#csssns

[wistfulcynic]

The Eternal and Unseen (3 of 4)

SO yeah. The chapter count has grown. There’s a lot going on here. David has a backstory. Emma and Killian have a mission. IT’S A LOT and it needs more words. 

CW: This chapter contains minor (and canon compliant) character death and a potentially distressing scene involving the accidental death of a child. It’s not graphic but it is emotional so be prepared. 

As ever, thanks to @ohmightydevviepuu for plotting with me and @thisonesatellite and @katie-dub for general amazingness and @optomisticgirl​ and @spartanguard​ for the prompts and the always-enthusiastic responses 😘

And @carpedzem​ for another absolutely stunning drawing. SEE BELOW. 

SUMMARY: Misthaven University is an ancient place, and as all ancient places do it guards some secrets. Secrets such as Emma Swan and Killian Jones, a fae princess and her royal guardian, whose true identities are well concealed behind the guise of average college students—if not quite well enough to foil the plot their enemies have hatched against them. Now their friends will have to come together, putting their own differences aside to battle an enemy that threatens them all—fae and vampire and werewolf together… plus one very baffled human named David.

For @cssns​

AO3 | tumblr part one | tumblr part two 

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(I MEAN. WHAT. SO PERFECT.)

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PART THREE:

They returned to Andersen just as twilight was creeping across the sky and the moon rising into it, heavy and dark gold as it crested the forest trees. Emma watched it through the window of her room, where she and Killian and David had retreated to rest a bit and collect themselves before deciding on their next move. The others had also gone to their rooms rest and prepare, and now David sat on Emma’s bed with his hands clasped in his lap and his shoulders tight as Killian made Emma a cup of tea and she frowned at the moon. 

David watched in silence as Killian approached Emma and offered her a steaming cup. She accepted it with a smile and a cheek turned up to meet the kiss he dropped on it, in a gesture so comfortable and natural it gave David’s heart a little twinge. He wondered how he could ever have thought they weren’t right for each other when the depth and intensity of their love was so very, very obvious. 

But then he was becoming aware that there were in fact a great many obvious things in this world that he hadn’t been able to see. It was not a comfortable thought. 

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “I get that you’ve both got a lot of thinking to do right now. But could you—is there time for you just to explain a few things first? Like exactly what the hell is going on? I feel like everyone knows what’s happening here but me.” 

“That shouldn’t be a new feeling for you,” remarked Killian with a smirk. David sighed. 

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair. I’m not sure how I missed so much of what was happening around me, but I see it now and I’d like to understand it.”

Emma and Killian exchanged a glance. 

“What exactly have you seen?” Emma asked. 

“Visions?” David said uncertainly. “Of the past? Killian made me drink something purple and then I started seeing things.” 

“Something purple?” Emma frowned. 

“Yeah. He put some grey powder and a crushed up leaf into a beaker full of something Victor gave him, and it turned purple. And started to smoke,” said David.

“You gave him purple willow bark?” Emma turned to Killian in alarm.

“Aye,” Killian replied. “Along with the sap from one of Jane’s leaves.”  

“Oh.” Emma relaxed. “Well, that was the right choice of leaf at least.” 

“I do listen when you talk about the plants, love.”  

“Hmmm,” said Emma. “And how did you feel afterwards?” she asked David. 

“I—kind of passed out.” 

Emma nodded. “I’m not surprised. Purple willow packs a punch. Normally we blend a few herbs into the emulsifier to soften its effects, but there’s no way Killian could have known the correct ones. He did the best he could in the circumstances.” She gave Killian a smile that tried hard to be sardonic. “This time, though, I’ll give you the gentler version.” 

David started. “This time?” 

“Well, yeah,” said Emma. “It’s the easiest way to give you the information you need. We could explain, I suppose, but it’s really best if you see it for yourself. Especially if you want to know your own history.” 

“My… own history?” 

Emma nodded, her expression sorrowful and soft with sympathy. “Yeah. You’ve seen the history of the fae and the Guardians, now you need to understand where you fit into that.” 

“Killian—” David cleared his throat. “Killian said I’m a—a Guardian? Like he is?” 

“Yeah you are. But as you’ve probably guessed there’s more to it than that. Are you ready to See?” 

David swallowed hard. Part of him still wanted to say no, to deny all of this and run, back to yesterday when things had made sense. But a bigger part of him knew he needed to know, and to understand why all these crazy things that were happening to him seemed less and less crazy the more he thought about them. The more he thought. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.” 

~

It’s less abrupt this time, smoother, as though he’s drifting in a boat on a misty sea. The mist clears and the sea recedes and he is standing at the edge of a wood, with fields at his back and before him trees that reach up to the sky, tall and straight as in the forest of the fae council, only now they frame not an ancient round stone but a house. It’s a nice house if rather a small one, humble but homey, made of wood and fronted by a well-kept garden with a creek running through it. Something about the house tickles at David’s memory—though no, not his memory exactly, more a feeling… the sense that he has been here before. 

He blinks and finds himself inside the house, in a cramped bedroom where a woman lies back against rumpled pillows, exhausted, cradling a tiny newborn baby in her arms. Slowly she traces the curve of the baby’s cheek with the tip of her finger, her eyes alight with wonder. 

“James,” she whispers. “Your name is James.” 

“And who is this one?” asks a voice. David turns to see another woman, plain and sturdy and with kind eyes, holding up another tiny bundle. This second bundle she places gently in the crook of the woman’s other arm. 

“David,” says the woman on the bed. “This one is David.” 

David gasps and his eyes fly to the woman, but before he can get a good look at her the scene is shifting and he sees the babies—himself and his brother—his brother—now toddlers, running through the woods behind the house. He knows, somehow, which is himself and which is James—though their faces are identical, James’s wears an expression of recklessness and mischief as he runs as fast as his young legs can take him to the edge of the creek that comes out from the woods to cut across the corner of their garden. Young David follows, his tiny face crumpling as he calls out to his brother, and David now can feel the terror of his younger self as he sees James slip on the slick rocks that border the creek, hears his brother’s cry, abruptly silenced as his head hits the stones… David sees his own young legs move as fast as they can—faster than they should—but still far too slowly. He hears a heartrending scream, feels the flurry of movement as his mother runs from the garden—she turned her back for the briefest moment—and David looks away. His toddler self is bawling and he cannot watch it, cannot listen to his mother’s broken sobs… this, he thinks, this must be why she never told him that he had a twin. Her cries are unearthly as she cradles James’s tiny form, and they echo in David’s aching chest as he squeezes his eyes shut and wills the scene to change. 

It does, and when he looks again he’s back inside the house where it is clear that time has passed—though it cannot be much; David’s younger self is older now but by a few months or so, no more. He is in the bedroom again, where a man with a very familiar square chin and blond hair arms himself for battle, while David’s mother sits on the bed and pleads for him to stay. 

“You know that I can’t, Ruth,” the man says, “The call has come, and my duty—” 

“Oh, your duty!” Ruth cries. “You’re not even the chosen Guardian!” 

“But I am a guardian,” he insists. “I must go to battle when called. And David—” 

“David is a child!” 

“A child with a bounden duty, the same as my own. You knew this when you married me.” 

“I know. I know I did but I can’t bear it now,” sobs Ruth. “I can’t, Robert. Not so soon after James.” 

Robert takes her face gently in his hands and kisses her. “I will return,” he says softly. “I promise, my love.”  

But David knows, even without being shown by the vision, that he never did. 

The scene shifts again. Very little time has passed, David can tell, but the change in his mother is heartbreaking. She is wan, gaunt, lying listlessly on the sofa with no expression in her eyes, and David can feel the worry of his toddler self as he makes a show of playing quietly on the floor, but with far more attention on his mother than his toys. She is weakened by despair and fragile from her losses, and young though he is, David is afraid for her. 

There is a knock at the door but his mother makes move to answer or even acknowledge it. It’s David who toddles over and cries “Come in!” 

The door opens to admit a woman, pale and blonde and green-eyed. Her face resembles Emma’s though considerably older, and she lacks the determined chin, the stubborn glint in the eye that Emma has. 

His mother’s eyes flit briefly to the woman then away, and she makes no move to rise. “Princess Angharad,” she says flatly. 

“Ruth,” replies the woman, coming to stand next to the sofa. Her stern expression softens in sympathy and, David thinks, a hint of pity. “I’m so very sorry.” 

“I’m sure you are,” sneers Ruth. “You lost a fine warrior, after all.” 

David gapes—never in his life has he heard his mother speak so rudely. Angharad’s expression does not change. 

“Your sacrifice has been great—” she begins, but Ruth interrupts her.

“Yes it has,” she says sharply. “And it won’t be any greater. I’m taking David and I am leaving this place.” 

Angharad’s eyebrows rise then snap together in a frown. “Leaving!” she exclaims.

“Yes.” 

“But—you know that David has been chosen as the Guardian for my granddaughter, Emma.” 

“Yes I do.” 

“His selection was a great honour.”  

“Yes it was. And I refuse it. You can’t have him.” 

“Ruth—” 

“No!” There’s fire in Ruth’s eyes now, sparking dangerously as she sits up straight to glare at the princess. “You’ve taken my husband. I’ve lost my son. David is all I have left, you will not take him from me too!” 

“But the Guardian—” 

“Choose another.” 

Angharad steps backwards and nearly stumbles into the armchair next to the sofa. She twists her hands together in her lap. “It is your right, as you know, to make this refusal on behalf of your minor child,” she says. “But I would urge you, strongly urge you to reconsider.” 

“I won’t.” Ruth’s jaw is set. “My mind is made up.” 

The princess’s own jaw is tight, her eyes troubled. “There is another who might do,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Closer in age to Emma than we generally prefer and with certain… troubling portents, but if you are truly adamant…” She darts a glance at Ruth. 

“I am,” Ruth confirms. Angharad nods. She looks up again and this time holds Ruth’s gaze.

“And what is your intention, when you leave us?” she asks. “Where will you go?”

“Into the human world. I’m going to raise my son among his own kind, humans who have no obligation to the fae or any knowledge of darkness or covenants. He’ll grow up as far away from magic as I can get him.” 

Angharad’s face is sorrowful now. “I cannot agree with this decision, as much as I sympathise with why you have taken it. This recent battle has brought great losses to many of our human allies. For that I am boundlessly sorry.” 

“I don’t accept your apology,” says Ruth stiffly. “Although I do acknowledge it.” 

“That is fair.” Angharad nods. She straightens her shoulders and looks at Ruth again. “Before I go and with your permission, I would bestow on you one final gift.” 

Ruth’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “What sort of gift?” 

Angharad looks at young David, still playing on the floor and listening, older David is certain, to every word. “The human world is not like ours but there is still magic there, and David with his heritage and the distinction that should have been his will find himself drawn to it,” she explains. “I can—close his mind, as it were, to the perception of that magic, make it far more difficult for him to see and easier to rationalise if he does see it.” 

“You want to mess with my son’s head,” says Ruth flatly.

“In a manner of speaking,” Angharad concedes. “It’s not normally something I would do especially to a child so young, but understand me well, Ruth—underestimating the pull of his heritage, of two hundred generations of Guardians, would be a grave mistake. Even with this spell upon him he may still find himself drawn by magic. You cannot keep him from it by your will alone.” 

“Fine,” Ruth spits. “Do what you like.” 

Angharad approaches young David with a kind smile and kneels beside him. 

“What’s that you’re playing with?” she asks. 

“Lego!” he exclaims. “It’s a castle!” 

“And a very fine one too,” Angharad murmurs, with such sadness in her eyes David’s heart aches. She brushes the hair from his forehead then lets her hand rest there as she murmurs a few words. David feels his younger mind blur and shift and resettle. The toddler’s eyes go hazy and he blinks them slowly, and when the princess removes her hand he returns to his toys, blithely building his castle as though she were not even there. 

Angharad rises to her feet. “I shall take the sword now,” she says briskly. 

Ruth gets up from the sofa and disappears through the bedroom door. When she returns she is carrying a long sword—the same sword David last saw belted around his father’s waist. The one that is now in his own possession. 

“What will you do with it?” Ruth asks, thrusting the sword at Angharad.  

“Keep it safe,” she replies. “It rightfully belongs to your son, and to his descendants. One day perhaps one of them might wish to claim it.” 

“I hope not,” says Ruth. “With every fibre of my being I hope it.” 

“That is your right, and your prerogative,” replies Angharad. “As it is mine to hope that despite everything that has come to pass, one day David may take it up again, and find his way back to us.”

~

Emma sat in her armchair with her legs curled beneath her and a cup of tea steaming gently in her hand, watching the images flickering in her scrying mirror. David was lying in her bed, his eyes moving frantically beneath closed lids and his limbs twitching as he re-lived his history. Killian and Harriet both sat at his beside, ready to react should anything go wrong. Emma cast a glance at them, smiling fondly at the sight of one of Harriet’s fronds curled gently around Killian’s neck, stroking the nape of it as Emma herself liked to do. Killian gave a little hum at the tickling caress but did not look up from the book that lay open in his lap. 

Emma turned her attention back to the mirror. The images it revealed confirmed her suspicions, but something about the whole business still troubled her, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She frowned as she went back over some of the images, playing them again, willing herself to see what she was missing. 

Harriet unfurled one of her vines—not the one standing ready to protect David or the one fondling Killian (Harriet was an excellent multi-tasker) and with the closest thing to a long-suffering sigh a plant can muster tapped the tip of a leaf against one of the posters Emma had blu-tacked to the wall. The one that outlined the lunar cycles of the year 2020. Another leaf gestured emphatically at the window, where the golden moon was still rising in the sky.

“Of course,” breathed Emma. “That’s it.”  

Killian looked up from his book. “That’s what, love?” 

“I’ve just figured out what’s been bothering me about this whole thing,” Emma exclaimed. Harriet huffed and folded her vine as a person might fold their arms across their chest. “Okay, okay,” laughed Emma, “it was Harriet who figured it out.” 

“Naturally.” Killian gave Harriet a little scratch behind her leaf. 

“But it all makes sense now,” Emma continued. “Things I couldn’t find a good explanation for, like why those women would kidnap me and why my instincts would tell me they were deadly dangerous when every other sign indicates that they’re really, really not.” She set her teacup down on her desk and leapt to her feet, dropping an absent kiss on Killian’s cheek as she headed for the door. “You stay here until David wakes up, okay? It should only be a few more minutes. I need to go talk to Belle.” 

~

Angharad’s final words echo in his ears as the scene shifts around her, and though her face appears unchanged David senses she is now some years older. This seems confirmed by the young woman seated in front of her, a blonde and green-eyed fae that is, finally, Emma. 

She’s so young, David thinks, with a small twinge beneath his heart, though this cannot be more than a few years in the past. Emma’s face is rounder and her hair less styled, though he can see the seeds of the woman he knows in the stubborn set to her girlish jaw and the wilful spark in her eyes. She’s dressed in a long split skirt and a fitted leather jerkin in her trademark red, which even with his limited knowledge from these visions David recognises as a traditional fae style, updated for the modern world, and he is not surprised that this is something young Emma might choose to wear. She sits on a wide, cushioned seat in a large room where the walls appear to be formed of tightly twisted tree branches with tall windows and a wooden door set into them. David reflects for a moment how a mere twenty-four hours ago such decor would have astonished him, then returns his attention to Angharad and to Emma.

“Now that you are about to come of age,” the elder fae is saying, “it’s high time you met your Guardian.” 

“Ugh. Do I have to?” 

Emma manages not to whine but David can tell it’s a near thing. She crosses her arms over her chest and it’s plain to see her lower lip wants badly to pout. 

“Don’t you want to?” Angharad looks shocked. 

“No, actually,” Emma retorts. “I don’t need a man to take care of me.” 

“He is not a man, he’s your Guardian,” her grandmother scolds, “and his job is not to ‘take care of you.’ It is to protect you.” 

“I don’t need that either!” 

Angharad’s expression says plainly that she is holding tight to her patience. “Emma, the most recent battles are within your lifetime—” 

“Barely,” Emma mutters.

“—and despite your gifts for scrying you cannot predict with certainty when there might be another. After the loss of both your parents and so many of our kind we simply cannot afford to be without our Guardians should we find ourselves again under attack. Without their aid fae kind would have been lost thousands of years ago, and indeed as the covenants say—” 

“All right, all right,” groans Emma. “For the love of the goddess, don’t start quoting the covenants. I’ll accept this Guardian and do what is required of me. But you canNOT make me need him!” 

“I will pray that you never do,” says Angharad, now with a twinkle of humour behind her stern expression. 

A knock sounds at the door, and she goes to open it. A young man enters the room, mid-twenties at David’s estimate and moving with a distinct stiffness in his right leg. “Ah, good day to you, Captain Jones,” Angharad greets him warmly. “Do come in. But where is your brother?” 

“Outside looking at your horses,” says the man with a sigh. He continues to speak but David doesn’t hear his words—he has noticed Emma slip quietly from the room and he follows her. She creeps down a narrow hallway and through a door at the back of the dwelling. Once outside she darts through a sparse scattering of trees, heading for a long, low building that David gathers to be the stables. Just as she approaches the broad stable door it flies open and a boy strides through it, colliding with Emma and barely managing to catch her before she can fall. 

“Oh!” she cries and the boy grunts, blinking startled blue eyes as he gazes down at her. Her own eyes widen and for a moment they stand frozen, his arms around her waist and her hands on his chest, staring at each other in helpless fascination—until the boy blinks rapidly and clears his throat as he steps back. 

Killian—because of course it’s he—scratches nervously behind his ear. 

“Um,” he says, “er... ah…” 

“Eloquent,” teases Emma, who has by all appearance regained her composure—though David notes the bright flush in her cheeks and the breathiness of her voice. “You must be Killian Jones.” 

“Aye,” he replies, collecting his wits and giving her a hesitant smile. “And you are of course the princess Emma.” 

“I am.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, lass.” 

“The pleasure is all yours,” retorts Emma. Killian looks first startled, then affronted, then captivated, all within a few blinks of an eye. A delighted grin spreads across his face, with just a hint of the smirk he will perfect in years to come. 

Emma herself blinks at that grin, and the flush on her cheeks deepens. “You should know from the start that I don’t need a Guardian,” she declares, attempting to cover her discomfiture with a haughty glare. “I can take care of myself.” 

“Oh yes,” says Killian. His gaze travels slowly down her form and back up again. “I don’t doubt that you can.” 

“Oh.” Emma scowls at his easy acquiescence and also, David imagines, at the way he’s looking at her—as though she’s the most brilliant thing he’s ever seen. She shifts uncomfortably as Killian moves closer. 

“But however capable you may be, Your Highness,” he says, his voice dropping lower and his expression hardening, “and regardless of whether or not you want one, you’ve got a Guardian. Me.” He leans in closer still and David can hear Emma’s breath catch. “And I intend to take my duties very, very seriously.” 

“But I don’t need you!” Emma snaps. There’s frustration in her tone and temper in her eyes, though she doesn’t, David notices, back away. 

“And I don’t care.” 

They are so close now their noses are nearly touching and the air crackles with the tension between them. David is all too familiar with these battles of wills of theirs, having witnessed many firsthand in the dorm, but this one, the first one, is the most intense of all. He holds his own breath as he watches them take the measure of each other, notes the rapid rise and fall of their chests and the way their eyes are locked, how Killian’s hand curls around Emma’s hip and hers slides up his chest without either of them noticing. He begins to feel as though he should look away—this moment is too intimate for him to witness—but then Angharad’s voice cries “Emma!” from the direction of the house and she and Killian wrench themselves apart. 

They stare at each other for a moment as they attempt to catch their breaths, then Emma gives her hair a toss. 

“Well,” she huffs, “have it your way, I guess. You can follow me around if you like, I can’t stop you, but you’re going to look pretty stupid when you show up to save me and find I’ve already saved myself.” 

Killian laughs, loud and bright. “I’m prepared to take that chance, princess,” he says. 

The scene shimmers and resolves into two figures walking through the woods. One is Killian and the other his brother, the man whom Angharad addressed earlier as Captain Jones. His limp is more pronounced now, a halting gait caused by the stiff way he holds his right leg and his clear reluctance to put weight on it, as though the knee cannot be fully trusted. The two of them emerge from the trees and out onto a narrow road where a car is parked. David notes the way Killian moderates his own pace to match his brother’s, unconsciously, walking slowly despite the buzz of nervous energy that is rolling off him in waves.

They approach the car and Killian removes a set of keys from his pocket to unlock it, then gets behind the wheel while his brother with effort eases himself into the passenger seat. There’s a scowl on Killian’s face and his movements are jerky as he puts the car in gear; his brother has been lecturing him and he is clearly displeased. David hasn’t been listening to their words but he concentrates on them now, just in time to hear Killian snap “Bloody hell, Liam—” 

“Language!” 

“—I only met her today! We spoke for less than five minutes! Don’t you think it’s a bit premature to be warning me away from her!” 

“I wish it were,” Liam mutters. “Sometimes five minutes is all it takes.” 

Killian grips the steering wheel hard with one hand and jams the key into the ignition with the other. “What the devil are you on about?” he grumbles, though the look on his face makes David suspect that he knows full well what Liam is ‘on about’, and that it worries him too. 

Liam sighs. “Look, just—just be careful, little brother.” 

“When am I not careful, and it’s younger brother, if you don’t mind.” 

“Killian.” Liam’s face is intensely solemn, with genuine fear behind his eyes. “You can’t fall in love with her.” 

Killian shoots his brother a glare as he twists the key and the car’s engine roars to life. “I know that,” he snaps, “and I don’t intend to.” 

David nearly laughs. If that’s what has Liam so concerned, his warning’s come far too late. Killian is halfway in love already, and his feelings are a tide that cannot be turned. 

“Well.” Liam shifts uncomfortably in his seat and folds his arms across his chest. “See that you don’t, then.” 

Killian twists the wheel and he car peels away. David doesn’t follow it. He can feel the potion thinning in his veins, the visions receding along with the car’s taillights, leaving him standing in the fading forest wondering what on earth could make the prospect of Killian and Emma falling in love strike such fear into a man like Liam Jones. 

~

David came awake slowly, drifting back to consciousness in that boat on the misty sea. When he opened his eyes he found himself lying on Emma’s bed wrapped in some sort of blanket, warm and quite comfortable and with Killian beside him in a chair, a book open in his lap. He shut the book when he sensed David’s gaze on him, set it aside and offered a smile. 

“How are you feeling, mate?” he asked. 

“Good,” said David, then paused to clear the croak from his voice. “Hell of a lot better than I did after the potion you gave me.” 

“Aye, I don’t doubt it.” Killian chuckled. “ I’m pretty much the furthest thing imaginable from an expert on magic. It was all I could do to remember the basic elements of the potion Angharad gave me when I accepted my Guardian duties.” 

“So you—saw what I did? The visions?”

“I saw what you did the first time,” said Killian. “The fae histories and the origin of the Guardians. That knowledge is given to all of us. These latest visions, though, were for you alone.” 

David moved to sit up only to discover that he couldn’t. What he had taken for a blanket turned out, upon closer examination, to be an enormous, glossy green leaf wrapped tightly around him. 

“What the—” he sputtered. 

“Oh, that’s Harriet,” said Killian, blithely, as though leaves the size of blankets were a thing one found oneself wrapped in as a matter of course. “Don’t worry, she’s friendly. Most of the time.” 

Another leaf appeared in front of David’s face, this one far smaller and with tiny green fronds curling at its base. He could swear it was waving at him. 

“Say hello,” Killian encouraged. 

“Um, hello, uh, Harriet,” said David. The leaf gave a nod. “Um, what’s it—er, she doing here?”

“Keeping you safe.” 

“Oh. Er. Sure. Thanks?” 

 The leaf nodded graciously, then curled around his face and patted him on the head. 

“You see?” said Killian. “She’s a sweetheart. Just don’t get on her bad side.” 

“Um. Why?” 

Killian grinned. “Show him, Harriet.” 

The leaf released David’s head and reappeared in front of his face. As he watched, it gave a sudden flex and thorns appeared across its surface, close-set and a good inch long, sharp as daggers. David gulped. “Oh.” 

“Aye. But don’t worry, she likes you. She generally likes the people Emma likes.” 

“Well that’s, um, good.” 

“That it is.” Killian gave Harriet a pat. “Let him up, now, love.” 

Harriet unfurled her leaf and slid it out from under him. David sat up, groaning and flexing his aching muscles. “Is it normal to feel this sore?” he asked. 

“Oh yes. The visions take quite a lot out of you. But here, Emma left you this.” He held out a cup of a dark and steaming liquid. David accepted it warily, and gave it a sniff. It smelled earthy and sweet, like nothing he’d encountered before, and when he chanced a tentative sip it was delicious. 

“What is this?” he asked, taking a larger drink.

“Infusion of the lesser burdock root,” said Killian. 

“Oh, well that doesn’t sound too—” 

“Fermented in wild boar dung.” 

David choked and spat out his mouthful of liquid, wheezing and coughing as Killian laughed and clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, it’s thoroughly washed before they infuse it,” he said. 

“Yea, that’s not really all that comforting.” 

“Drink it up anyway, mate, it’ll soothe the muscle aches and calm your nerves. Just don’t think too hard about it.” 

David squeezed his eyes shut and gulped down the brew as quickly as he could. Within moments his muscles relaxed and his heart rate slowed. He sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly, then opened his eyes. 

“Better?” inquired Killian. 

“Yeah.” He paused, then added “Physically at least.” 

Killian nodded, and sat back in his chair. “You have questions,” he observed. 

“One or two.” 

“Anything you care to ask, I’ll do my best to answer.” 

David rubbed a hand over his face. There was so much to process in what he’d seen, so much about himself that he had never known. He wondered what Killian knew, wondered how the younger man had managed to identify him as a fellow Guardian. How could he possibly have known? Unless… “How much did you see of… of what I saw today?” he asked.

“I saw none of it, not in visions. I told you, that’s your history and yours alone. But I knew the basic details, about your brother and your father, and the reason your mother took you away from the tribe.” 

“Angharad told you.” 

“Aye.” 

“Because you weren’t supposed to be Emma’s Guardian.” 

Killian shook his head. “No. I wasn’t. Originally it was meant to be my brother Liam.” 

David considered Captain Liam Jones, and his stiff gait. “But he was too badly injured,” he murmured.

“Yes. In the battle that killed your father.” 

David looked up sharply. “But he must have been just a child!” 

“He was ten.” Killian swallowed hard, and when he spoke again his voice was strained. “Too young to fight, but not to young to come under attack. Raiders invaded our house, in search of my father. When Liam told them he had fled, they attacked the both of us. I was barely a year old. Liam shielded me, he wouldn’t let me go no matter what they did to him. Even when they smashed his kneecap beyond repair.” 

David recalled the tiny boy who shared his face, racing towards the creek. It seemed he and Killian had more in common then he’d known. “Why were they after you?” he asked gruffly. “And who’s they?” 

“We don’t know,” said Killian wryly. “They didn’t exactly stick around to effect introductions. We only know that they were humans, enemies of the fae, trying to eliminate a Guardian and his sons.” 

“Your father’s a Guardian?” 

“He was,” Killian spat. “Before he ran away and abandoned us. I don’t know if he’s even alive anymore. I don’t care.” He did care though, David thought. The pain of his father’s betrayal remained sharp, even after so many years. But he said nothing, and Killian continued. “At any rate, Liam was left unable to guard the princess, and so the mantle was passed to you.”

“And when my mother took me away—” 

“It came to me, aye. As the very last of last resorts.” He attempted a laugh. “But it must be said that Angharad was never entirely comfortable with me as Emma’s Guardian. She’s highly gifted with Sight and I think she must have known that there was”—he flushed a bright pink and David bit back a smirk—“the potential for deeper feelings between us. But she had, very literally, no other choice.” 

“Are deeper feelings not allowed? Is that why your brother warned you not to fall in love with Emma?” 

“Ah.” Killian scratched behind his ear. “You saw that, did you? Did you also see—”

“Your and Emma’s first meeting?” David did smirk this time. “Yeah.” 

Killian’s flush deepened. “Aye, she, uh, mentioned she might show that to you.” 

“I’m glad she did, actually,” said David. “It was sweet, really, seeing you nearly swallow your own tongue after one look at her.” 

“I didn’t—” Killian began, then caught David’s sardonic expression. “Well, okay, maybe I did,” he conceded. “That’s not the reason she showed you, though.” 

“It’s because you weren’t supposed to get involved with each other,” said David, just a bit smugly. “And she wanted me to understand why in spite of that, you did. Isn’t that it?”  

“You know, I like you better now that you’re not so bloody dense,” Killian retorted, “but it’s also kind of annoying, you actually seeing the things right in front of your face.” 

“Just answer the question, Jones.” 

“Yes,” said Killian shortly. “You’re right. For a Guardian and his charge to fall in love is expressly forbidden. I could be executed for it.” 

“Executed!” 

Killian shrugged. “It’s happened before.” 

“And yet you don’t seem very worried.” 

Killian leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. “Those histories you saw, the war against the Black Fairy and the Guardian alliances,” he said, “they happened over four thousand years ago.” 

“Four thousand!” 

 “Indeed. So as you might imagine, a lot has changed since then. The fae population has steadily dwindled while the human one has surged. Magic is no longer widely used or even known, and much of fae history has been wiped from official records. Up to and including the original name of this very building.” 

H.C. Andersen, David thinks. Teller of fairy tales. Because what better way to lessen the fear of something than to turn it into a children’s story? 

 “Meanwhile,” continued Killian, “the Guardians also have been whittled away to almost nothing. My brother out of commission and our father gone. Your father and brother both killed and you taken away. And that’s just in these past twenty years. Of the twelve fae tribes four have retreated entirely from human contact and refuse to have Guardians, and the eight who remain have only twenty-one active Guardians among them. A century ago there were hundreds of us. A millennium ago, thousands.”

David considered this. “But doesn’t that just make it even more reckless for you and Emma to give in to—um—” 

“Our lustful desires?” Killian mocked. 

“Well, er—” 

“Aye, you might well imagine it would,” Killian replied, dropping the mockery with a sigh. “Except that there’s no one left to pass judgement on us. A ruling of execution would have to be proposed and carried by the Fae Council, which hasn’t been convened for centuries. I’m not sure anyone would even know how to convene it if they wanted to. The covenants that we follow are thousands of years old, made in and for a different time. They no longer suit the needs of anyone, fae or human, but of course only the Fae Council has the power to amend them.” 

“Of course,” murmured David, though he found it rather comforting that fae bureaucracy was apparently as useless as the human version. 

“Something has to change,” said Killian, “but no one knows exactly what or how or who is going to change it. So Emma and I decided that we would. Who better than the protector of the tywyll stone and her Guardian to make the decisions that need making? No one has more authority than we do, and we intend to use it. That’s why we’re not afraid anymore to make our relationship known. We’ll face whatever consequences may come and we’ll fight for each other. We’re prepared to do whatever is necessary to build a world where we can be together and be happy.” 

He spoke so calmly and with such assurance, David thought, like there was no doubt in his mind of his feelings or of Emma’s. David thought of Snow—her face as always bright and beautiful and at the forefront of his mind—and a twisty tangle of yearning tightened in his chest. 

“Well, I’m on your side,” he said. “For whatever that’s worth.” 

Killian smiled. “It’s worth quite a lot, mate. For us personally but also because you’re a Guardian. That’s a heritage that can’t be erased; even though you didn’t grow up with it, it’s still yours. Your sword recognised you. You recognised Emma. And Snow, who, by the way, is also a fae princess. You know, just in case you were interested.” His eyes twinkled with mischief as David shot him a sharp look.

“Does—” David cleared his throat. “Does she have a Guardian?” 

“She does. Chap by the name of Lance. Big fellow, many muscles.” 

“I see. But he’s not, er, here?” 

“He’s nearby,” said Killian. “Ready to respond in an instant if he’s called. Guardians don’t actually have to live so close to their charges as Emma and I do, but—well—” 

“You wanted to be near each other.” 

“Aye.” 

David had so many more questions, dozens of them clamouring for his attention, but before he could ask any the door swung open and Emma appeared. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said. “Everything all right?” 

“Uh, yeah,” David replied. “I think so.” 

“Good, because I think I know what’s going on here. Everyone’s meeting in the common room in five.” 

~

Despite the chill of the night the common room was warm, lit by a bright and crackling fire. David sat on the wide sofa across from the hearth, with Ruby next to him and Graham on her other side. August lounged in the armchair in the corner and Killian in the one next to the fireplace, while Victor leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Emma stood in front of the fire with Belle hovering at her side, just visible in the orange light of the flames. Snow wasn’t there—she had volunteered to stay back in the forest to guard the women in their tree-branch prison. David wished she hadn’t—there were things he desperately wanted to tell her, though he knew that, as she would say, now was not the time. 

Emma was silent for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “So as you all now know, I’m the one who has the tywyll stone,” she said finally, and everyone nodded. “It’s been in my family since the beginning, and it was my ancestor Arianrhod who locked the Black Fairy’s magic into the stone in the first place. All my life I’ve been raised knowing that I would be the stone’s protector and I never once questioned that. It was my heritage, and it was decreed by the covenants. I never questioned any of it, until recently.” She cast a glance at Killian, who gave her a smile and an encouraging nod. “I also didn’t question the instinct that told me to leave the stone behind when those women took me,” she continued. “The instinct that told me that I couldn’t allow the stone to fall into their hands. It wasn’t until I got back home this afternoon that it occurred to me to wonder why. Why would my instincts react so dramatically when those women were so easy to defeat? It troubled me, and the most troubling thing was that I couldn’t figure out why it was troubling. But now I know. It’s their timing.” 

“Timing?” said Ruby. “What do you mean?”

“Okay,” Emma replied, “here’s the deal, everything I was Shown in the scrying mirror. There are three of them, a mother and two daughters. The mother, Cora, she’s human. She’s got no magic and her knowledge of it seems limited to what’s contained in the standard scrolls—the versions of the histories that are available in any human library. She wouldn’t have access to any of the actual fae histories, and if she raised her daughters among humans it’s unlikely they would either.” 

“Sorry,” said David. “But what do you mean by the actual fae histories?”

“The fae store our history in trees,” explained Emma. “Like the purple willow whose bark gave you your visions. The scrolls tell the broad story, but they hold none of the details you get from seeing the events unfold yourself.” 

“So—all of you have seen these visions?” 

“We’ve all seen a version of them,” said Graham. “The ones involving our own ancestors. But the location of the tywyll stone needed to remain secret, so for obvious reasons we weren’t shown the part involving the trapping of the magic.” 

“But then why was I shown that?” 

“Guardians are all shown what you saw,” Killian replied. “We are all descended from Cynbel, the warrior who captured the Black Fairy’s wand.” 

“What, all of us?” 

“All of us. Cousin.” Killian smirked at him. “Cynbel’s tale is the origin of all Guardians, and so we have the right to see it.” 

“So all Guardians know who has the ti—er, the stone?” 

“Yes, and part of our vows include protecting the secret of its location with our lives.” 

“Everything was always about keeping the stone a secret,” said Emma. “So that even if someone did figure out a way to release the Black Fairy’s magic, they wouldn’t know where to look for it.” 

“But somehow this Cora and her daughters figured out where to look for it,” said Ruby. 

“So it seems. But the thing is they don’t actually know what they’re looking for. They don’t even seem to know that the magic is stored in a stone. They only know it’s stored somewhere, and that I have it.” 

“So then they can’t possibly know how to release it,” Ruby cried. 

“Or how to control it even if they did,” Graham pointed out. 

“That’s what it looks like,” agreed Emma. 

“But then why?” Ruby held up her hands in frustration. “Why would she move against you when she’s so unprepared?” 

“That’s exactly what was troubling me,” said Emma. “It didn’t seem to make any sense. She’s so completely unable to do what she plans and yet she’s so confident. Why? And why did my instincts tell me to do whatever I had to in order to keep the stone out of her hands?” 

“Well?” Ruby prodded. “Why?” 

Just then there came the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The door swung open and Snow appeared, rushing into the room followed by a young woman with long, dark hair and bloody scratches covering a face that wore a look of deep apprehension. 

Emma stiffened and threw up her hands, magic sparking and crackling at her fingertips. “What is she doing here?” she snapped. 

“She’s—” began Snow, but Killian was already on his feet. 

“Who is she?” he demanded. 

“One of the women from the forest,” said Emma, and before the words were even fully out of her mouth, the room whirled in a blur of motion. August leapt from his chair as his eyes flared red and his fangs extended. Ruby and Graham’s bodies twisted, fur sprouting from their skin and claws from their fingers, faces elongating into snouts lined with sharp and dripping teeth. Killian drew his sword so fast it was a blur to David’s eyes as he swung it at the woman, stopping a hair’s breadth from her neck. Even Victor stood tense and ready, fingering a razor-honed scalpel he’d retrieved from the goddess knew where, as madness sparked in his eyes. 

“Stop it,” Snow cried, whirling around as she tried to defend against everyone at once. “She’s here as a friend.” 

“She tried to kill me!” snarled Emma, and Killian pressed the edge of his sword against the woman’s skin. She gasped and blinked as a small line of blood appeared beneath it. 

“I—I didn’t,” she stuttered. “I did my best to save you.” 

“That’s not what it sounded like from where I was standing,” retorted Emma. “Or from where I’d been flung on the ground, to be more precise.” 

“You don’t know my mother.” The woman’s tone, despite the sword at her throat and the snarling wolves and the mad scientist, the witch and the freaking vampire, was dry and heavy with irony, and David found himself impressed despite himself by her aplomb. “It’s… unwise to act directly against her,” she continued. “But she can be influenced by suggestion.” 

David could see the gears begin to turn behind Emma’s eyes as she regarded the woman with a probing stare.

“Killian,” she said quietly, and with no more instruction than this her Guardian lowered his sword, though he remained, David noticed, tense and alert. 

“Stand down, chaps,” he instructed. 

In a flash August’s eyes were blue again and his teeth a more expected length. Ruby and August shifted back to their usual forms, and Victor—well, he still looked mad, but at least he put his scalpel away. 

Emma was frowning thoughtfully at the woman. “Snow,” she said. “Why did you bring her here?” 

“She’s my kin,” replied Snow. “Look.” 

She pulled back the sleeve of her jacket to reveal the image of a tree brach curling around her wrist. David had seen the branch before, many times, but had always taken it for a tattoo. Now, though, he watched as it began to move, to wave as though caught in a summer’s breeze, and a bird appeared from out of nowhere to perch upon it. The woman pulled up her own sleeve to reveal the same branch and a very similar bird, and when the two women held their wrists together their branches intertwined and the birds began to sing. 

“Llwyth daear,” said Emma. “Earth tribe. I suppose I should have seen that.” 

“You had other things on your mind,” said Snow. “But I saw it right away. Regina is my uncle’s daughter. My uncle who left the tribe when he fell in love with a human woman. We never heard from him again.” 

“He died,” said the woman—Regina—shortly. 

“Oh.” Snow’s fingers reached out to curl around Regina’s. “I’m sorry.” 

Regina smiled. “Thank you.” 

“Well this is a touching reunion,” drawled August. “But it doesn’t explain why you brought her back here.” 

“For the information, of course,” said Emma, fixing Regina with a pointed look. “She’s here to tell us all about her mother. Aren’t you, Regina.” 

Regina nodded. “I am.” 

— 

[gingerchangeling]

Luck of the Irish- Ch 1

Here’s my contribution to the @cssns​ Supernatural Summer event!! Thank you @hollyethecurious​ for being my last minute and wonderful beta and @resident-of-storybrooke​ for my perfect cover art!!!!! Enjoy!

Emma needs parent volunteer hours. So she offers to chaperon Henry's upcoming field trip to the museum. Its just a pack of prepubescent angst ridden children, an exhibit about dead people, and a rock used in blood sacrifices with a curse carved into it. What's the worst that could happen?

On Ao3 and FF and Tumblr

 Emma Swan hated children. How she could have forgotten that simple, integral fact is beyond her. 

Sure, she has Henry. And Henry’s pretty okay most of the time. But even as a child herself, she had never been able to stand being around the other kids. 

Well, to be fair to children everywhere, kids from the system probably weren’t the best selection pool to be comparing the general populace to, but still…

Children. 

And now here she was, chaperoning. 

 “Mom?” Henry voice called from down the hall as the door closed behind her.

“No, I’m a crazy ghost come to bring terrible misfortune upon you and all you love.”

“Oh…. good, I thought that you were gonna ground me.”

She paused. A telling silence followed. “.......Henry?”

“HEY MOM WELCOME HOME HOW WAS WORK?”

She raised an eyebrow as she entered the living room, taking in her son oh-so studiously laboring over several spread textbooks. She checked her watch. Well past 8. He was usually deep into whatever level of his new warlock game by this time of night. Which meant….

“Henry Michael.”

She watched him wince. She knew she didn’t need to say more. If he was already feeling guilty enough to commit to self-imposed penance, then it wouldn’t take him very long to confess.

“Thsletrinthcntr”

She bit her lip to stifle her smile at the mumble. “Wanna try that again?”

He huffed, “There’s a letter on the counter.”

That had the faint smile on her face sliding off quickly as she made her way to the dining room table, where a plain envelope sat. She absentmindedly dropped her purse as she picked up the envelope, quickly pulling the flap out, because apparently sealing it would be too much work. 

She slid out the single page, expecting something terrible about Henry, although wondering exactly what her mild and well mannered son could have done to merit having a letter sent home. As she read it over, it turned out to be far, far worse. 

 “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Swan,

Here at St Judas’s Academy, Of the Sacred Kiss, we firmly believe that the best way for children to learn is by watching the examples set for them by their parents. And so to ensure that we here at St. Judas’s instill within all of our students the values of community and giving, we ask that all parents actively partake in the volunteer programs that are offered throughout the academic year. 

We also understand that the events and situations of life do not always permit the donation of time to set an example for our students to follow. However, to encourage the spirit of giving, we recommend that if time cannot be volunteered, monetary donations in the place of time are highly encouraged. 

You know what they say, time is money, but money is money too!

 Emma could barely believe what she was reading, and the next part got even better. 

 It has come to the administration’s attention that Mr and Mrs. Swan have not completed the requested number of volunteer hours. As a household that noted a combined family income of less than $70,000 per year, you and your spouse are required to give 8 hours of service, or provide $150.00 for every unserved hour of time. 

Thank you so much for lending your support!    

 “What the fu-” she barely managed to catch her tongue.

“So, what does it say, Mom?” Henry’s voice was laced with nervousness. “Was it... um... was it something I did?”

Emma shoved aside her absolute fury and indignation to give her son a soft, if strained, smile. “No Kid. It’s actually about something I did. Or didn’t do, I guess.”

The relief was clear on his face, but it was quickly overtaken by confusion. “What do you mean?”

She walked over to where he was spread out at the table and offered him the letter. “Apparently, I don’t set a good example for you.” 

Henry scoffed as he started to read the letter, his brow furrowing. In spite of her irritation, she watched in amusement as Henry started to take offence on her behalf. 

“‘Money is money, too’?” he quoted. “Who thought that was a good line to put in a letter to parents. And why do they keep saying you are married?”

Emma shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine, kid.” 

Henry shook his head as he offered the letter back to her. “That’s just rude.” 

Emma gave a small laugh. “Yes, it is. Now, what are you working on?”

He gestured towards a math textbook with a disgusted look on his face, “Algebra.”

She smirked, “Not a fan?”

“Letters should be used in literature only. They have no business being in my math problems.”

“Do you want me to help you? It’s been a while, but I think I still remember most of it.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

She settled down beside him as he walked her through what they were learning. She could tell, as he explained it to her, he began to understand it much better himself. So, she let him talk at her, working through the equations aloud, rather than try and teach it to him herself. It reminded her of the old saying, ‘You don’t really know something until you can teach it.’

Emma’s temper settled as she spent the rest of the evening helping Henry. They had decided on home-cooked pizza, and after they had eaten Emma let Henry out of his self-imposed penance. They settled on the couch and she sipped at a glass of wine while Henry violently pressed controller buttons as he leaned and dodged, trying to get his on screen avatar to move more quickly, as if the level of his enthusiasm would make the controller work better.

She finished her glass and went to wash it, taking a glance at the kitchen clock. “Henry! Time for bed, kid!” She didn’t hear an acknowledgement from him, and gave him the amount of time it took to wash out her wine glass and put it away to wrap up his game. 

As she wandered back into the living room, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.  He was in the midst of saving his game, soshe just quietly watched him as he went about putting the controller away and cleaning up his mess from dinner. She then headed down the hall to her room to get herself ready for bed.  

She was brushing out her hair when Henry shouted, “OH MOM I FORGOT!” His feet pounded as he hurried down the hall, rounding the corner into her room with a piece of paper held aloft like it was some great document or something. Skidding to a stop right in front of her, waving it back and forth, he chanted, “CanIcanIcanIcanIcanI?”

She grabbed his wrist with a laugh. “Can you what, kid?”

He relinquished his prize paper. “We have a field trip next month to the Ireland exhibit!!”

Emma granted him a smile as she ran her eyes over the permission form. She was about to tell him to leave it on the table and she’d sign it in the morning, when the last line caught her eye.

If you are available to chaperone this field trip, please contact the room parents for further details and to be given your volunteer paperwork. 

Emma ran her eyes back over the form. It was a full day outing. They would leave the school at 8:30 and get back at 4:30. That was eight hours. She looked back up at Henry and his hopeful eyes. 

“Well kid, how would you feel if I went with you this time?”

 Emma let her eyes wander over the teeming group of children from her position at the back of the pack, pretending like she actually cared about the health and wellbeing of the mass of little cretins under her charge. Well, she did, insofar as anything happening to anyone that ‘damaged their health or reputation in any lasting way’ would mean that she didn’t get the credit for the hours that she was currently doing time for.

She had made sure to not hover over Henry. He seemed to appreciate it, because ever so often he would send her a glance from where he was situated, off on the right side towards the front, with his little posse of friends, and give her a smile. She always answered with her own, but didn’t make an attempt to talk to him. 

She knew the rules of adolescence. Adults were evil, parents were uncool, and having an attitude was obligatory. So she kept her peace as the herd wandered from exhibit to exhibit, the docent droning on and on, trying to keep the interest and attention of thirty-two very bored eighth graders who had seen enough of old things that didn’t matter. 

Emma gave a sigh of relief as the docent finally said, in that creepy cheery voice that all old people who hate children have, “Okay! Now, our last exhibit! Aren’t you excited?” There was an awkward pause that Emma could feel in her very bones, before the woman plowed on, the smile on her face looking as if her lips had been sewn to her cheeks. “Excellent! Now this exhibit is the Bog Bodies of the Irish Bogs!”

The words didn’t garner any additional reaction, so the docent paused, before a wicked twinkle sparked in her eye. Emma raised an eyebrow as she watched the docent straighten. The woman’s smile turned into something more genuine, but with something oddly secretive to the tilt of her lips as she led the way into the darkened, empty exhibit. 

Emma heard one of the boys she’d been keeping an eye on mutter as they made their way into the exhibit hall, “Great just more big dumb rocks.”

She raised an eyebrow at the kid, but he wasn’t really looking around and so her scathing look was missed. 

The only lights were from the opaque glass upon which sat twisted, preserved corpses. Emma had to admit to herself, even as the children went quiet, with a few little exclamations of awe, that the exhibit was pretty cool. 

The docent continued, “Now, the bog bodies are a pretty cool phenomenon by themselves. I’d get into the technical aspects of how they were preserved, but I don’t think that would interest you very much. So instead, I’ll tell you a bit about why they were put into the bog. The leading theory is that they were thrown in as…. Human sacrifice.”

Emma bit back a smile as the woman suddenly had the intense and undivided attention of the entire pack of eighth graders.

The woman nodded dramatically as she continued, “Indeed! It is thought that the peat bog, in which a majority of these particular bog bodies were found, was a ritual place of sacrifice for an ancient sect of Druids.”

One kid spoke up, “I thought Druids were like... wandering professors or something?”

The woman nodded. “It’s true, most Druids were. But it is thought that a group of them, which scholars now today call ‘The Caillte Gasúr,’ were very different than their brethren.” The docent paused, considering, before she corrected, “Or rather, not so much that they were different, but, rather, more important. For they were responsible for the well being of the very island of Ireland itself. In order to keep the health of the land, they would perform brutal sacrifices that they believed would satiate the gods’ appetite for blood, and help ensure that the land remained at peace.”

The docent took a breath and Emma let her gaze wander over the group, biting back a grin at the kids, whose eyes were practically falling out of their heads. Nothing could capture the imagination of eighth graders like blood and gore. 

“And for hundreds of years, The Caillte Gasúr would lead an ancient ceremony in the oak and heather groves that grew on the edges of this particular bog, making animal sacrifices and saying the prayers that told the history of the land and its people to all those present. It was a ceremony that lasted almost a week and -”

“DID THEY DO DRUGS?” The shout came from one of the kids towards the back. Emma had noticed him leading his little flock of would-be jocks with ridiculous hair cuts they kept having to flip out of their eyes. At his question, the rest of his group snickered, like he was saying a dirty word. 

One of the other women chaperoning gave a quiet gasp, “Lucan!” but he ignored her. Must be his mom.

The docent leveled the small group of cretins with a blank expression that had all of them clamming up rather quickly. 

“To a certain extent, yes they did. But it wasn’t ‘drugs’,” her impression of jock was dead on, “in the typical sense. Many religious and sacred rights around the world use herbs and other plants to alter their state of consciousness.” 

Even with only being able to see the backs of their heads, Emma could tell the docent had lost the kids.

“Think of it this way- when you get ready for a sporting event, I’m sure that there are warm up stretches you do and specific drinks you have to make sure your body performs at its best.” That seemed to click for most of them as their heads perked up. “So, this is a similar idea. Rather than stretches, they would bathe or paint their skin, and then, rather than Gatorade, they would use herbs to get themselves ready for the ceremony.”

Emma had to admit that she was a bit impressed that the docent had managed to make ritual high sound more like baseball warm ups than a local frat boy’s grad night party. The docent guided them through a few more of the displays before stopping at one that was even more well preserved than the others.

“Now, you are probably wondering why they look like mummies. This is due to the bogs they were found in. You all know how the Egyptians made mummies, by drying them out with salt then wrapping them up in linen? Well the bog did something similar. Due to the chemicals in the dirt, the body didn’t have a chance to decay. This body here,” she gestured to the display, “is one of the most unique, because it’s actually much older than the rest of the bodies found in the same area, but it’s also much better preserved. Go ahead and take a look- you can still see his hair and fingernails, and even his clothing was partially preserved.”

The kids immediately crowded around, and Emma heard one girl whisper to her friend, “Look, look! If you stand right here, you can kinda see his…..” and then she dissolved into embarrassed giggles, while her friend tried to maneuver to where she’d been standing. The girl paused, eyes squinting before they widened dramatically. Then she hastily turned away and joined her friend, both of them sharing conspiratorial giggles.

Emma rolled her eyes. Clearly some things never change from one generation of kids to the next. She couldn’t resist drawing closer to look at the body either, though. 

The skin had turned dark from the mud that had kept it, but it was remarkably clean. She could see the dark staining of tattooing tracing along his chest and shoulders and down his back. His hair was thick and dark, remarkably shiny in the museum lights, but it was his face that captured her attention. Some part of her supposed that there would be some sort of peace to be found in death, but the face before her, even emaciated to the point of non-existence, seemed to carry a black look. The brows were pulled low in anger or grief, and lines of agony sat deeply in the corners of his eyes. 

This was a man that had known pain. 

“I’d like to draw your attention to the deep wounds that cover his body. There is severe head trauma, most likely from a blunt weapon like a club, as well as dozens of lash marks across his back. Neither of those were lethal, however. No, what killed this man were the wounds he sustained just before being pushed into the bog. He appears to have been stabbed multiple times, mostly in the back, although there are several deep wounds in his abdomen as well. His hand was also cut off, but that injury appears to have scarred and so was likely lost much earlier than his death. The blow that likely sealed his fate was the one right above his heart.”

The docent paused, glancing over at the adults before continuing.

 “Not to be too graphic, but it is thought that this man was ambushed and clubbed over the head. Once he was dazed, he attacker moved in from behind. The man finally managed to shake off the blow to his head and turn to engage his attacker, but he was already fairly weakened by that point and it would have been all too easy to overpower him. Then, when his attacker had him too injured to move or escape, they…… carved out his still beating heart.”

Predictably, most of the girls squealed and the boys made appreciative sounds before imitating squelching noises. Emma wrinkled her nose at the thought. What a horrible way to die. 

One of the quieter girls that Emma had noticed earlier spoke up. “But if he was ambushed, why would he be considered one of the sacrifices then?”

“An excellent question! It was thought that his death actually started what would later become tradition.”

“They made murder into a tradition?”

The docent nodded. “See, before we had science to answer questions like why the weather is the way it is or the best soil to grow things in, humanity was still asking the questions and wanting an answer. So, they took what they could observe and applied the event as a rule. My guess is that after this man was killed, there was a long lasting reign of peace and prosperity in his region of the world. So the humans of the time most likely put two and two together and got three. Killing a man in that location, in a specific way, would ensure peace in the land.”

“But then wouldn’t that mean that he was a bad guy? If killing him brought peace?”

The docent gave the girl a sad smile. “Sadly, I wish that were the case, but it’s more complicated than that. When historians talk about peace, it isn’t sunshine and rainbows. Peace is simply the absence of war, created when there are no rivals to the ruling power. So a cruel person can rule, but the land could still be at peace if there were none brave enough to stand up to him or try to take away his throne.”

The docent let the words sink in, and Emma scanned the group and noticed several troubled expressions, including Henry’s.

“We aren’t sure which this man is. After his death, even though someone went to the trouble of recording who he was, and marking the sight as the sacred location that it was used for in the following centuries, as well as a sort of warning, what they said about him seems contradictory. The inscription says that the man brought strife, but was also well like by people.”

“And that brings us to the ‘big dumb rock’ that we have here on display,” the docent sent a pointed glare at Lucan before she continued. “This is an Ogham Stone. Does anyone know what that means?”

Emma felt herself swell with pride as Henry’s hand shot up and after an acknowledging look, he easily gave an answer to the question. “An Ogham Stone is a rock, usually upright, with a curved top, and generally with a seam, upon which the druidic script of Ogham, made up of various slash denotations across a center line, which is why stones with a seam are preferred, was written.”

The whole group went silent, Emma included. She didn’t think that Henry knew what half the words meant, but as he finished rattling off what sounded like a wikipedia definition, there was no hesitation to his words. The docent was clearly shocked, but recovered quickly, her opened-mouth disbelief morphing into a radiant smile.

“That is absolutely right. An Ogham Stone is always a fascinating discovery because the Druids, and any literate Celt, almost never wrote on any medium that would last, choosing instead to write on materials such as wood and vellum, which is animal skin, if they wrote anything down at all.” 

The docent paused, that same strange expression crossing her face, “Now Ogham is also interesting because like Greek, the letters have names, but these names are not based off their origin sounds, but rather based on trees and the ancient names that they carried. There is a lot of debate about whether or not Ogham was an original alphabet or if it was based off of a much older, and at this point, lost system of writing.”

“But more than that, Ogham is unique because it generally only ever records two things- Names associated with a location and ………. curses. And as I said, this stone does both.”

Emma took a closer look at the lump of granite that was so dramatically lit, and took in the deep lines carved along the edge that traced the silhouette of the arching stone. Emma thought it might have been her boredom that led to her fancy, but she thought she could almost see the aggressive desperation in the depth of the lines, the anger in the shaky tracing of the stone seam, the hate.

Emma blinked at herself. Where had that come from? 

“Now the ancient script records the name of the man, as well as his title. It then goes on to say that when sacred blood is spilled, the heart will be heard. Now it’s thought that this is referring to the land of Ireland itself, often call the Heartland by many. And then there is the second portion. Interestingly enough, it appears that the curse was written by a different hand than those that wrote the initial inscription. But the curse seems to warn people that the spirit of the stone will punish those who use it. So, the ritual would sacrifice the chosen person to the bog, and the preparation that I was talking about earlier helped to keep the ____ who were performing the ceremony from abusing their positions.”

“What does that mean?” Henry piped up.

The docent smiled at him again. “Scholars have long debated the meaning, but the widely held belief is the person is essentially warning people to be careful that they don’t abuse the power of the stone.”

“So, what does it actually say?” Henry pressed

The docent paused, something dark flickering across her face. “Well, we try not to say the words out loud, because that was supposedly how the ritual happened. And we wouldn’t want anyone cursed now would we?”

Henry immediately grew less enthusiastic, and it was clear to Emma that some part of him actually believed he might actually get cursed if he did. “Oh yeah, don’t want that.”

It seemed that Lucan and his cronies had caught wind of Henry’s half-belief as well though, because then he called out, “Oh come on, Henry! It’s just some words, tell us what it says! You are the expert among us on these Log Run Rocks. Read it out loud!”

“It’s Ogham Stones,” Henry muttered, but his shoulders were curling in as his face turned red, the whole class avidly watching the exchange. 

Lucan’s face twisted into a cruel smile. “Yeah exactly. You know their right name, you should be the one to read it!”

The anger that flashed through Emma’s veins had her clenching her hands to still the shaking as she watched her son get bullied. But she lost it when she glanced at the other chaperones, one of whom was his mother, and they did nothing, expressions blank. 

Taking a quick breath to force her temper under control, she spoke up. “Well actually-” she paused as the undivided attention of the entire class redirected onto her. It was like facing a hydra - too many heads to keep track of. “If Henry doesn’t mind, I’d actually like to read it. These… “ she floundered for the word for a moment, “Ogham Stones have always fascinated me, and I’ve wanted to see one up close forever.” She turned to Henry, doing her best to keep her expression excited, but she almost broke when she saw his face. His eyes were swimming with tears, but despite them, he was looking up at her awe and admiration. She’d never felt so loved in that moment, and her faux excited grin slid into a genuine smile. 

“Is that alright with you, Henry? I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.”

He blinked a couple times before shaking his head. “No, it’s alright. You want to read it more, so you should be the one.” 

She nodded before turning to walk up to the display. As she did, she heard someone whisper, “Do you know who’s mom that is?” 

“No.”

Emma felt a welling of satisfaction that Henry’s classmates didn’t know. It meant that she wasn’t known well enough to be gossip fodder for their parents. It also meant that Henry wouldn’t get even more pushed around for having his mom come to his rescue.

She made her way up to the stand and gave an awkward smile to the docent, who returned it with a genuine one. 

“Well, if you just want to go right up to the stone, the translation is right at the base.”

Emma nodded, acutely aware of the eyes of the whole class on her as she squinted down at the brass placard, trying to make out the lettering against the light. After several failed moments trying to get it into focus, she gave up and squatted down.

Then she read, “Sunken here - Man of Strife, Great Lord of Lords, Beloved of his people. By life and pain offered here, the heart be heard and honored. By oath of blood, bind fate until freedom is given.” 

A strange wave of dizziness passed over her and she had to pause before she continued with the section that translated what must have been the curse.

“May the cruel find cruelty, may the wicked find wickedness, and may those who seek to find a slave never taste true freedom. May strife find the small and make it grow.”

Once she finished, there was a strange hush over the room, as if all sound had been muted. Emma could still feel several dozen eyes on her, and suddenly felt extremely self conscious. The memories of all the times she’d received that same look in whatever new house she’d been shipped to washed over her. It was a look she never got from Neal, but received plenty of once she was in jail. She didn’t want people looking at her like that anymore. She wanted to be looked at with the same expression that Henry had on his face. 

To be loved. 

But Henry was enough. He would always be enough. 

She shook herself out of her strange lapse into introspection and made to rise. As she did, another wave a vertigo washed over her and she lost her balance, falling backwards. On instinct, she reached out to grab the several thousand year old museum piece to catch herself, managing to keep herself upright. But in recovering her balance her hand slid slightly and she must have found the only edged portion of the rock, because a moment later she felt a sharp pain across her fingers. 

She hurriedly let go of the stone with a sincere apology, trying to ignore the throbbing in her hand, pressing the face of it against her jeans to absorb the blood she knew she’d be dripping otherwise. She could feel the wetness seeping through the denim and knew she’d have to take care of it soon. 

She glanced at the docent, afraid of the anger that might be directed because she might have put a several ton rock at risk, but the woman had a completely different expression on her face. It almost looked like fear.

Weird.

She apologized again and that seemed to snap the docent out of her fugue state, turning to the kids and rounding up the tour, leading them out. The day was finally over, and she was so proud of herself that she hadn’t killed a single child. 

Then she noticed that Henry was lagging behind, shooing his group of friends, letting them know he would catch up. 

“Everything okay, Kid?”

He nodded, looking at his feet, before he spoke. “Thank you for doing that.”

“Of course, Henry. But if I ask you something will you answer me honestly?”

He nodded without saying anything.

“Do you get treated like that a lot?”

“Umm …. Yes… I guess?” He said it so quietly that she almost missed it. She grabbed his shoulder and turned him to her, but he kept his eyes on his feet.

“Henry why haven’t you ever said anything? Have you talked to any of your teachers about it?” 

He shuffled a bit. “I just wanted to be like you.”

Emma wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Like me? What do you mean?”

“Well, you went through all those foster homes and new schools and stuff all by yourself and you probably got picked on too, but you got through it alone, so I thought I-”

She desperately wanted to pull him into a hug, but knew that some of the kids were watching. “Henry, I did things alone because I had to. I would have given anything to have someone by my side to try and make things better. It’s not about whether or not you can handle it by yourself. It’s that you don’t have to. And despite the fact that your class is apparently clueless, I am your mother.” That got him to smile. “And as your mother, it’s my job to make sure you don’t have to deal with things alone. Okay?”

He nodded, looking up at her. “You know you’re the best mom, right? Even if the other kids don’t know it.”

She winked at him. “You bet I am.”

That got a full on laugh from him and she stood back up to rejoin the kids. As she stood amongst the milling pack, waiting for the bus to pull up to the loading lane, she finally had a moment to assess the damage to her hand. The blood flow seemed to have stopped, but the cut traced almost perfectly across the middle of her palm, so anything she did with her hand hurt. She wondered what the school would have to say about donating not just time, but blood to the effort, too.

They finally got the kids loaded in and settled when her phone went off and she pulled it out to see a text message from Henry asking if he could go over to his friend, Jordan’s house. Given what she’d seen today and the fact that it was Friday, she was all too happy to have him spend time with people he liked. 

It was as they were arriving back on the school grounds that she realized she’d have the evening to herself, and as she shepherded kids to the parking lot and their parent’s waiting cars, she plotted out exactly how she wanted to spend that precious free time.

Until she overheard the last few PTA moms who were lingering in the pick up area.

“Do you know who she is?”

“I think she the mom of one of the kids.”

“But she’s so young!”

“Yeah well, she probably didn’t know how to keep her legs shut.”

“But how could she afford to send her kid here then?”

“Maybe she still can’t keep her legs shut!”

Then Emma suddenly had a whole new plan for her evening.

 ~~

 While getting more drunk than she’d been in years had seemed like a good idea last night, faced with her throbbing head and rolling stomach, the wisdom of washing her past with alcohol now seemed less so. 

She groaned slightly as she slowly extricated her upper half from beneath the covers, every movement sending flashes of pain into her head. She smacked her lips, wrinkling her nose at the disgusting taste of unbrushed alcohol teeth. She was so distracted for a moment that she didn’t realize that, in an odd turn of events, she was sleeping in the nude. 

Frowning, she blearlity looked around the room and saw a trail of clothes from the door leading to her bed. 

She was on the brink of just passing it off as the decisions of a drunk mind when she heard it. The very distinct sound of hands rummaging through the tupperware cabinet. 

With dawning horror, she realized what must have happened. She’d gotten drunk, brought a guy home, and he was now trying to make her breakfast in her own kitchen.  

She leapt out of bed, intending to march into the kitchen to demand they leave, when she was abruptly reminded that her body was still very much not happy with her decision making, and that she was not yet dressed, which might make the conversation counterproductive to what she was trying to achieve. So she hurriedly threw on some sweats and a T-shirt, grabbing some Advil from the cabinet and washing them back with sink water, before she took a deep breath, preparing herself for battle. 

When she entered her kitchen, however, all bets were off. She at least had to applaud her drunk self that she didn’t put on her beer glasses, because the profile of the man still rummaging through her cabinet was nothing short of statuesque. It was actually a bit absurd how attractive he was. 

But then her common sense managed to talk a little louder than her hormones, who had apparently been making very good calls the night before, and pointed out two things. One was that he was dressed extremely oddly, like something out of a period piece film. She would have remembered that. Second, was that her gun was on the counter. She never left her gun out if there was another person in the house, and she knew that even drunk her followed that rule. 

Which meant that at the time of her coming home, she’d been alone. And now she wasn’t. Now she was in the company of an adonis who dressed like he was planning on retreating to a mountain hut for the foreseeable future. 

She was in the presence of an apparently extremely hot crazy person who had decided to break into her house and rummage through her plasticware.

He was also much closer to her gun than she was.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

The man startled, sending a cascade of containers out of the cabinet and onto the countertop and floor. But then he turned to face her and holy shit, he’s even better from the front. They are never better from the front. 

He almost looked angry for a moment before his eyes took her in, and he slouched his hip against the counter, crossing his arms as an eyebrow crawled up his face. 

“Well, well, it appears that I got lucky.”

[seriouslyhooked]

Thank you so so much!! I’m so happy you’re liking it because it’s fast becoming one of my favorites. More in two weeks!!

Lost Souls and Reveries (Part 6)

18 part AU written for @cssns​. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5. Story available on AO3 Here and FF Here. Banner created by the amazingly talented @shipsxahoy​!!

Killian Jones is a wolf shifter without roots, without plans, and without a pack. He’s a rogue, someone humans should avoid and shifters should be wary of given his lineage. But one night years back set him on a path he didn’t realize he was taking, a path leading to a future he is destined for. That future is tied up in one woman – a human named Emma Nolan. Together Emma and Killian will find not only answers, but a love that’s truly fated. But will love be enough to set them free, or will past demons win out in the end? (Answer: love always wins – I am writing this so despite some tiny pockets of angst it’s basically a fluff-filled insta-love fest). Rated M.

A/N: Hello all! So I debated when drafting this fic how fast I wanted things to go, and I gotta say part of me is kicking myself now. Making this fic so much longer than I originally thought means we are going a little slower than my usual rate, but I really think it will be worth it in the end. That being said, we are at chapter six and you can rest assured more pieces are coming together in the past and in the present. Hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you all think!

“So this morning’s office schedule is pretty light as of now, knock on wood. Just that litter of kittens who need their shots, Lionel Johnson’s iguana who isn’t eating as much as usual, and the Smith’s dog who needs a restitch.”

Emma heard the words that Gus, the clinic’s administrator, was saying, but it all felt very far away even though she stood right beside him. Subconsciously she internalized the information being told to her, and at some level she’d picked it all up, but still Emma was distracted, and distraction and her work simply did not mix. She had to have the facts and focus or her patient’s could suffer, so she silently shook herself and tried to pay better attention, speed-reading the chart Gus handed her that said the exact same things he’d just imparted.

Keep reading

[darkcolinodonorgasm]

My. Feels!!!!!

I finally got to read it, FINALLY, and man was it perfect!!! I loved it so much!! As you already know, that sentence sent my feels up in the air exploding like fireworks, but the whole fic, the trope, the delicacy in which you used when writing it... boy, my heart is soarin', flying!!

Love After Death: The Afterlife Hotel

a/n: it’s HEEEEEERE, my first piece for this year’s CSSNS! I’m so excited to share all three stories I have for you all this year – it’s just the beginning! Extra special thanks to @captainsjedi for her lovely, perfect art that conveys a sense of spookiness that I didn’t even know I was going for, and to @let-it-raines​ @shireness-says​ and @kmomof4​ for being my eternal cheerleaders – plus all the ladies in the Discord chat! And, of course, @cssns​

Tagging those who showed interest when I posted a snippet in March, or who asked me to – thank you all for your readership! @winterbaby89​ @teamhook​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @jwolf18791​ @killianjones4ever82​ @superadam54​ @kingofmyheart14​ @aprilqueen84​ @capswantrue​ @nikkiemms​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @gingerchangeling​ @welllpthisishappening

SUMMARY:  Emma Swan has spent sixty years in the afterlife believing she was never going to meet her real soulmate, after believing in the wrong name tattooed on her wrist. But when she keeps seeing the same new blue-eyed guest of the Afterlife Hotel around, might she be able to learn how to love again?

Also on AO3!

–/–/–/–/–

Emma Swan stands at her desk, staring down at the calendar that she’s not sure why they even bother to have in the first place. Time is meaningless here. Sure, the “sun” rises and sets on opposite sides of the building on a 24 hour cycle, but time doesn’t actually pass anymore. 

Except… if there wasn’t a desk calendar, if she was only going by the date in the corner of her monitor screen (though also unnecessary), she probably never would have realized that it was once again the third day of July in the real world. She almost definitely would have allowed the day to pass by uneventfully, would have completely forgotten the same way she wishes she would have forgotten every other year. 

Sixty years. It’s been sixty years to the day since the first time she entered this very hotel. No family, even when she was alive. Abandoned as a child, never finding a family of her own beyond the sole person she believed was her family, the one that she believed was her soulmate — but, in the end, he was her demise, the name she should have avoided instead of married. 

She had a fifty-fifty chance, like everyone else in the world. It was a stupid concept, she always thought it was: her soulmate’s name on one wrist, and the name of her enemy, very likely the name of the person that would cause her death, on the other, just like everyone else in the world. But she learned the hard way that she made the wrong choice, and by putting her trust in the name on her right wrist and not her left, she suffered more than just heartbreak. By trusting Neal instead of running away the moment he introduced himself — perhaps even before that, now that she’s had time to look back over the time they spent together — she was killed.

Continua a leggere

[ilovemesomekillianjones]

Oooh, plot twist. I’m curious to see if Regina is good or evil. Loved the back story for David and the explanation as to why he is such a clueless human. Can’t wait to read the final chapter. Hopefully tomorrow. Lovely chapter!!!

The Eternal and Unseen (3 of 4)

SO yeah. The chapter count has grown. There’s a lot going on here. David has a backstory. Emma and Killian have a mission. IT’S A LOT and it needs more words. 

CW: This chapter contains minor (and canon compliant) character death and a potentially distressing scene involving the accidental death of a child. It’s not graphic but it is emotional so be prepared. 

As ever, thanks to @ohmightydevviepuu for plotting with me and @thisonesatellite and @katie-dub for general amazingness and @optomisticgirl​ and @spartanguard​ for the prompts and the always-enthusiastic responses 😘

And @carpedzem​ for another absolutely stunning drawing. SEE BELOW. 

SUMMARY: Misthaven University is an ancient place, and as all ancient places do it guards some secrets. Secrets such as Emma Swan and Killian Jones, a fae princess and her royal guardian, whose true identities are well concealed behind the guise of average college students—if not quite well enough to foil the plot their enemies have hatched against them. Now their friends will have to come together, putting their own differences aside to battle an enemy that threatens them all—fae and vampire and werewolf together… plus one very baffled human named David.

For @cssns​

AO3 | tumblr part one | tumblr part two 

-

(I MEAN. WHAT. SO PERFECT.)

-

PART THREE:

They returned to Andersen just as twilight was creeping across the sky and the moon rising into it, heavy and dark gold as it crested the forest trees. Emma watched it through the window of her room, where she and Killian and David had retreated to rest a bit and collect themselves before deciding on their next move. The others had also gone to their rooms rest and prepare, and now David sat on Emma’s bed with his hands clasped in his lap and his shoulders tight as Killian made Emma a cup of tea and she frowned at the moon. 

David watched in silence as Killian approached Emma and offered her a steaming cup. She accepted it with a smile and a cheek turned up to meet the kiss he dropped on it, in a gesture so comfortable and natural it gave David’s heart a little twinge. He wondered how he could ever have thought they weren’t right for each other when the depth and intensity of their love was so very, very obvious. 

But then he was becoming aware that there were in fact a great many obvious things in this world that he hadn’t been able to see. It was not a comfortable thought. 

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “I get that you’ve both got a lot of thinking to do right now. But could you—is there time for you just to explain a few things first? Like exactly what the hell is going on? I feel like everyone knows what’s happening here but me.” 

“That shouldn’t be a new feeling for you,” remarked Killian with a smirk. David sighed. 

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair. I’m not sure how I missed so much of what was happening around me, but I see it now and I’d like to understand it.”

Emma and Killian exchanged a glance. 

“What exactly have you seen?” Emma asked. 

“Visions?” David said uncertainly. “Of the past? Killian made me drink something purple and then I started seeing things.” 

“Something purple?” Emma frowned. 

“Yeah. He put some grey powder and a crushed up leaf into a beaker full of something Victor gave him, and it turned purple. And started to smoke,” said David.

“You gave him purple willow bark?” Emma turned to Killian in alarm.

“Aye,” Killian replied. “Along with the sap from one of Jane’s leaves.”  

“Oh.” Emma relaxed. “Well, that was the right choice of leaf at least.” 

“I do listen when you talk about the plants, love.”  

“Hmmm,” said Emma. “And how did you feel afterwards?” she asked David. 

“I—kind of passed out.” 

Emma nodded. “I’m not surprised. Purple willow packs a punch. Normally we blend a few herbs into the emulsifier to soften its effects, but there’s no way Killian could have known the correct ones. He did the best he could in the circumstances.” She gave Killian a smile that tried hard to be sardonic. “This time, though, I’ll give you the gentler version.” 

David started. “This time?” 

“Well, yeah,” said Emma. “It’s the easiest way to give you the information you need. We could explain, I suppose, but it’s really best if you see it for yourself. Especially if you want to know your own history.” 

“My… own history?” 

Emma nodded, her expression sorrowful and soft with sympathy. “Yeah. You’ve seen the history of the fae and the Guardians, now you need to understand where you fit into that.” 

“Killian—” David cleared his throat. “Killian said I’m a—a Guardian? Like he is?” 

“Yeah you are. But as you’ve probably guessed there’s more to it than that. Are you ready to See?” 

David swallowed hard. Part of him still wanted to say no, to deny all of this and run, back to yesterday when things had made sense. But a bigger part of him knew he needed to know, and to understand why all these crazy things that were happening to him seemed less and less crazy the more he thought about them. The more he thought. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.” 

Keep reading

[cssns]

This evening we have Luck of the Irish by @gingerchangeling. Artwork by @resident-of-storybrooke. Enjoy everyone and be sure to give them both lots of love!!!

Luck of the Irish- Ch 1

Here’s my contribution to the @cssns​ Supernatural Summer event!! Thank you @hollyethecurious​ for being my last minute and wonderful beta and @resident-of-storybrooke​ for my perfect cover art!!!!! Enjoy!

Emma needs parent volunteer hours. So she offers to chaperon Henry’s upcoming field trip to the museum. Its just a pack of prepubescent angst ridden children, an exhibit about dead people, and a rock used in blood sacrifices with a curse carved into it. What’s the worst that could happen?

On Ao3 and FF and Tumblr

Emma Swan hated children. How she could have forgotten that simple, integral fact is beyond her. 

Sure, she has Henry. And Henry’s pretty okay most of the time. But even as a child herself, she had never been able to stand being around the other kids. 

Well, to be fair to children everywhere, kids from the system probably weren’t the best selection pool to be comparing the general populace to, but still…

Children. 

And now here she was, chaperoning. 

Keep reading

[kmomof4]

Oh. My. Word!! This fic is gonna be AWESOME!! I’m in LOVE already!!! Can’t wait for more!!!

Luck of the Irish- Ch 1

Here’s my contribution to the @cssns​ Supernatural Summer event!! Thank you @hollyethecurious​ for being my last minute and wonderful beta and @resident-of-storybrooke​ for my perfect cover art!!!!! Enjoy!

Emma needs parent volunteer hours. So she offers to chaperon Henry’s upcoming field trip to the museum. Its just a pack of prepubescent angst ridden children, an exhibit about dead people, and a rock used in blood sacrifices with a curse carved into it. What’s the worst that could happen?

On Ao3 and FF and Tumblr

Emma Swan hated children. How she could have forgotten that simple, integral fact is beyond her. 

Sure, she has Henry. And Henry’s pretty okay most of the time. But even as a child herself, she had never been able to stand being around the other kids. 

Well, to be fair to children everywhere, kids from the system probably weren’t the best selection pool to be comparing the general populace to, but still…

Children. 

And now here she was, chaperoning. 

Keep reading