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ripplestitchskein · 8 years ago

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Whether We Wake or Sleep part 7

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

On AO3

Word Count: approx 11K+ Rating: Teen & Up (Will be Mature or Explicit in later chapters)

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

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

_____

Maleficent’s answering smile was every bit the reptilian creature that lurked beneath the bubblegum and lollipop exterior before them. She paused for a moment, twirling the bottle idly in her hand.

“My sleeping curse requires a very rare and difficult to procure ingredient. One that is out of my reach now. But if you want more of this potion, then you two will need to fetch it for me.”

Killian slouched, indolent, his eyes already rolling. Emma could tell though, by the set of his jaw, the faint white of his knuckles as he gripped his belt, that he was far more on edge than he appeared, deliberately not looking at her again.

“I'm sure it will be just as simple as popping down to the village market. We’ll make a day of it,” the false cheer and wide blue eyes had unease stirring in her stomach. The arrogant pirate captain of old making an appearance never boded well, brought out when things were particularly dire, when he had few other options at his disposal, but rarely was it because of her decision. It was clear he didn't want her to take this path and it seemed wrong to have him doubt her, to not have his full support.

“Not quite,” Maleficent was all teeth.

“What fearsome hell creature are we to slay then?” Killian asked. “Or is this an errand of the rob and run variety?”

“Nothing quite so dire,” Maleficent eyed the pair of them. “Have you heard of the Forest Mother?”

Emma and Killian both said “No” in unison but where Emma’s was an answer to the question, Killian’s was a firm declaration of intent. Maleficent’s eyes danced at him.

“Then I'm sure you understand the… difficulties in acquiring it myself,” she addressed the statement to Killian alone.

“Well I don't,” Emma snapped, impatience and exhaustion threatening what little sanity she had. She was tired of these little meetings of the Super Cryptic Enchanted Forest Club, tired of being on the back foot, beholden to wicked witches and ridiculously poofy sorceresses and never knowing at any moment what fresh new horror awaited them. Tired of feeling like her judgement was impaired, like nothing she did was the right choice. Mostly she was just plain tired. She just wanted to go home, she just wanted to sleep.

“And I don't care. Charles give her the map.”

“Love, I don't think-” he started but Emma glared at him, cutting off the coming protest. He sighed, resigned, and shuffled a bit, reaching into the satchel crossed along his chest with jerking, frustrated movements.

“Forest Mother doesn't sound particularly frightening, I think we can handle it. Mark where we need to go and tell us what the hell we need to get,” Emma bit out.

Maleficent laughed, tinkly and mocking, enjoying their division. She took the reluctantly offered map.

“Of course, dear,” she waved a hand, a ridiculous purple feathered quill appearing between her fingers to scrawl a rough circle on the parchment with a pleased flourish. It reminded Emma of contracts signed in blood, of souls given away for dark promises. Maleficent let the feather play across her lips for a moment, very much enjoying herself, before vanishing it away. Killian took it back with a false smile, his hand fisting around it as he stuffed it back into his bag.

“But that won’t be enough,” she crooned. “That forest is where the witch lives but she will be much more difficult to actually find.”

“Of course she is,” Emma said rolling her eyes. “So how do we find her?”

Maleficent waved her hand again, a small ball of yarn appearing where the quill had been. It seemed to glow with a golden internal light, definitely not for blankets then, and Killian took this as well, eyeing it skeptically.

“When you reach the Dark Forest this will guide you to her.”

“What are we asking her for?” His question was asked with clenched-teeth reluctance, practically vibrating with tension. It was evident he was very much not in favor of this course, and that was particularly troubling considering his usual willingness to do whatever was necessary, despite his or her concerns. It was also extremely aggravating, exhaustion spiking against her nerves. She glared at him, and he looked momentarily cowed, giving her a glance of apology even as his hand squeezed around the yarn, the light glowing between the spaces of his fingers.

She had seen him brave many terrible things, charging forth without a thought to his well being firsthand. Whoever this “Forest Mother” was he did not want to tangle with her and that was perhaps the most unsettling part of an already terrifying day. Wanted posters on the road, that terrifying climb, a dragon witch, and now some mysterious forest dweller who made him look like he’d rather eat glass than make her acquaintance.

“The horn of a black unicorn.”

Emma snorted, her discomfort and Hook’s conflicting behavior forgotten.

“A unicorn? Seriously? Do you need us to jaunt over to Candyland and steal some gumdrops from Lord Licorice as well?”

“Not a unicorn,” Maleficent said ignoring her, not even batting an eyelash at what was surely a rather bizarre and definitely not timeline friendly statement. Emma was too exhausted to care anymore.

“A black unicorn. An aberration, born of darkness and cursed by death himself.”

“How cheery,” Emma rolled her eyes again. “How much is this unicorn horn going to cost us?”

“I don't set the price,” Maleficent said. “She’ll let you know.”

“So something between a farthing and our immortal souls,” Killian said, all sarcasm. Maleficent looked completely unsympathetic.

“Do you want my potion or not?”

Killian opened his mouth, no doubt an eloquent description of exactly where the witch could put her potion poised to come out, but Emma was faster.

“I do. We’ll follow your sparkly ball of yarn and get your stupid evil unicorn horn or whatever,” she stepped in front of him and held out her hand.

“Just a little taste,” Maleficent beckoned her forward, her voice soft. “To ensure you come back.” She paused. “Well, if she lets you that is.”

Emma looked down at the bottle once again in the woman's hands, at the long needle she drew out of it, fear rising along her spine. It was thick and wickedly sharp at the end, made of blackened wood, like the spindle of a spinning wheel. Visions of green smoke and raven’s eyes, a pretty cartoon princess caught in a trance flashed through her mind. She had never been a fan of that particular movie as a child and even less so now, facing a needle held by the main attraction.

“Em-Leia, are you sure you want to do this?” Killian asked quietly behind her.

She didn't look at him, couldn't look at him, lest her resolve crumble, stepping forward towards Maleficent as her answer instead.

The sorceress’s hand was icy cold as she took Emma’s in her own, freezing against her skin as she slowly turned her palm up, holding the needle above it.

“Just a little prick,” Maleficent murmured, and pressed the tip into Emma’s thumb.

It stung, a sharp stick of pain, and blood welled, dripping down the slope towards her palm as she tried to pull back with a hiss, but it was short lived.

Emma’s knees buckled suddenly beneath her as a wave of pure sensation washed along her body in a rushing tide. It poured down from her scalp to her toes, an all encompassing ecstasy, a drowsy sort of liquid honey heat filling her up, spilling over. Killian was there in an instant, catching her in his arms, her legs unable to support her as she turned, sagged into him, and moaned against his chest.

It was the most incredible feeling in the world, a building sort of energy beneath her skin, sparks of heat at the edges setting her alight. She could feel every nerve, every point of contact between them, and she shifted further into his space, unable to help herself, her eyes fluttering closed as she pressed her cheek to the firm hot skin between the vee of his shirt. She was on fire with it, drawing in his warmth, the feel of him beneath her, letting it coalesce with the pleasure sinking into her bones.

“Oh my god,” Emma panted out against him. He tensed, clutching her tighter with his arms. When she looked up at him, his jaw was set again, his eyes darker, searing into hers, conflicted worry set on his face. Emma swallowed, and grabbed blindly at his shirt, fingers scrabbling across his chest. Her legs felt even weaker if that was possible, no longer sore, and the world was sharper and brighter to her eyes, everything honed around the edges.

Maleficent’s dark knowing laugh pulled Emma away from it, away from him, had her jerking out of his arms with sudden realization. She was practically climbing the man, and he looked tense and conflicted when she darted her eyes back up to his. He shuffled uncomfortably in place, still clutching the ridiculous ball of yarn. She couldn't care very much though, fleeting thoughts of consequences vanished in an instant, a concern for another day. She couldn't be bothered to worry. Not when she felt like this. Like she had awoken from the world’s best nap, like sheets warmed to body temperature and lazy Sundays in bed, orgasmic delight suffused and concentrated in its purest form. She was boneless and weak with it, but energized as well, electric heat zipping along her limbs. She felt like she could do anything.

“Don't get used to it dear,” Maleficent's said dryly her eyes raking over her. “The next time is never as incredible as the first.”

She looked almost sad, glancing down at the bottle clutched in her hand, her face yearning with memory. That was scarier than anything. Emma had spent enough time on the streets, had dealt with enough of the seedier sides of life to know the look of an addict, the hollow emptiness and resignation of the recovered. She almost felt sorry for the witch, and very, very unsure if this was a good idea.

Maleficent closed her fist around the glass.

“This is not a cure, mind you, it will only… temporarily mask the symptoms. As soon as that little taste wears off the curse will hit you again, like you had never taken this at all.”

The thought of going back, of feeling that terrible ache, the helpless fog, or worse, was scarier still, a rapidly building tower of one new fear after another. Emma wanted to snatch the bottle from her hands, hoard it away, keep herself from ever feeling the helpless pain again. Instead she squared her shoulders, shaking out her limbs to rid them of the tingling buzz, and stared at Maleficent levelly, her fingers still trembling.

“Guess we better get our hands on that horn quickly then.”

______

“This place is creepy as hell.”

Killian only grunted in response, had only grunted in response since they’d left Maleficent's fortress, his attention fixed firmly on the rapidly unfurling ball of yarn, the tail end tucked into his hand.

It was incredibly creepy. The Dark Forest, the patch of map Maleficent had indicated, apparently wasn't named for the color of the foliage, or even the amount of light it received, but rather the general feeling of unease it evoked. The bark on the trees was silvery white, reminding Emma of bleached bone, a sea of skeleton sentries surrounding them on every side. Gnarled twisting branches reached down from all angles, like creeping hands and knotted fingers. It was colder in the wood too, the spring to summer sun hidden behind a sudden blanket of gray winter clouds overhead, the wind crisp and chilling. It had her pulling her cloak tighter around her, shifting into Killian’s space to leech his warmth, trying not to feel the pang of hurt when he shifted away.

Still, it didn't seem to be just the temperature that set a chill to her bones, there was something about the place, a hanging presence, a low fog of disquiet blanketing everything. The red leaves carpeting the forest floor rolled before them like a river of blood, and as with Maleficent’s lake valley, it was completely and utterly silent.

“I feel a little like a cat,” Emma tried again. His silence was freaking her out as much as their surroundings, the flickering muscle in his cheek making rapid time with their footsteps. If she had been standing closer she imagined she could hear the scrape of his clenched teeth over the rustle of the leaves under their feet.

That did get his attention however.

“Pardon?”

Emma gestured to the yarn. It still glowed with that faint yellow light, the tightly wound ball skipping over the roots and dead leaves, the rocks and furrows, as if it hovered or flew through the air.

“Cats,” Emma said. “They chase yarn.”

“They do?” He almost stopped walking.

“They don't have cats where you come from?” It was a ridiculous conversation but Emma was feeling keyed up and giddy, nervous energy filling the wells of her joints, the rush of adrenaline from the potion slow to fade, and the silence of the wood made her feel like she should say something.

And Killian was almost... scared. She could tell by the furrow of his brow, the uneasy flicker of his eyes. She had seen him scared before, his face twisted in fear, eyes wide, but it had always been for her, or Henry, never for himself. Fear for himself took on a different cast, like a man determinedly facing the gallows, and it frightened her. He had been uneasy in the castle, reluctant, but now he looked paler and drawn, the yarn almost trembling where he gripped it.

“Of course they bloody do, but they chase rats and pests not bits of string,” the look on his face was so filled with disgust she had to bite back a smile to keep from laughing at him directly. “What use is chasing a ball of yarn?”

“It's cute?” Emma offered. He only huffed, and kept moving forward. “Seriously. Killian.” She reached forward, grabbing the arm of his coat to stop him.

“What is wrong with you?”

Emma chased his flickering eyes with her own, trying to catch them. She attempted a different question.

“Who is this Forest Mother?”

“A children’s tale,” he waved his hand, the string dancing in the air. “A fairy story.”

“Lemme guess, she's not the nicest witch in the wood?”

Killian gave a little motion, a half shrug. A lie told in body language.

“She is not a figure of evil if that’s what you’re asking,” he said finally, and continued forward, the ball of yarn further ahead of them now.

“Then why are are you all-” Emma gestured at him as she walked. “Like this.”

He was silent a moment, before he sighed, resigned.

“When I was a lad, the crew, they told all sorts of tales, not a lot to do on a ship after all. Many of them were the cautionary sort, meant to frighten children in the night, make them think twice about poor behavior. The Forest Mother was a particular favorite of theirs.” He said it matter of factly but his eyes gave away his discomfort, the burden of memory. He may have mastered his voice but he had never quite figured out the eyes.

The thought of a younger Killian, floppy dark hair and those same revealing eyes, hiding beneath the covers after hearing scary stories in the dark had her heart clenching in her chest.

“What's so scary about her?” Emma asked softly.

“She peers into your soul, takes the measure of you, and if she doesn't like what she finds, she throws you into her oven, and consumes you,” Killian said this too as if it was the most normal thing in the world, which she supposed, given where he’d grown up, it was.

“Where I come from if you’re a bad kid Santa just doesn't bring you presents,” Emma offered.

“It's said she can see into your soul. Your true soul,” Killian was speaking quietly as he moved, almost inaudible over the sounds of the leaves, ignoring the mention of Santa completely. “Only the pure of heart can seek her help or stand unmolested before her.”

Emma swallowed, understanding a bit. She could remember the shame and anguish on his face in the cave, the guilt that he carried, always so heavy on his shoulders, weighing him down as surely as his trademark leather coat. Even now he walked as if he still wore it, centuries of terrible deeds trailing behind him.

“And you thought she was going to...eat you?” Emma asked.

He flashed her that false smile as they moved forward, chasing the yarn.

“I was a difficult child, rebellious, for... many reasons,” his smile turned a bit more genuine. “I'm sure that's difficult to believe.”

“I am having a lot of trouble picturing it,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work, and the smile fell from his face completely.

“When we’d make shore they’d take us to the woods. Leave us on the edge. A simple jest to keep us in line, but an effective one,” he swallowed, overcome with memory and Emma’s heart lurched. “I never feared the punishment,” he said, looking away from her again, fixated on the ball making its way across the forest floor. “Just the confirmation.”

“Little you thought he had, what? Some blackened soul?”

The shrug he gave was small but no less heartbreaking.

“I imagine if it wasn’t then, it surely is now,” he looked further ahead. “We’re getting behind.”

“Killian wait-” Emma struggled to follow him, his longer strides eating up more ground than she could cover, plowing through the dense leaves more easily. “Killian-”

Killian froze in front of her, the strand of yarn falling forgotten to the forest floor. The connection broken, the leading ball seized up as well, shuddering to a stop yards away.

“What-” before she could say another word Killian grabbed her hand jerking her roughly to the side as hooves sliced the air where she’d been standing. Emma fell hard, pain vibrating up her elbows as she landed, and above her a horse gave a terrible shriek.

The rider was white as moonlight, pure and glowing before them, a faceless specter on a ghostly mount. She cried out startled, as Killian grabbed her again, barely rolling her out of the way as the creature brought its hooves down once more, clawing at the leaves where she had been sitting.

“Your sword,” she heard him cry, already drawing his own as he stood. Emma fumbled, rising on wobbly knees with shaking hands, barely able to wrap them around the blade before the rider struck out at her. She scarcely dodged in time, the blade cutting through the air, a sharp whistle in her ear.

“Swan!” Killian’s yell told her his position behind her but she couldn't take her eyes off their opponent to check his condition.

The rider backed his mount up a few paces, but his blade, a crystalline shard of opalescent glass, was still wickedly sharp and pointed right at her, ready to strike.

Emma swallowed. She could feel Killian pressing into her back as he moved, apparently upright and unharmed, leaves rustling under his feet in the silence, solid and firm against her. She wanted to sag in relief that he was okay, but she held her sword out instead, rigid.

“What do we do?” She asked. The snowy mount whickered. It was a haunting noise unlike any animal she had ever heard before, worlds away from Four’s friendly sounds, turning her blood to ice water in her veins. She shivered.

“There’s two more,” Killian said grimly.

“Damnit,” she could feel him nod behind her in agreement and she cast her eyes quickly to the side to check their positions.

The one in her periphery was red as blood, seeming to rise up from the scarlet leaves of the forest. Where he ended and they began was indistinguishable, and that was extremely unsettling. He was more solid than his white counterpart, less formless, but no less formidable. She turned slightly, and saw the third, this one completely devoid of color, leeching the light from all that surrounded him, a fathomless human shape only vaguely a man cutting into the tree line like a rift in space. Terror seized her at the sight of him, a walking nightmare in gray daylight.

“What the hell are those?” Emma bit out, her grip tightening around her weapon. It didn't seem like enough.

“I have no idea,” Killian murmured. “But they don't seem pleased to see us.”

“You think?” Emma snapped. She could barely breathe, fear was filling her lungs, solid and choking in her throat. It poured off them, an invisible mist settling over her skin, making it crawl and itch as the feeling intensified, an almost tangible thing. She tried for levity, anything to shake the feeling off, to make it go away.

“I used to watch this show as a kid. Always thought I’d make a good Yellow Ranger.”

Killian huffed impatiently behind her, clearly not getting the reference, as he settled into a tense defensive posture. Emma however was babbling.

“Sorry Black is taken. You can be Blue though. It would go well with your eyes. I never really liked the Green Ranger so we’ll skip that one.”

“Excellent, whatever your heart desires. After we handle this, aye?”

She tried to focus on them, to look at their faces, be bold, but her eyes kept sliding past of their own accord, burning and stinging with every attempt. Clever quips and taunts died formless in her mouth.

She could feel Killian’s every move behind her pressed against her back, the faint tremble of his body vibrating up her spine, similarly affected by the crippling fear that had settled in the clearing at the rider’s appearance. The creatures, for these were no men, were death incarnate, something otherworldly and wrong. And they were definitely going to kill them.

Emma reached blindly back with her free hand, skirting his hips, and grasped his wooden hand, giving it a squeeze, more for herself than him. He tugged back, a reassurance, and something else, as he stepped forward.

“It seems we haven't been properly introduced,” Killian said finally, his voice was calm, just a faint tremor under his usual bravado. Emma could hear her blood rushing in her ears, the nameless terror replaced with fear for him as he stepped forward. She turned, catching the end of his bow, the urge to ask him what the hell he was doing, to grab him and run, was overwhelming her, her legs burning with the need to move.

He was ignoring her though, half circling her to face each of the figures in turn.

“Killian Jones,” he said to them. “We seek audience with the Forest Mother or The Bone Mother, as she may be known to you.”

“If Maleficent had led with that title I probably wouldn't have accepted so fast,” Emma muttered. Killian shot her a look that could only mean “Shut up, Swan.” She clapped her lips closed.

“Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

The three of them spoke as one, the sound of their voices scraping down her spine, sinking the terror into her bones, goose flesh springing up among her arms.

“Not so good with riddles, mates,” Killian said. “Come again?”

“Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

This time the voices were accompanied by the quiet hum of energy, their weapons: the crystalline sword, the scythe of shadow, and a ruby tipped stave glowed bright, brighter, charging, as one.

“What does that mean?” Emma looked at Killian, exchanging a wild eyed glance before he took a step back towards her.

“Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

The humming buzz of electricity grew louder, the weapons glowing brighter.

“No idea, but we should probably figure it out,” Killian said, no lack of urgency in his voice as he pressed against her back again, the two of them trying to keep the specters in their lines of vision.

“We’re surrounded by forest! And we are looking right at you.” Emma said frantically, her eyes darting from tree to tree, seeing no break in the wood. She tried to focus her eyes on them again, but they kept shifting away, their faces burning embers, the rapidly growing light of their weapons too harsh, like staring into the sun, purple and blue splotches in her vision when she blinked.

“Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

“Emma!” Killian was jerking her around, his sword falling forgotten into the leaves. The energy hummed and spit like downed power lines, sparking in the air around them. His hand grasped her shoulder, fingers digging in, the wooden hand pressing against her arm. He stared at her, blue eyes locking with her own. “Look at me,” he said firmly. “Only me.”

Emma wasn't sure if this was a final moment thing, a fleeting glimpse of each other before death took them, but she knew she couldn't look away if she tried. If the last thing she saw was him that wouldn't be so bad, she reasoned. The temptation to shift her eyes away, to check the riders was overwhelming, but Killian’s were steady and true, open and honest, and she couldn't look away.

The clearing was suddenly silent, the harsh pants of their breath the only sound. Emma looked up at him in confusion, unsure if it was safe to move, unsure if she wanted to. His fingers pressed further into her arm. It was a subtle sway, the feel of his breath on her face, and she leaned in.

“Oh very good. Two hearts for one,” the voice was ancient and accented, breaking through the silence. Emma jerked back as a bundle of rags and fabric joined them in the clearing at the edge of her vision. She was still too afraid to move, to turn her head to look at it fully.

“Well come along then. I won’t wait all day,” the figure shuffled, leaves rustling with rasping rhythmic sweeps somewhere beside them. The thick inflection on her words made them sound more like “vell” and “vont” and “den” but Emma could understand well enough.

She looked at Killian in question, his face a bit paler, his shoulders slumping with equal parts concern and relief, chest still rising and falling with gasping breaths. He hitched them in a little shrug, and they turned as one to face the new arrival.

An old woman, hunched over and twisted by time was hobbling away, a silver birch broom painting along the path behind her. The riders were gone from the clearing, disappeared as quickly as they had come, and in their place a small hovel rose into the air, surrounded on all sides by a fence of thick white sticks and rounded posts. Emma pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a noise when she realized what exactly it was made of. She grabbed Killian’s arm, tugging on it.

Bones. Skulls. A fence of human remains marked the perimeter of the old woman’s house with haunting grins, yellowed with age, and flaming sockets where eyes would be. The house the fence protected was decrepit and sad, made of darkened rotting wood and crumbling decaying thatch, rising up into the canopy of the trees on thick heavy stilts, sinking into itself with the burden of time and neglect.

Emma did kind of shriek when it moved, Killian barely getting his hand over her mouth in time, palm hovering just above her lips, his fingers warm against her cheek as the stilts shifted, as they walked. The house turned in a circle on towering chicken-like legs, sharp talons as thick and wide as several people digging into the dirt and leaves. It lifted one to scratch the other, and settled back to the forest floor.

“What the hell is that thing, ” Emma hissed into the cup of his hand. Killian pulled her back against him, his breath hot in her ear, his chest firm against her back once again.

“Careful, love, I don't think she’ll take too kindly to us insulting her dwelling,” he warned in a whisper, for her ears only, releasing her to step hesitantly forward. Emma shivered, her face flushing.

“Etiquette in these situations is rather...fraught. Probably best if I take the lead on this one,” he murmured. He didn't sound particularly delighted by the prospect.

Emma scoffed at the implication, forgetting his nearness in her indignation. She could be polite if she needed to be. She watched as the house turned, scratching ineffectually at the dirt, the flaming eyes of the skull fence posts flickering with the disturbance, and she bit off a startled curse. He might have a point, and by the rise of his eyebrow he knew it.

The old woman turned suddenly at the gate, pointing the handle of her broom at the two of them. Her face was a map of deep and jagged wrinkles, her nose as gnarled and twisted as the skeleton trees, hooked at the end like every scary witch in every scary story Emma had ever read. But her eyes were lovely sea glass green, twinkling and ominous at the same time. She jabbed the handle at them again, and Killian leaned back in defense.

“Do you come of your own will or another's?”

They answered at the same time, only put off for a moment by the abruptness of the question.

“My own,” Killian said, bowing slightly.

“Another’s,” Emma said warily.

Killian tilted his head to look at her in exasperation.

The woman stared at them hard for a moment, the pupils of her magnificent eyes an impossible black, and Emma could barely breathe under the scrutiny.

“Your truth reveals much. It will be important for what is to come,” the witch said. It was unclear, however, who she was talking to, and she simply turned, beckoning them with an easy wave to follow her.

Emma swallowed, looking up at Killian. He looked as uneasy as she felt, his tongue swiping across his lip as if steeling himself for something. She wanted to reach out, to grab his hand, comfort and solidarity in one simple gesture, but he was already moving protectively in front of her, walking through the gate of bones.

____

The tales from the mouths of impish hardened sailors took on life before his eyes and old childhood fears, thick and cold, filled his chest as the old crone led them through the gate.

It was just as they said. A hovel on the legs of birds. A fence of bone, her victims held forever to stand guard against the unworthy. There was a mouth of gnashing teeth set in the rotted wood of a door, where knob and keyhole should be, and Killian repressed a shudder as the teeth snapped playfully at her fingers when she opened it. The pair followed her into the house, the spindly legs bending low to allow them entrance.

“Who were those guys?” Emma asked from behind him. Never content to do as he asked his Swan, never one to just blindly follow his lead. He glared at her without heat, but she was focused on the dwelling, her eyes taking it in, grasping the wall to steady herself as the house rose suddenly into the air again. “The ones on the horses.” She looked queasy, clutching her stomach as the dwelling moved beneath them.

“The price for the answers you seek is precious time, would you have me waste mine on such trivialities?” The crone asked, casting one sea green eye over her shoulder as she reached to stoke the flame of her oven.

He knew that oven. It ate the bones of the wicked and the vengeful. It charred them as black as their unworthy souls and the witch would feast for days, or so the stories said. It was a monstrous thing to finally see in person, the grates like snarling teeth and haunting eyes, the flame within burning blue and green with an unnatural heat. No mere coals and wood could produce such hellfire.

Killian shifted back, setting himself firmly between Emma and the heaving stove.

“I guess not?” Emma was saying, looking up at him bewildered and he shook his head slightly. It was best to be direct and to the point, get in and get out before things went wildly off course. He didn't particularly care who the creatures had been anyway, they were gone and the witch was before them. She was the real threat here

The witch looked at Emma with a sharp disappointment. “If only you were willing.” She murmured. Emma frowned at him in concerned confusion. He shrugged.

He had met his fair share of seers and soothsayers, knew they spoke in riddles and delighted in tricks and could certainly not be trusted. That the mother of this wood hadn't immediately struck them down was fortune enough, and he didn't feel the need to push their luck any further with pointless queries as to the nature of her servants, or fall into any of her clever traps.

He stepped forward.

“We have been sent to obtain a-” the old woman’s craggy hand waved him off, hobbling across the broken boards of the floor.

The entire place seemed on the verge of collapse, and it shifted imperceptibly as the creature’s legs below shuffled and moved. He should have found the subtle sway and ebb comforting, like ocean waves, but it was rather like being in the belly of a great beast, swallowed alive and left to decay.

Killian resisted the urge to gulp.

“I know what you seek,” she led them across the hut to a darkened corner and motioned for them to sit. The table, and the mismatched set of chairs around it were the only furniture in the room save for a spartan sleeping pallet on the other side of the dwelling, and of course the infernal heaving oven.

One of the chairs, however, was already occupied.

“There’s. A. Skeleton,” Emma hissed quietly at his back, as if his eyes were not able to suss that out for himself.

It was dressed very well for a bag of bones he thought, a top hat sitting jauntily on a yellowed skull, a cravat tied smartly about its bony neck. It was as much a guest as they were it seemed, a saucer and teacup set at the place before it, the shadows of the corner barely hiding it from view.

“My Ivan,” the old woman said waving another hand dismissively. “Now. A drink to honor guests and honor hosts.”

Killian sat hesitantly as she bid on a rickety rocking chair pushed up to the table, motioning for Emma to do the same on the small stool beside him. He had a bit of experience here as well, lifetimes of witches and sorcerers and fae, all with different codes and unwritten rules. To eat in one set of company could damn you for eternity, to not eat in another could result in a swiftly assured death. That the only other guest in attendance was a pile of nicely attired bones did not bode well for their chances of choosing correctly.

“You may call me Baba Yaga,” the woman said, bustling about the room as she prepared a pot of tea. The clink of porcelain and the hiss of steam filled the cabin mixing with the acrid smoke. Emma glanced at him uneasily.

“You come to seek a gift,” Baba Yaga said, setting a small teapot down in the center of the table. “Answers to your questions.”

“We only need a black unicorn horn,” Killian corrected. “Nothing more.”

“I know what you seek,” she repeated, settling into the chair. “I provide only what the willing need. Let us drink,” She motioned to the teapot, and smiled, a wicked pull of lips across teeth. He raised an eyebrow at her.

Killian was also, despite what he had told the riders in the wood, well versed in tricks and riddles, one could not survive the dangers of Neverland without that particular skill, and he smiled at her winningly.

“Just me milady, begging your pardon,” he bowed his head respectfully, careful to keep one eye trained on the witch. Her smile grew, yellowed skin stretching across bone, and she nodded, pouring a bitter brew from the teapot.

“Your will is your own after all,” she said slyly. She cast her eyes to Emma. “And hers is another’s.”

“Precisely,” he took a sip of the tea before Emma could protest or question him, giving her a warning glance and nothing more. She looked at him, still confused, but things were moving too quickly for them to confer, trapped high above the ground in a witch’s cabin, invited to tea with skeletons. He just hoped she would follow his lead, would keep silent and safe and let him handle this. He had no idea what he was doing truly, what horror awaited him in this hovel, in that cup, but better him than her. That was the only truth he knew.

He tried not to gag. The tea was stagnant and tepid, as stagnant as it smelled, but he sipped again and again until the cup was empty. His stomach roiled in protest, water filling his mouth as he tried not to vomit.

Baba Yaga’s lips pulled against her teeth again in delight and she snatched the cup away, turning it in her hand once, twice, and a third time before overturning it on the mismatched saucer before him.

“No peeking,” she warned.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Killian rasped. His voice was hoarse and raw, choked with bile, and he appreciated the comforting hand Emma laid on his arm, the concern and confusion written on her face. He smiled at her reassuringly. Wanted to tell her that this witch had no power over the unwilling, that Emma could not help him lest they both fall victim to her tricks. That was the point of her question, to see the full scope of her dominion, the reason she had invited them both to drink. He couldn't speak however, not with the witch right there.

“The question of your future is mine to see. The answer a gift to give,” Baba Yaga said. She picked the cup up again and peered inside, gnarled fingers twisting it back and forth in her grasp. What she saw there was a mystery, her face giving nothing away.

“Take it, with my compliments,” Killian swallowed as best he could, the bitter herbs caught in his throat. His mind was swimming as his vision snapped in and out of focus.

Drugged surely. He thought. Poisoned probably.

“Killian,” Emma grabbed his arm as he swayed. He could barely feel the warmth of her through his coat, could barely make out the pressure of her fingers. Not the best of signs.

“Are you okay?” It was a firm question, all the words she wasn't saying written in her eyes. We can go. You don't have to do anything else. We can run. He appreciated it, and just smiled at her again, a sappy ridiculous thing he was sure, but his vision was growing even dimmer.

“What the hell did you do to him?”

Far away at the end of a long tunnel he saw Emma rise from her stool, his hand lifting weakly, trying to grab her, but falling leaden and useless to his side as words of warning caught on a tongue that was too thick and heavy to speak.

“By his own will,” the woman reminded her.

Whatever Emma replied was lost to the sounds of his pulse in his ears, whatever she did too far away and dark to see anymore.

_____

He blinked awake to a familiar cabin, cramped and dirty, smelling of salt and fish and rotting wood. The ropes of ancient hammocks swung in time to the rocking of a ship long since lost to the sea. A dingy blanket of burlap and unraveling wool on one of them was the only personal effect in sight. It was a spartan and coldly familiar place. He had slept in that hammock, curled under that blanket into Liam’s side night after night, crying himself to sleep until it became apparent that tears weren't going to bring their father back, that their new masters would be no less cruel, and it looked no different now than it had centuries before.

“My gifts are not without price,” Baba Yaga said, and he turned to face her pushing down the startled leap in his chest to give her a cool stare. Childhood fears would have to wait.

“I don't need ‘gifts’ just one item, the horn of-” she cut him off, holding up an impatient hand.

“We both know that is not all you seek Captain,” her accent twisted the word, her eyes shining with mirth. He pushed down the surprise that she knew who he was as well, merely raising an eyebrow.

“Oh? And what is that? Do, please enlighten me,” he waved a lazy open palm towards her and leaned back, trying not to appear as unsettled by their surroundings as he was. He was barely resisting the urge to pick up the blanket and breathe in the long forgotten scent of his brother, witches and their hallucinogenic tea be damned.

“If I give you the horn where do you plan to go?” She asked instead. He opened his mouth to respond but she cut him off. “Be warned and be willing Captain, for now and for then and for forever hence, in this wood the answer to questions is the gift of time, mine or yours it matters not, but the price will be paid.”

Killian was silent. In truth, he didn't even know the answer. Emma’s and his course was not set as yet, they were moving from moment to moment, dealing with problems as they arose, chasing solutions with no clear endgame in sight. Maleficent did not have the answers they’d hoped for, merely a bandage for a gaping wound, and after this mission he was at a loss. So he said nothing.

Baba Yaga grinned, knowing, and tilted her head.

“I can give you the answers you seek, the gifts you will need. You have earned the horn in deed alone already, and a question of your own if you accept, but I can give you more.”

There was nothing seductive about the hunched over form in front of him, nothing externally appealing about her sallow skin, and bony limbs, but her voice whispered over him like a lover’s caress, temptation and desire brushing against his skin. He closed his eyes and pushed it away with a small shake of his head. No good would come of deals with the devil, or from a woman worthy to be the devil’s bride.

“Perhaps, I will remind you of your price,” Baba Yaga’s voice slithered across him.

He heard the rasp of fabric, felt the prickling electricity of magic, and a familiar scent filled his nose, over the smells of brine and unwashed men came something sweet and clean. He opened his eyes.

“Swan,” he breathed out.

He knew, logically, this was an illusion, the old woman shifting and morphing before his very eyes told him that. Silver hair turned butter yellow, thick and curling against the gentle slope of her shoulders as she straightened and grew taller. It was Emma in form, but instead of dark moss her eyes were the cool sea glass green of the witch’s. He growled.

“Your parlor tricks won't work on me siren,” he spat. “I'll have the horn and the horn alone.”

“You haven't heard my proposal,” the woman said, her accent fading to Emma’s gentler voice.

“And I've no wish to,” he said.

“I do not deal in wishes,” Baba Yaga said, her voice hard and suddenly her own again. She shifted, shrinking down back to the hunched over old woman, leather and suede traded for dirty rags and stained linen. He breathed a bit easier facing her as herself, even the face of Emma was enough to take him off guard, enough to make him question his resolve. “My trade is in noble deeds freely given and questions of the heart worth a year of time apiece.”

“Noble.” Killian scoffed. “Afraid you have the wrong Captain then, madam.”

“You drank the tea,” she reminded him gently. “Of your own will.”

“To protect Emma,” he snapped. “From whatever ridiculous farce we’re playing out here. Which I very much hope will find its end soon, we’re on a bit of a schedule.”

She ignored his rudeness, her eyes glinting.

“A sacrifice for another is not noble?”

Killian gritted his teeth in frustration. They were getting nowhere, the rock and pitch of the ship and the smells of faded memory were making him ill, mixing with the bitter tea and hatred of these games, twisting against his insides where the ghost of a frightened little boy begged him to be cautious, reminded him she could cook him alive for his insolence.

“I merely offer you a trade,” Baba Yaga said finally when he didn't answer, looking strangely disappointed. “Three gifts, three questions. You have one gift and one question already if you complete that task to its end, when the deed is satisfied you may return to claim them.”

“And you get what?” Killian sneered. “Trade implies parity.”

The woman stared at him and merely smiled, her lips remained pointedly closed.

Killian sighed in frustration. She had mentioned there was a price for answers, and she was well practiced in avoiding giving them it seemed.

“Lay out your terms,” he said instead. Not quite a question. She seemed pleased he was catching on so quickly and nodded.

“Three deeds for each of my gifts and for each of my answers,” she said simply.

Killian frowned.

“I'm assuming one of the gifts is the horn?” he asked. Baba Yaga pursed her lips again. “A statement.” He corrected, setting his jaw in annoyance. “Not a question.”

“An excellent assumption,” she smiled.

“For drinking the tea and accepting your game,” he did not bother to phrase this as a question either, knowing she would play this game all day, and she smiled wider, impressed.

“A noble deed to be sure,” she replied.

Killian thought a moment, his mind whirling, trying to pick apart every moment, every odd phrase, piecing it together as best he could. He despised the round and round of riddles, impatience prickling against his nerves, but he knew they wouldn't get the horn otherwise, that he had to figure out her tricks to keep them safe and see them on their way. He sighed.

“But I had to do it willingly,” he mused aloud.

Her smile faltered a bit.

“You asked one question already, and we both answered,” he said, crossing the room. “But only I was willing then, by my own admission.” He peered up at her. “Answers are gifts, time, you said.” He licked his lips as the thoughts formed and slowly pieced themselves together. “A year. A year of time apiece.” He repeated her words, and waved a finger at her, knowing by the stony expression on her face that he was on to something.

“So each deed is worth a gift, something tangible like the horn. But only from the willing,” he continued to watch her expressions carefully. “That’s why you wanted Emma to drink the tea.”

Baba Yaga set her her jaw, eyes flashing, and he tried not to smile as she confirmed what he had suspected in the hovel. She had no power over Emma, and that would at least keep Emma safe no matter how this played out.

“I'm assuming if one fails at the deed the gift is forfeit?” He raised an eyebrow at her but she continued to stare at him, implacable. So he continued on, the game knitting together in his mind as the words left his lips. “And every answer is a gift, a year.” He repeated the words, realization dawning as he spoke them again.

“Clever Captain,” Baba Yaga praised with a smirk, yellow teeth flashing in delight as the implication of that snapped together in his mind and he looked at her with barely contained fury.

“So I owe you a year of my life for answering a bloody question?” he hissed. “That is a question by the way.” He glared.

Baba Yaga was practically grinning now at his frustration, her teeth sharp and terrifying in the dim light of the cabin.

“You can earn it back,” she teased. “I will answer no more than three, as I said, one for each deed. Acceptance of my deal will grant you the first of them.”

“I'm assuming you’ll try to get me to answer more as we go along, that's the way of it?” He grumbled. “And if I don't play along I can't collect the question you owe me already.”

She just smiled.

“You may take, how you say,...the gamble.” She said slowly, her eyes dancing with dark mischief. “Or, you can be on your way.” She hummed to herself for a second, considering. “I will still give you the horn and you will give me the year, but nothing more. I am not unreasonable.”

“I think I'll take my chance with just the horn then,” he said finally. “I'm not all that keen on learning more about meself anyway. And I've lived for centuries, I can spare one year.”

“The questions need not be about you-” Baba Yaga rocked back on the stool, her smile knowing again. No longer did she wear the wicked sly grins or stony neutrality that had twisted her visage so far, but instead the happy softness of an assured victory, it made his skin crawl to see it as his heart sank. “-but about the woman you love. Her future. Her path.”

Killian swallowed. She had already seen the truth of their situation. They had no plan after this. Obtain the horn, return it to Maleficent in exchange for more of that vile potion, and then...what? The potion would buy them time but not knowledge. It was also one thing to fall into a trap blind and unknowing, it was quite another to walk into it freely. Noble, Baba Yaga had said, the word now full of dark trickery and ill purpose. To continue on for Emma’s sake would certainly be noble, after all the cost would be only his to pay if he failed. In those terms it didn't seem like so much of a gamble after all. They had what they had come for in hand already, if he could possibly win the knowledge they needed to save her he had no choice but to take that risk.

“Alright,” he said.

When Baba Yaga looked at him again it was a predatory thing, the seaglass green of her eyes now practically black with hunger and greed. Killian swallowed around the sharp anxiety in his throat, the feeling that he was making a mistake. He was already down one year of his worthless existence, but she had offered up three of her own, those odds were better than some he had faced before.

Baba Yaga reached beneath the grimy kerchief that covered her silver hair, and pulled from beneath it a single strand.

“The second of your deeds, either an absolution in frozen time or a way forward,” she said holding it out to him. “This must be tied into three knots and then blown upon like the whistling wind.” She pursed her lips and blew.

Killian took the hair and looked at it. It glinted in the sparse light, drooping along his knuckles. It looked ordinary otherwise, a simple thread of regular hair. He glanced back up at Baba Yaga but she sat there, poised and serene, waiting for him to carry out her odd little task.

It was undoubtedly a trick, he knew without even attempting to ask that should he complete the mission something terrible would probably be inflicted upon his person. That's how these things worked. In story and in life there was always a caveat and he was without the means to question her further and find it out. He frowned at the little hair, considering, trying to remember the tales of his youth, the memories too far away to grasp.

“Perhaps you should demonstrate what you mean,” he said after a moment, holding the hair out for her to take. “I’m all thumbs when it comes to these things.” He held up his wooden hand apologetically and turned it, smiling innocently.

“One would think the Captain of a ship would know his way around a series of simple knots,” Baba Yaga replied taking it from him nonetheless.

“I won't tell if you won't,” he smirked. Baba Yaga didn't look angry though as she took it from him, to the contrary she looked almost pleased, her worn fingers moving over the thread quickly with a nimbleness that belied her age, tying it into three minuscule knots.

“Show me the bit with the blowing again too,” Killian said, still all innocent politeness. “I've forgotten.”

“Careful,” Baba Yaga warned. “Your clever mind and fairy looks get you much, but arrogance is deadly, Captain.” Despite this she pursed her lips again, blowing cool air over the knotted strand.

Almost at once it glowed with silver light, spreading across her wrinkled hand, up her arm, covering her in a soft ethereal glow. Killian stepped back in mute surprise as her body froze, as it became entombed in smooth granite that trickled over her like gentle water, flowing in the wake of the light. A statue.

Killian gaped at her, at a loss. As far as victories were concerned this was a new one for him. Though he doubted the witch could collect the year he owed as a piece of statuary, so it was at least a fortunate outcome, and perhaps they could still find the horn among her things when he returned. He looked around at the creaking ship, waiting for the vision to fade, for the run down hovel to appear and Emma’s worried face to stare down at him.

The ship rocked again and sighed around him. He frowned.

The statue creaked along with it, splintered and cracked, small fissures opening along her cheeks and neck. The silver light poured forth again, and the stone crumbled away to dust, disappearing on unseen wind. Baba Yaga smiled at him.

“You did not think my own spell would hold me?” She said with a mocking laugh. Killian pursed his lips in annoyance, but knew better than to answer.

“The deed, nevertheless, was completed. I believe I am owed a forfeit. And a question,” he snapped, impatient. “And don't think I've forgotten you owe me a question for that foul tea and accepting this farce, madam, and the horn as well.”

“Indeed my boy, I will not forget. That is for when we return, not before, ” her tone was a dark warning, but she reached into her sleeve, and pulled out a single feather. “This is your reward for now.” It was a watercolor of reds, yellows and orange, shining in the light like flickering flames, from the tail of a large bird based on its size and shape. She held it out to him.

“Time is a tricky business. To give this to you, I must give this to you. On and on we go, round and round.” Baba Yaga laughed to herself.

Killian hesitated a moment, raising a suspicious and confused eyebrow at the mad woman before he took the gift.

“A feather,” he said dully, unimpressed. He turned it in his fingers. “I suppose it will make for a handsome quill.” He offered, at a loss for what other purpose it could possibly serve.

“Foolish man,” Baba Yaga snapped, her laughter fading as quickly as it had come. “That is the feather of the Firebird. A powerful ally when one has need of one.”

“My thanks then, milady,” Killian bowed a bit in deference, disconcerted by her sudden anger, and placed the feather carefully in his satchel. He was unsure if it would still be there when they returned to reality, or what use a bird could be, but he was unwilling to waste his question to ask, nor did he want to anger her any further, he was already pushing the boundaries of politeness.

“You may ask your question, but consider it carefully against its worth,” Baba Yaga sat, calming and settling into a stool at the side of the room. She arranged her ragged dress and cloak around her withered form and waited.

It was a moment before he asked the question that had been burning him from the inside since all this began, since Zelena had confronted him by the carriage, or perhaps even earlier on the doorstep of the woman he loved, in a strange city, the ghost of her lips mingling with the crushing disappointment that his kiss had failed, that she still didn't remember, that he wasn't the one.

“Where can we find the person with the means to break Emma’s curse? Her-” Killian swallowed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth, gravel in his throat. “-true love.”

Baba Yaga’s eyes burned into him, burned through him. He could feel the heat of them as sharp and hot as the midday sun. Her face was expressionless as she weighed the answer but those eyes glinted with something unidentifiable.

“There is a man, her true love, within half a day’s climb of my Red Sun. He is somewhere between here and there,” she said finally.

Killian’s knees felt like water, his heart a leaden stone in his chest as the last bit of hope he held there drained away. It was one thing to have the Wicked Witch taunt you with your worst fear, or to have the proof of it in failed kisses, but hearing it so plainly spoken, that such a man did actually exist, such a man was here and close and waiting, was another thing entirely. He couldn't even be annoyed at the cryptic answer, that the man existed was enough. Killian swallowed, his eyes stinging, and looked away.

Baba Yaga sat in silence, cupping her hands serenely in her lap and waited.

They were square now, the year of his life regained, the horn and this odd feather won. He could leave it here, cut his losses and go. But he needed more information, they still needed a way home, even if he was unsure of where that place was for him, he knew where Emma belonged. He still had a duty to her, still loved her, despite the truth, as useless and wasted as that love might end up being. And while she might not love him in return, his feelings would remain unchanged, forever. He would keep his promise and get her home. He stood up straighter.

“The last task,” Killian croaked after a long quiet moment. “Let's get on with it.”

“Very well,” Baba Yaga tilted her head and with it the room spun.

_____

When Killian blinked awake the second time it was in a place he did not know. Cold and damp and silent, he squinted against the dim light of torches hung on the wall and took in his new surroundings. It was a crypt of some sort, or a mausoleum, the final resting places of the dead carved into the walls with open shallow caverns where bones and bodies were laid to rest. The floor was covered in them, broken skulls and limbs mixing with rocks and dirt. He shuddered against his will and backed away, his boots sliding against the macabre debris.

“What are we doing here?” He tried to keep his voice level, nonchalant, but it tremored faintly anyway.

Baba Yaga stepped out of the shadows.

“Which one is your Emma?” She asked without preamble.

“What?” Killian gasped out. He whirled back to the wall of graves, his heart thundering. It couldn't be, she couldn't be.

“Which one is your Emma?” Baba Yaga repeated.

She reached out and grabbed a torch from its place on the wall, holding it aloft to cast light across the shallow caves carved into the face of it.

Nine heads of identical golden hair shone in the light, all of them dressed just as Emma had been, the suede pants, the soft leather jerkin, the heels of her sturdy borrowed boots. They all lay there serene, peaceful, nine pairs of small delicate hands clasped across nine stomachs. Killian wanted to scream seeing them there, all of them looking like Emma, like her body, tucked away on identical stone beds in the repose of death, not one of them different than any other. It was a nightmare come to life, seeing the woman he loved dead and in this place, even worse to have the image repeated, over and over again.

He shut his eyes against it. Shook his head in denial, his throat filling with tears and terror in equal measure. It was like being ripped open, a cold hand reaching into his chest and squeezing. He could barely breathe with the weight of it.

“You didn't-” he gasped out and shook his head again. “Not her. It’s not her. None of them are her.” The weight of her question pressed against his denials, his Emma was among them she had said. HIS Emma was laying there as dead as all the other unfortunate souls that covered the floor. She was Bone Mother, she struck down the unworthy, she burned them in her oven or killed them with her tricks and now his Emma was lying in one of these graves.

“Do you wish to know the truth?” Baba Yaga asked curiously.

“Yes,” he answered before he could think, needing to know. He was too desperate to curse himself for being so careless, too anguished to care.

“None of those you see before you are the Emma of the flesh but one of them is the Emma of your heart. She is safe. Now. Which Emma is your Emma?” She repeated, her voice emotionless.

Killian almost staggered with relief at the words. It wasn't real. None of this was real. Emma was safe somewhere outside of this nightmare, she was alive and well. This was an illusion, a dream just as the ship had been. His eyes snapped open in realization.

“If I answer to pass the test, I give another year,” he turned on her accusingly. “Either way I lose, again.”

Baba Yaga shrugged, indifferent, almost lazy, the flame of the torch in her grip bobbing with the action.

“There is no rule against it,” she pointed out. “You did not set those terms.”

“I thought it was bloody obvious you cheating-” Killian had to clench his fist to keep from striking out at the woman, anger hot and stifling overriding all his fear and relief.

“The deed remains the deed. Fail it and forfeit. Win and you lose nothing and gain my gifts,” she said. “Now. Enough. Which Emma is your Emma?”

Killian closed his eyes again, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to rip her throat out, frustration and rage sweeping over him in a dark tide. She was right though. He hadn't specified, he should have known. He was a fool to think he could win this outright, a fool to think the deck was not stacked against him from the start.

He had to win. He needed the answers. Needed to get back to Emma, get away from this foul creature and her games, needed to get them home. The year of his life didn't matter, but if he won they would be even, three questions apiece, three answers each. He didn't care to have a year of the witch’s life, he just wanted it to end.

He took a deep steadying breath and stepped towards the wall.

Each of them were identical as far as he could see, down to the smallest detail. All beautiful, all Emma. The slope of her nose, the tiny indent of her chin, the soft luster of her hair. He took another breath and stepped closer.

He couldn't smell her. The air of the crypt was foul with decay and the musty scent of ancient things. Nor could he look in her eyes and know. If he could see their eyes he had no doubt he could see the truth in them.

Killian closed his own, trying to think. She had said it was the Emma of his heart.

“Whatever that bloody means,” he muttered to himself. He tried to focus, to feel something, anything, some hint or sign. There was no magical pull, no internal sixth sense, no guiding light to show him the way. His body was utterly silent, just the harshness of his even angry breaths, overly loud in the silence of the crypt, and the thundering of the blood in his ears.

Killian was familiar with following his heart. As black as it was at times he had let it guide him, had rarely questioned it, or the path it had taken him on. Not until the day it was pulled in opposing directions, one leading to vengeance, the other to a small fierce woman and her improbable family had he even paid it any mind. He had always just trusted it to guide him, from shore to shore, one foot in front of the other. Nothing changed now. He supposed it didn't matter anyway, the Emma of his heart was whichever Emma he chose. Or at least he hoped that was the way of it.

He stepped forward at random and reached out to the one in the center. His hand brushed the silk skin of her cheek, still warm even in the chill of the tomb. His fingers traced down, and pressed against the smooth curve of her lips, thumbed at the hollow of her chin.

“This one,” he said hoarsely, his eyes still closed, knowing it was true before he spoke the words aloud. “This is my Emma.”

“Your gift, Captain,” Baba Yaga said softly. He turned to face her. She looked kinder in the torchlight, sympathetic even. It did nothing to quiet his anger, or the remnants of fear and sadness at war within him. She smiled at him softly and held out a small green bottle.

He looked at her in question, but didn't ask it, knowing it was pointless anyway.

“Memory potion,” she said as he took it, the glass cold in his hand. “To help when needed, as the feather is.”

“Suppose that could be useful,” he acknowledged stiffly, putting it into his satchel with the feather. “In case our disguises fail us.”

“Or if one just needed to forget,” she said slyly. Killian clenched his teeth. “It has many purposes for many things my boy. Now, your question, if it pleases you.”

Killian hesitated, his gaze flickering to the Emma he had chosen, his Emma according to the test. He should ask for the way home, for more information on the True Love that awaited her somewhere in this time, in this realm, apparently near enough to require less than half a day's ride. He had one more question though when they returned, when he collected Emma and the horn, and so he asked the only question he could, the only answer that he truly needed. The answer he needed to go forward.

“Will she be happy,” his voice was soft and rasping, echoing off the walls of the crypt. “Will Emma be happy?”

Again, Baba Yaga looked at him as if she could see into his soul. The soft smile pulling her lips across her yellow teeth once more.

“Noble,” she murmured quietly. “I told you, Captain.”

“Answer the question,” he bit out.

“On the day that potion is used-” Baba Yaga said motioning towards his bag. “-she will be happier than she has ever been.”

The strap of the satchel around his shoulder suddenly felt impossibly heavy, digging into his flesh through the fabric of clothing.

“Used on who?” He asked. Baba Yaga just looked at him, expressionless and he ground his teeth in frustration.

“Is this your final question?” She smirked. Killian didn't answer. He couldn't use the last question on that, he had to know how to get them back. He clenched his teeth harder.

“Take us back, witch,” he snapped instead. “So we can get the horn, ask my question, and be on our way.”

“Very well,” Baba Yaga tilted her head again, and the room spun.

____

#cs ff #cs mc ff #captain swan #cs fanfic #cs fanfiction #cs canon divergence #wwwos #my fic #my writing

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latetovarricsparty · 8 years ago

Text

That day in the library

Fenris and Jerrika (Rogue) Hawke - took a week, but they worked it out. :-)

About 4 pages...

Fenris was….content? He wondered at the word. One thing he was sure of, here at Hawke’s estate, he had never felt so completely at ease. He was with Hawke at her estate. Cold rain beat against the windows of the library, but they were comfortable by the fire. Fenris was leaning against the settee, bare feet stretched out to the heat from the hearth. His head was back against a pillow, eyes closed,as he listened to Hawke’s voice. She sat with her back to the fire, close to his outstretched legs but not actually making contact, conjugating Tevene verbs. Or trying to. Fenris chuckled quietly. “Try again,” he said, “that time you weren’t even close.”

“You love this don’t you?” she poked his leg playfully with the tip of the quill.

“That I have finally found an activity at which you do not naturally excel? I don’t know what you mean,” Fenris chuckled again, “Now start over.”

The lessons had come about because of an argument at The Hanged Man months ago. Hawke had goaded him into losing his temper and shouting at her in Tevene. In return she pounded her fist on the table and told him that she was tired of being harassed in words she didn't understand. So Fenris had said that he would teach her. It was a dare. One Hawke couldn’t pass up. In truth it was simply the perfect way to spend time with her alone. Hawke was never going to learn Tevene. The only thing worse than her pronunciation was her syntax. He just liked to sit here, listening to her voice, not thinking too much about anything.

Jerrika had thought Fenris was joking when he offered to teach her. Instead he showed up at the estate the very next day. They quickly set ground rules. No arguing in the library and wine would be poured in goblets not gulped straight from the bottle. Once a week they sat here on the floor, both knowing it was just an excuse to be together in a quiet place. Jerrika was well aware the lessons were futile. She was terrible at it. Now she was scribbling conjugations on a piece of paper hoping that, by writing them as she said them, she would be more likely to remember. “Fenris, was any of that one right?” she asked as she got to the end of a particularly difficult irregular verb, “Fenris?” Jerrika looked up from the parchment, and felt a little flutter in her chest. Fenris was asleep.

He was still not comfortable enough with her to even remove his gauntlets when he was here, but had somehow relaxed to the point where he could drift off. Hawke sat quiet. It was almost two years since he had left her. An ache she felt everyday. Hawke wanted to curl up beside him with her head on his lap and just be with him, but she couldn’t risk startling him.

Instead Hawke took a moment to just look at Fenris. He was so beautiful it made her heart hurt. Unruly mop of white hair, endlessly kissable lips, long lean limbs. Hawke hated to admit it, even allow the thought, she would gladly do anything she could, endure any pain, to spare Fenris that ritual, but the lyrium markings were beautiful in their own way. Jerrika noted the red scarf around his wrist and the Hawke family crest he wore on his belt, ever present symbols of...what? That he was hers in every important way. They had each other’s loyalty, trust, and protection. If he wasn’t ready to let her love him too, she would wait. Sometimes it seemed a small thing, it was enough just for him to be part of her day. Other times it was torture, and Hawke would lie awake in the dark remembering his hands on her body, the touch of his lips, the taste of his skin, and find herself frustrated and empty.

Now, in the quiet of the library, rain beating on the window, a lazy roll of distant thunder, she could tell him anything. Fenris wouldn’t hear her. Yet he would. “Fenris,” she said, her voice louder than she had intended, “I know you are worth the wait. I am yours, as long as it takes.” Fenris’ breath hitched a bit but he didn’t wake. Jerrika realized she was ‘watching him sleep.’ If he stirred now Fenris would be embarrassed at the very least. Hawke flipped over the book she had been leaning on to write her conjugations. It was one she had read before but she wasn't going to pay much attention to it anyway. She was content to just be in this space.

Jerrika had only read a few pages when she noticed the wind beginning to rise. The thunder grew louder and the rain banged against the windows. Fenris twitched in his sleep. His markings glowed dully. He was dreaming, and it wasn’t pleasant. Hawke wanted to wake him but she was afraid to startle him awake. Her hand hovered over his legs. “Fenris,” she said, gently, “wake up.”

Instead of waking he started to mumble in Tevene. Quietly at first then louder. Hawke leaned forward to reach for Fenris’ hand, the metal of the gauntlet would be the best way, she hoped, to wake him and keep him calm at the same time. “Fenris,” she said, her fingertips barely touching the metal, “you need to wake up.” He flailed suddenly then launched himself at her.

Hawke was just quick enough to untangle her legs and tuck her chin before her head hit the floor, the wind knocked out of her. Fenris had grabbed for Hawke’s throat but had her by the shoulder instead, the points of the gauntlet digging in, not breaking skin but leaving bruises that would last, though she would never tell him this, for weeks. He was looking at her, but he wasn’t seeing her, he wasn’t ‘there’. His markings glowed, and Fenris was pulling his hand back. To punch her in the face or rip her heart out, it didn’t matter. He was so strong, he would kill her either way. Somehow she was more scared for him than for herself. If he hurts me he’ll never forgive himself.

Hawke only had a moment. She slid her hand along the bare skin on the inside of Fenris’ left arm. She could only hope he would recognize her touch. “Fenris,” she pleaded, “It’s me. It’s Hawke.”

It was too late to pull the punch, but he managed to redirect it. A flash of the red scarf beside Hawke’s head, the gauntlet crashed down. Metal spikes gouged the floor, strands of white hair pulled from her braid and tangled in the points. Hawke kept her eyes on his face. Fenris was present again, but the look in his eyes was tortured. “What did I do?” He asked desperately. Fenris pulled her to a sitting position, ran his hands up and down her arms, carefully touched her hair, “Did I-? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” Hawke replied more calmly than she felt, “you were dreaming.” Jerrika extended her hand toward him, palm up, in case he wanted to take it.

He didn’t. “I thought you were-” Fenris scrambled to his feet. “I need to go.”

Jerrika gained her feet as well. “Fenris, it’s all right,” she didn’t bother to reach for him again, it always made him more angry when she tried to comfort him. “I know you weren’t trying to hurt me.”

“Except that I did. I was going to-” Fenris was talking with his hands again, “I can’t trust myself,” He looked at Hawke earnestly, “You can’t trust me not to hurt you.”

Hawke could see where the conversation was going. Wearily she said, “That’s just an excuse to go off and brood,” Jerrika couldn’t believe she had said it out loud.

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. He was hurt and angered. Justifiably so. Hawke had seen the look before. He was about to start shouting at her, probably in Tevene, and then he would leave. Be gone for days. He might not come back at all, certainly not for quiet afternoons in the library. Quickly she tried to fix it. “I’m sorry, Fenris, that wasn’t fair.” He took a breath to reproach her, and Hawke said, “Wait.” she gave him a guilty half-smile, “No arguing in the library.”

Fenris rubbed his forehead in exasperation, “You don’t understand.”

“No. I don’t,” Jerrika said simply, “because you are not ready to explain it to me,” Hawke stepped closer to him, “All I want is for you to know that you aren’t alone. And that-” she hesitated, it had been so easy to say out loud when he was asleep. Hawke took a deep breath, “you are worth the wait.”

Fenris’ heart beat so loud he was sure Hawke could hear it. He turned away from her. This was too much. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t angry with him. The hate in his heart had very nearly killed her. Fenris felt sick and ashamed. His hand was on the door handle.

“I dream about the Arishok all the time.” Hawke said. Her voice was small in the din of rain on the windows. Fenris turned back to face her. Jerrika had her left hand hooked around the back of her neck, her folded arm pressed against the left side of her chest. A protective gesture that she had adopted since that day. If he had known to ask, Varric could have told him that it was something she did most often when Fenris was in the room. “I wake up unable to breath, sure that I am drowning in blood.” And you aren’t there, she thought. Even though he had been there, on the worst nights she was dying alone.

The battle had been chaos. Hawke and Fenris worked best when they engaged the enemy side by side, then she would slip behind the target to backstab. Somehow, that day of all days, they had gotten separated. Fenris had cut down the last Ashaad and looked over the railing to see the Arishok on his back on the stairs. Hawke had somehow dropped her offhand weapon. The dagger lay on the stairs nearby. Hawke stood over the giant, ready to deal the killing blow. The Arishok scrabbled for the errant dagger, grabbed it by the blade and slashed at Hawke in an attempt to take her with him. The tip of the weapon sliced through leather and flesh across her left breast from the soft spot below her shoulder diagonally towards her core until it slid between her lower ribs as she moved forward, plunging her knife into the Qunari’s neck. The blade in the Arishok's hand had gone deep enough to puncture her lung, nearly killing her. Fenris knew the scars were bad though he hadn’t seen them himself. Anders and Merrill had told him. Hawke never discussed it.

Even now she changed the subject, “How often do you have those…..episodes?”

“Not often, only a handful of times since...” absently he touch the scarf on his wrist, “we found Hadriana.”

They stood there quietly for a moment, just looking at each other. There was so much to talk about, and so little they were ready to say. “Will you stay?” Jerrika asked, her arm still folded against her chest.

“I don’t-”

“You don’t have to talk,” Hawke hurried on, “Just sit. You can ask me questions about Ferelden, or I can read, or….I can butcher some more verbs for you.”

Fenris chuckled, “I think we’ve done enough of that for one day.” He allowed her to lead him over to their space by the fire. She sat next to him now, backs against the settee. Her fingers gently smoothed the scarf on his wrist. Jerrika picked up her book and looked for a good place to start. Fenris took the book from her and set it aside, “You said I could ask questions,” he handed her a fresh cup of wine, “Why is your hair white like mine instead of black like Bethany’s?”

“This mess?,” Hawke said, pulling the twist of leather from the bottom of the braid and combing it out with her fingers, a soft cloud around her face, “I knew you’d be coming along any day,” she batted her eyelashes at him, “I wanted to match.”

“So it is an embarrassing story,” Fenris smiled, “I want to hear it all the more now.”

“Sorry. I can’t tell you.”

“You said I could ask questions.” Fenris repeated.

“But that’s my One Story. The one I can’t tell,” she said. Fenris looked puzzled so she explained, “Varric said you have to have One Story you never tell. He still hasn’t told me about Bianca, you know. So I decided that’s my One Story. It makes me more...mysterious.” Jerrika laughed.

“I’m not sure ‘mysterious’ is the word you are looking for,” Fernis replied gamely.

“I could tell you about the time I was betrayed by a dwarf in the Deep Roads... Wait you were there for that. Or the time I went into the Fade and Merrill was tempted by a demon....nope, you were there for that too. How about the day I met Varric?”

“I have heard that story,” he smiled at her, “many times.”

“You were there for all the important stuff after that.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Jerrika whispered.

“Not necessary.” Fenris looked at Hawke. The moment stretched. He wanted to lean in and kiss her but that wouldn’t be fair. He still wasn’t ready. There was too much anger still in him. “So was it magic or were you so badly frightened your hair turned white?” he asked, deliberately breaking the spell.

“Still can’t tell you,” she grinned.

They sat and talked until late.

About everything.

About nothing.

#Dragon age 2 #fenris #femhawke #Hawke #fan fiction

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