never an achievable goal.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, madam,” Liam says in that one tone of voice Killian has long since learned is just a cover for his deep-seated irritation. It makes Killian wonder what kind of interactions his brother has had with the odious Ms. DeVil in his absence to earn such an immediate response.

“Well, as the new ruler of this realm, I’d have to disagree with that,” she says, poking a flirtatious finger into Liam’s chest. Liam looks like he’d rather break the damn thing off, if his stone face and flashing eyes are anything to go by. Killian might share that sentiment, or at least feel more confident in expressing disgust, if he wasn’t so shocked by her words.

“You are not,” he scoffs. “I’m fairly certain Hades is still the ruler.”

“Ah, but he’s not here, is he? He’s off gallivanting in the living world, the lucky bastard. What I wouldn’t give for a proper new coat, not that you can get one down here.” She’s got a point - about Hades’ absence, not whatever this nonsense is about outerwear. “I saw a power vacuum, and I’ve never been against a little sucking to get to the top,” she winks. As if this whole interaction needed another level of disgusting. That’s a mental picture Killian never needed.

“Not much of a kingdom,” Arthur mutters under his breath as he looks around at the disintegrating realm around them. This never was paradise, but something about the way beanstalk vines ramble down the street, uprooting paving stones and creating tripping hazards really drives that home.

“It’s Hell, what did you expect?” Cruella tosses back flippantly. “Not my problem.”

Killian and Liam share a look at that. There’s bigger fish to fry first, but they’ll need to do something about Cruella - and especially about the chaos now running rampant in their environment - eventually. Even Arthur looks disgusted by her carelessness, and that’s really saying something.

“Anyways, I just wanted to warn you two to stay out of my way,” she continues blithely. “I remember hearing about the trouble you two gave Hades, and I won’t tolerate any of it. Unless, of course, you want to form some kind of stubble sandwich. Your new friend can join in too,” she nods to Arthur, “make it a double decker. There’s more than enough Cruella to go around, darlings.”

Killian has never considered himself to have a weak stomach, especially after a lifetime spent on the ocean waves, but those words have the impressive ability to immediately make bile rise up in his throat. Gods, he’s not sure anything has ever sounded more unpleasant.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Liam manages to somehow spit out past the disgust twisting his entire face. “Have a good day, Cruella.”

“Is she really the ruler of this place?” Arthur hisses as they walk away. He hadn’t been safe from Cruella’s wandering eyes and hands either, collecting an unfortunate slap to the arse as they’d walked past.

“Gods, I don’t even know,” Killian huffs wearily. “Makes as much sense as anything else down here, I suppose. Come on, the library’s this way.”

Maybe Killian should feel more hesitance stepping off the elevator into Hades’ lair - after all, he’s about to reenter a place he’d rather never see again, a place where he’d been subjected to unbearable tortures - but he only feels relief. This conveyance is far too similar to the one that took Emma away from him forever, and with that event still far too fresh in his mind, he’d rather face any other memory, even if it’s a bad one.

“Keep an eye out for traps,” Liam warns before they properly venture into the throne room. “I don’t trust Hades to have left this place unprotected, especially if the pages are really here.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Killian mutters sarcastically as he wanders over to investigate a collection of shelves bolted into the rock walls. It’s not like Hades’ traps can do much - they’re already dead, after all. At this point, Killian can’t even bring himself to care too much about the potential for pain, as long as one of them succeeds in finding a way to stop the crazed god.

Liam must have a sixth sense, however, because not even two minutes later, a deep growling echoes through the chamber, instantly setting them all on high alert.

“You didn’t mention anything about a hellbeast!” Arthur hisses angrily, the pompous prat. What a coward.

“Aye, well, I didn’t know there was going to be one,” Killian fires back. “I’m flattered that you think I know everything, but I assure you, that’s not the case.”

“Would you two shut up?” Liam whisper-shouts. Somewhere in the last few moments, he’s grabbed a fire poker as a makeshift weapon, though doubtless he’d rather have a sword in his hand. “Just find the damn pages, I’ll try and drive this thing off.” With those words, he darts into the tunnels stemming from the throne room to face whatever creature is supposed to be guarding this place. Personally, Killian thinks they should have offered Arthur up as bait, but then again, maybe Liam has the better idea. After all, at least Killian can be certain Liam won’t betray them or run off and leave them to their fate.

The search turns frantic with the sound of barking and growling echoing in the background. Killian abandons all pretense of careful searching, tossing things every which way and tearing the place apart in his effort to find the damn pages. You’d think there would only be so many places they could be hidden, but the possibilities prove to be endless when he’s standing in the middle of the room, looking around at all the little nooks and crannies. It doesn’t help to hear Liam swearing profusely at the far reaches of Killian’s hearing.

“Search faster!” he all but roars, darting back in to fetch a long log from where Hades keeps a woodpile by the enormous hearth.

In desperation, Killian turns to Arthur. It just doesn’t sound like Liam can hold out much longer. “Look, you may have been a shitty king, for lack of a better phrase, but you were a king,” Killian concedes. “If this was your throne room, where would you keep the book pages?”

“As close to me as possible,” Arthur replies without hesitation. “I’d want them within immediate reach in case something happened.”

“And what does that mean?”

Killian can practically see Arthur calculating as he looks around the now torn-apart room, analyzing each spot before finally settling. “The throne,” he decides, nodding towards the almost medical-looking chair Hades used for that purpose.

It takes a little tearing - alright, a lot of tearing, Killian rather taking out his aggression on the leather upholstery - but sure enough, sewn into the side are the two pages they’ve been looking for. He almost can’t believe it, but right now isn’t the time to overthink things or even read through their find, not when he can still hear the hellbeast chasing Liam around the tunnels.

“We’ve got it!” he calls, ready to get the hell out of the cavern. Even if the ceilings lift to a tall vault, being this far underground still makes him feel claustrophobic, with or without demonic animals hounding them.

“It’s about goddamn time!” Liam shouts back, sounding audibly winded. “Get out of there, I’m going to try and trap this bloody dog in the throne room.”

It sounds a little bizarre for a dog to be chasing Liam, and a bit too on-the-nose at that, but there’s no time to think about that when he and Arthur book it back through the archway and down the tunnel towards the elevator, just before Liam rounds the corner with the beast hot on his heels. Somehow, his brother manages to lead the creature in and make a tight loop before sprinting back out again, Killian barely managing to slam and bolt the metal gate behind him. As it turns out, Liam somewhat understated the matter by saying a dog was chasing him, as three snarling heads snap at the bars. Technically, a Cerberus is a dog, he supposes.

Arthur is less quick on the uptake though, peering with confusion and squinted eyes back towards the beast. “Is that…”

“Yes,” Liam says shortly, clearly in no mood to talk about the matter any further. “Let’s get out of here.”

Somehow, Killian manages to keep the missing pages in his pocket until the trio makes their way back to Liam’s bar, though he’s not sure how. He understands why - they can guarantee privacy if Liam closes the bar, unlike in the library, but that doesn’t make it any easier. At least the dimness of the elevator had made it easy to keep from caving; in the comparatively bright light outside, it’s much harder to hold out. Finally, though, they’re in the deserted bar with the doors locked and the book right next to its missing pieces.

“Alright, let’s take a look,” Liam prompts.

Seeing the words on the page is a shock though, sending Killian crashing onto a bar stool and leaving Liam rubbing a hand over his face.

“For the Olympian Crystal holds the power of life and death, mighty enough to destroy the very soul and obliterate a being into nothingness, mortals and gods alike,” Arthur reads, blissfully oblivious to how badly they’re all screwed. “Does that mean something to you?”

“It means that we delivered our only weapon right into his hands,” Killian says softly, trying not to sound quite as defeated as he feels.

“Even if things aren’t looking good, Emma and her family still deserve to know their best chance of victory,” Liam reminds him. Killian kind of appreciates the attempt to stay positive and pragmatic despite it all, even if it’s a weak attempt. “Do you know how to get this to them?”

“Henry has his own version of the storybook back up above,” Killian relates, reaching for the object in question. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but I thought if I could somehow reattach the pages…”

“I’ll grab thread and glue,” Liam immediately offers, catching on quickly. It’s unnecessary, though; as soon as Killian places the pages back where they’d been removed, he can see the paper fibers somehow knit themselves back together like they’d never been torn out.

“What now?” Arthur asks as the book’s magic recedes.

This is the hard part - admitting that there’s nothing more any of them can do. “Now, it’s up to Emma and her family.”

Killian has the highest faith in all of them, and Emma especially, but he’s not afraid to say that this may prove the greatest trial of his long existence.

———

It’s a waiting game, after that. The ever shifting environment keeps him plenty busy, trying to reassure all the souls of Underbrooke and work towards helping them move on. Arthur is a surprising help, on both fronts; though Cruella is still technically the self-proclaimed ruler of this place, Arthur seems to be attempting to fill that role more responsibly. He’s already set up a committee at the library to help people find out their unfinished business, as well as establishing a volunteer force to report daily on topography and landmark changes, where portions of the Underworld may have suddenly acquired characteristics of the Enchanted Forest or Neverland or anywhere else. Stability is much needed at the moment, and the former king’s efforts prove to be a much needed beacon of order, no matter how personally surprised Killian is to see Arthur filling that role.

“It was foretold that I would unite a broken kingdom,” he tells the Jones Brothers one night at Liam’s bar. “It just now strikes me that maybe that wasn’t Camelot after all.”

Killian’s just settling in for the evening in the rickety old house after a long day helping souls uncover their unfinished business when it happens - a wave of energy and light sweeping through the town. He’s been around Emma and her family long enough to recognize a breaking curse when he sees one. Peering outside through the front windows, the red tint has disappeared from the sky and the Neverland vines retreated from the streets again, making the place look like a peaceful replica of Storybrooke.

It’s over.

The storybook lays quietly, conveniently on the coffee table, and Killian doesn’t waste any time reaching for the tome for confirmation. Quickly flipping through to the end, the proof is there on the page - the tale of how Regina, of all people, defeated the god Hades in retaliation for the death of her sister. Killian should probably feel worse about Zelena’s demise, her soul obliterated by the power of the Crystal, but he just can’t muster it; after everything she’s done and everything she’s put them through, especially Regina and Robin, dying to save her infant daughter is probably the best redemption she could have reasonably hoped for.

Turning back a few pages, he’s relieved to see that Arthur and Zelena are the only casualties at Hades’ hands. Killian takes a moment to pause on the illustration of Emma discovering the pages he sent, stroking the page tenderly with his fingertips. His poor Swan; even in the drawing he can see her red eyes. It breaks his heart, knowing they had true love in their grasp and didn’t know it until it was too late. He’d give anything to be with her, to hold her in his arms once more, to meet their little one when he or she takes their first breath.

Still, he promised Emma he’d move on, and he intends to keep that promise for her. It’s the last thing he can give her, really.

Though it’s late, he takes a final tour through town. It’s not the same as his adopted home in the upper world, but there are recognizable features - the corner where he’d meet Emma with coffee in the mornings, the cafe so like Granny’s Diner where he was welcomed to so many family dinners, the docks where he was teaching Henry to sail. Each landmark is imbued with not-quite memories.

His final, most private goodbyes however are confined within the walls of the house that will never be a home without Emma by his side.

Will he remember all this, Killian wonders, when he’s moved on? He hopes so, never wants to forget a single second of the the far-too-short time they spent together, but who knows what paradise - or damnation - might grant him. Killian tries to imprint ever memory contained in the house into his very soul, both old and new. He relives their first real kiss one last time as he trails his hand along the patio furniture. The kitchen now holds the precious memory of learning of their child for the first time, the living room evoking visions of Henry scribbling frantically with his newfound author’s powers. Despite the memories of her time as the Dark One, Killian makes a special stop at the photo in the front hall of him and Emma dancing at the ball in Camelot, attempting to catalog every detail. She’d been so out of her element, but so beautiful with her long trailing sleeves and flowers in her hair. She’d looked every inch the angel, his angel, and Killian hadn’t been able to help but imagine another white dress and another event sometime in their future.

The upstairs bedrooms hurt the most, each full of unrealized potential and obliterated futures. The nursery with its pale yellows and greens looks ready for its tiny inhabitant, but he won’t be there to bring their little Bean home, will never rock his babe to sleep in the cushioned rocking chair. The only nights he’ll ever fall asleep with Emma in his arms in the big comfy bed in the airy master bedroom have already passed; neither of them will ever know that comfort again. He’ll never get to see the way she looks when real sunlight falls upon her face in that bed, blonde hair scattered across the crisp white sheets. Henry’s room looks ready for the lad to move in, but he’ll never get to see posters on the walls and comic books scattered on every flat surface. It’d drive Killian crazy, but he’d welcome even that if it meant more time with the ones he loves. The possibilities of what might have been seem infinite in these rooms, even more than in the rest of the house, and Killian’s sorrow at not realizing any of those daydreams is just as endless.

All too soon, Liam is at his side when Killian is fingering the intricate carvings of the crib. He hadn’t even noticed his brother come in; Liam has had a key from almost the first day, and Killian was too lost in his thoughts anyways.

“It’s time, Killian,” he says, more gently than Killian remembers hearing since they were both children. He knows his brother is right; with Hades defeated and all his loved ones safe, there’s nothing keeping him here any longer. Tonight’s goodbyes have all been leading to this moment. “Are you ready?”

“No,” Killian replies honestly, “but it’s time all the same.” It’s never going to be easier, he knows, but he’s taken the time he needs to say goodbye. There’s no sense in delaying the inevitable.

Killian had expected that they’d make their way back down to the cave Liam had brought him to before, but instead his brother leads him to the beach. When Killian asks why, Liam just shrugs.

“Something just feels right, I suppose,” he replies. “I can’t really explain it.”

Considering they’re looking to move on from their unfinished business to something better, Killian supposes that’s fitting - just following right feeling wherever it leads. He’s curious to note, too, that this stretch of beach appears so similar to the shore he and Liam washed up on after the sinking of Captain Silver’s ship, where Navy sailors discovered them straight out of indentured servitude and their lives were changed forever. This is another turning point in their lives - or afterlives, more like; it only seems appropriate to come back to this same place.

The stretch of sand seems never ending, but somehow, the monotony brings Killian a sense of peace. It breaks his heart to know that his family, his love, his children are so permanently out of his reach, but Emma’s last request had been for him to move on and find peace. He finds a semblance of comfort instead in knowing that he’s following her wishes.

As that settles into his soul, a warm glow of light engulfs their stretch of shoreline.

It’s well and truly time to move on, and Killian has finally accepted that.

———

As the blinding light recedes, Killian’s eyes can discern through the haze what appears to be a classical temple, complete with marble columns and open walls. It’s a small comfort to see Liam still standing beside him. In a realm of unknowns, his brother’s constant presence has a calming effect, Killian only barely resisting the urge to grab at his hand like they’re children again. There’s only a cloudscape beyond the columns, oddly enough, but that’s a question for another time. For the moment, Killian is more distracted by the young man in draped linens standing up to greet them.

“Liam and Killian Jones,” he declares, “We’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t aware I had an appointment, Mister…?” Killian trails off. Liam elbows him in the side for that; the words were most likely saucier than strictly polite, but sarcasm and wit have always been Killian’s defense, and he’s far too old to abandon it now.

The young man smiles in amusement, though, making Liam’s fretting for nothing. Until, of course, he opens his mouth. “I am Zeus, King of the Gods,” he tells them.

Oh.

“Pardon my brother, sir,” Liam cuts in with a pointed look at Killian. “He often speaks before thinking.”

“Worry not - I already know, and did not take any offense,” the god assures. He’s so much younger than Killian expected, practically still baby-faced, but he supposes that makes sense. Zeus was always fabled to be the youngest of his divine siblings after all. “We’ve seen what you two have accomplished from here on Mount Olympus. You’ve done us a great service, ensuring the downfall of a tyrant. You have my thanks for that.”

(Personally, Killian thinks that if the Gods found Hades to be such a tyrant, they should have done something about the matter themselves, but it’s no his place to say. There’s no sense arguing with the god who’s thanking you, anyways.)

“It was our honor, sir,” Liam replies, bowing his head respectfully. Killian follows suit a second later; his older brother always was the more proper one.

“As a token of our gratitude,” the god continues, “I’d like to offer you both a choice. If you’re ready to move on, I’d be happy to personally guarantee you both a spot in Paradise. It’s the very least we can do, after the great service you’ve done us all.”

It’s been years since Killian thought himself worthy of eternal reward, and he must admit, he’s sorely tempted to accept the offer. He’s still a pirate, though, and the pirate within him wants the best offer he can get - if not everything offered. “A choice, you say? And what’s the other option?” Sod Liam if he thinks he’s being rude, Killian wants to know.

“The other option is a second chance. We’ve seen how hard you and your family have fought to bring you back to land of the living, and I’d like to offer you the chance to do just that, Killian. And you as well, Liam,” he adds, nodding in the elder Jones’ direction. “That would reset the slate,” he warns. “Guaranteed paradise is a one time offer. Who knows what you both might get up to in the next fifty, sixty years.”

(Killian thinks he sees the god wink in his direction on that statement, which is very… disconcerting. If valid. Still; the gods aren’t supposed to be nearly this… teasing, and Killian isn’t sure he likes it.)

All the same, his heart leaps with hope at Zeus’ offer. “You can do that?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager, trying not to let his hopes soar too high if there’s going to be untenable strings attached.

“Of course I can do it,” Zeus replies - scoffs, if you can imagine a deity doing such a thing. “I’m all-powerful. This may not be something we offer routinely, but it’s certainly within my powers. That is, if you want it.”

“Yes,” Killian rushes to reply, the time for hesitation long past. “Yes, that’s all I… yes. Yes.” In a rush, all the dreams he bid farewell to come flooding back. He’ll get to properly move into the Victorian home with the picket fence with Emma, get to see Henry become the talented writer Killian can already see budding… Gods, he’ll get to meet his child: hear their first cries and see their steps and find out whether they take after Emma or himself. He’ll get to buy Emma a proper ring and grow old together… He’ll get a lifetime. That’s all he’s ever wanted from the first time Emma kissed him and changed his world.

It suddenly sinks in, what Zeus is offering, that Liam could be granted a second chance as well, and that… well, that’s more than Killian ever even thought to dream. When he whips his head around to face his brother, though, Liam wears a gentle and apologetic smile.

“I think I’ll take your offer of Paradise, sir,” he tells Zeus, still looking at Killian. “After 300 years, I’m ready for a rest.”

“Liam…” Killian tries to start, but his brother just clasps him by his shoulders.

“I know what you’re going to say, Little Brother, what you’ll try to convince me of. But I’m tired, Killian. Maybe I could take the offer, try again, but I’m tired. It’s been so long, and I’m ready to move on. I never was particularly good with change anyways,” he jokes. It falls flat though, considering that Killian can see traces of tears at the edges of Liam’s eyes.

“You could try, though,” Killian replies, almost pleads. He’s just been reunited with his brother again after all this time; it seems impossible to say goodbye again so soon.

“Maybe, or maybe not, but it’s time, Killian. It’s time.” Stepping forward, Liam draws him into a tight hug. Killian tries his best to catalog and remember every moment, knowing this is their last hug for… Gods only know how long. Likely a very long time. This will have to tide him over for all the years to come, so he imprints ever sensation of the embrace - the exact way Liam smells (clean soap and salt air, like always, but now with a trace of the spicy rum scent he must have picked up at the bar, all meshed together in a scent that feels like childhood and comfort and home) and the exact pressure of his arms and that little divot between his shoulder blades and spine that Killian has always slotted his own arms into when hugging his brother, taking comfort in just that little height difference that lets Liam lean his head on top of Killian’s and makes him feel protected. It’s not enough time, never enough time, but it will have to be enough.

When Liam draws back again, he clasps Killian by the shoulders again, smiling and making sure to meet Killian’s eyes. “I am so proud of you, Little Brother. You hear that? So proud.” Killian smiles weakly in return, nodding as best he can until Liam seems satisfied. “You’ve got a beautiful family to get back to, with a loving lass and a son and new baby. Don’t you dare waste a single minute fretting about me.”

“But we won’t be together,” Killian reminds him. “That’s all I wanted, for so long. I still want that. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me, try a life back in Storybrooke? Otherwise, I suppose I could —”

“Absolutely not,” Liam interrupts, not even letting Killian finish his thought. “Don’t be daft.” His smile softens the words. “I’ve lived all the life I was meant to live and then some. You, on the other hand? You still have a lot to live out. We’ll meet again, hopefully many many years in the future,” he laughs, “and you can tell me all about my niece or nephew. Remember, Liam is a fantastic name for either sex.”

Killian laughs a watery chuckle at that, but nods all the same. “I’ll miss you, brother.”

Liam draws his head down for an affectionate kiss to the crown of his head. “And I you. But I promise you won’t regret it.”

Zeus must sense a shift in the conversation, as he steps back into the conversation again at that moment. “Are you ready for your reward, Killian Jones?” He asks.

Liam’s the one who answers, though, his own voice firmer as Killian still tries to put on a brave smile. “Aye. He’s ready.”

With a wave of his hand, Zeus conjures a warm circle of light to appear behind Killian. Liam squeezes his shoulder one last time as Killian turns to face the portal to his future. All he has to do is walk forward into the light and he’s got a whole life ahead of himself. Before he does, though, he twists around one last time to face his brother. “I love you, Liam.”

“I love you too, Little Brother,” Liam responds.

And with that, Killian walks forward into the blinding light.

———

It might be hours, or days, or years, but when the warm glow of Zeus’ gift recedes, Killian is standing in the cemetery.

The first thing he notices is the unmistakable beating of his own heart. After so long with nothing but a hollow emptiness sitting in his chest, a physical representation of so many lost hopes, it’s jarring to feel it thudding away again, the rhythm almost painful in its sudden return. There’s no mistaking what that pumping muscle means - that this is real, this is a second chance. He’s alive.

At a small distance, he spots a small figure sitting in front of one of the gravestones, the stripped scarf and tousled hair easily identifying them as Henry. As Killian moves closer, he spots his own name on the stone. Before he can speak, however, he hears Henry talking, apparently to the marker.

“I wrote your story last night,” he tells the stone monument, “about everything you’ve done since you got to Storybrooke.” Looking closer, Killian can see that the lad holds his beloved storybook cradled in his lap. “You saved me, you know, when you came to Neverland. I know you’d probably try to deny it if you were here, but that’s the way I see it. I think you saved Mom too, just by making her so happy.” Henry pauses for a moment, and Killian almost jumps in, but the boy continues before he gets the chance. “I just wanted to let you know that it’s over. Hades is dead, or banished, or something. We’re all safe. I know you promised Mom that you’d move on, but I bet you wouldn’t without knowing we were safe, and we are now. It’s okay, if you’re ready to move on.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, lad,” Killian finally cuts in, unable to hold back any longer. Henry twists his body around, eyes wide with shock at hearing his voice again, before scrambling to his feet in a mess of gangly, growing limbs, sending the book flying in the process. Still, Henry waits, not rushing over to him as he might have under other circumstances. Killian understands; it’s hard for him to believe this is possible either.

“Killian? Is it really you?” he asks, the eagerness in his voice tempered by hesitation - hesitation Killian is more than happy to dispel.

“Aye, lad, it’s me,” he smiles, blinking back the wetness starting to gather in his eyelashes.

That’s all the validation Henry needs as he rushes to wrap Killian in a tight embrace. He’s gotten so tall, his boy, Killian thinks as he clutches Henry tighter, now able to comfortably rest his head atop Henry’s without crouching nearly in half to do so. Somehow, in the mess of these past six months, Killian didn’t notice it. It’s easy to vow to pay closer attention now, knowing he’ll get the chance to do just that. Probably break the vow too, as he knows how busy life can get. That’s okay; he can afford it now.

“I think there’s still a few more chapters to write in that book of yours,” he chuckles as they pull away from one another. Henry’s grin splits his face nearly in two, wider than any smile Killian’s ever seen on the boy’s face. His own probably looks similar, if the almost painful tugging at the corners of his mouth is any indication.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Henry mutters into Killian’s shoulder, before suddenly pulling back with a confused look on his face. “Wait, how are you back? No, double wait, does Mom know you’re back?” When Killian shakes his head, Henry abruptly springs away, only to start tugging Killian by the arm back towards the street. “We’ve got to go, right now, then! C’mon, Killian, she’s going to be so happy!”

“Slow down, lad,” Killian chuckles. “Don’t forget your storybook.”

“Who cares? This is more important,” Henry insists, though he still lets go of Killian to go pick it up before running on ahead again. “Are you coming?” He demands impatiently, jumping on the balls of his feet.

“Lead on, my boy,” Killian laughs, “lead on.”

It’s not a long way back to the house, especially at the brisk trot Henry sets for them. Storybrooke’s a small town anyways; there’s only a few neighborhoods to choose from, and all of it very close together. Truthfully, the walk probably seems longer than it actually is due to Killian’s own eagerness to reunite with his Swan, to hold her and kiss her and know he’ll never have to let go again. Henry provides a play-by-play of the confrontation, but Killian barely hears most of it, simultaneously giddy and nervous at the prospect of this reunion. This isn’t at all what he imagined when he set out from the Underworld with his brother this morning, but it’s so much better - a dream come true, in every way - and he’s elated beyond any words to describe it.

The house here in Storybrooke (the real Storybrooke, not the convoluted version that Hades had created in the Underworld to attempt to mimic the genuine article) still looks a little like it hasn’t been lived in for far too long, but the difference here is that it also looks loved. In the Underworld, the Victorian he’d chosen for them had always looked run down and a mere inch away from collapsing around his ears. Here, the house looks strong and sturdy, merely in need of sprucing. Good bones is the phrase he thinks he’s heard Dave use before. Maybe it’s silly, and maybe it’s just a product of Killian’s renewed hope alongside his new lease on life, but he can look at the house in front of him and imagine it with a swing in that big tree and toys in the yard and a couple of rocking chairs on the front porch. In short, he can see it as a family home for years to come, just as he’d hoped back in Camelot when he and Henry had first started scouring the classifieds.

He has to trot up the front stairs two at a time to catch up with Henry after his little reminiscent moment, the teenager too impatient to wait. “Mom, you’ll never guess what happened!” Killian hears him call through the house.

Emma comes around the corner from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel and saying something to Henry. Killian doesn’t catch the words at all, too distracted by the sheer beauty of the scene before him to even move inside the doorway. Even in leggings and a t-shirt, she’s stunning, the most welcome sight he’s ever seen. Her shirt stretches just so over the bump of her stomach where their child grows, and it’s all so beautifully domestic, so perfect in its sheer mundanity that it nearly brings tears to his eyes.

There’s no time for that, though, as Henry gestures in his direction. The dish towel drops to the wayside, easily forgotten, as Emma looks up to meet his eyes.

“Killian?” she whispers with a note of disbelief in her voice.

That easily kicks him into motion, and Killian crosses the threshold in a handful of strides to meet Emma and cup her cheek to draw her into a kiss. It’s fierce in many ways, fierce with passion and longing and all the what-might-have-beens that have a chance to be again, but the desperation of their last exchange has disappeared. Now there’s just lips meeting, first in a deep press of lips and then in progressively more gentle exchanges until they finally draw apart. They probably gave Henry quite the show, but Killian can’t bring himself to care, not when he’s holding everything he ever dared to want within his arms.

“How are you here?” she asks through the laughter and the tears - happy tears, this time, tears of joy that he’s found his way back to them against all odds.

“Zeus,” he laughs right back. “A bloody god sent me back to you, back where I belong. Liam and I were ready, and when we tried to cross over —”

“I don’t care,” Emma interrupts, pressing a flurry of kisses to every inch of his face. “You’re here, and I love you, and —”

“I love you too,” he vows, over and over again. “I love you. I love you, I love you, I’m never saying goodbye ever again.”

“You’d better not,” she tells him, huffing out a happy little laugh. “We’ve got plans for you, me and Henry and baby girl.”

Killian sucks in a breath. “Baby girl?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods right back, tears spilling from her eyes. “I went to the doctor when we got back, and when he did the ultrasound… baby girl. We’re having a baby girl.”

“A girl,” he breathes in wonder. As if this day isn’t amazing enough.

“So no more heroics, alright?” Emma teases. Her tone is joking, but her eyes show her to be at least half serious. “She’s going to need you around. Henry and I too.”

“I can’t promise never to put myself in danger, especially if it’s a matter of protecting you or Henry or the Bean,” he says, moving her hand to rest over his heart, “but I promise never to leave you again if I can at all help it. I vow it, Emma.”

“Good,” she says, so reminiscent of that moment so long ago at the town line as she and Henry drove off into the unknown. That was the first time he allowed himself to embrace the full extent of his feelings and have hope that she might feel the same. “Welcome home, Killian.”

Welcome home, indeed.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs angst #my writing #If I Could See Your Face Once More #chapter 5 #there's a happy ending y'all #ouat s5b #canon divergence

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