#cutting the branch you’re sitting and pontificating on

[infinitysisters]

“𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡-𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 "𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲."

𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 "𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐦" 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭.”

— 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐦é 𝐒𝐢𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐱

[eirabach]

Heathens [10/14]

Summary: After the events of Renegades, Emma finds herself the reluctant monarch of a struggling Kingdom, her only advisors a mish mash of those who’ve betrayed her in the past, and her only comfort one very uncomfortable pirate.

Believing her long lost parents could still be alive, Emma and Killian set out to find them and reunite them with both their daughter and their throne.

Easy.

Right?

Clare is still busy with her newborn babe so I’m ( @katie-dub​ ) here to wreak havoc and make mischief on Clare’s tumblr post on her behalf. Clare sends her undying gratitude to @phiralovesloki who was a far better beta and human than me, to @seastarved for her incredible artwork (which you should totally check out and reblog too), and to all of her lovely readers!

Rated: E. Warnings for violence and corporal/capital punishment in previous chapters.

This chapter 2k

Other Pairings: Snowing

Catch up on tumblr: Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight or here on AO3

Chapter Nine: The Walls Come Tumbling Down

“Like the good old days, eh Swan?” says Killian as he carves a path through the undergrowth with his cutlass. “I’ve missed this.”

“Which part?” grouses Emma, ducking to avoid the branches that he’s missed, unwilling to let go of his hook long enough to step around them. “The splinters, the mud, the constant smell of wolf piss?”

“Nonsense,” he says, pausing to grin back over his shoulder at her and sending her stumbling against his back. “You and I alone in the great outdoors? It’s romantic.”

“It’s cold,” Emma counters, “and anyway - ” There’s a meaningful cough from behind her, a heavier than necessary tread. “We’re not exactly alone.”

“Are you sure about this, Jones?” grumbles David. “Seems a little ill-travelled to be the route to such an illustrious witch.”

“The more illustrious the witch, the less she tends to advertise her services,” says Killian. “And besides, we can hardly traverse the roads of the realm, mate, or have you forgotten there’s a price on both our heads?”

David winces, and runs a hand over his throat. “Good point. Carry on.”

“I rather intend to, but thank you for your permission, your Majesty.”

Emma scowls, and prods Killian hard in the side.

She doesn’t know all the circumstances of how Killian and Dav - her father - met, explanations drowned out by frantic kisses and sheer disbelief, but she doesn’t find it hard to tell how they ended up in the hangman’s noose. She’s almost tempted to kill them both herself if they don’t stop picking at each other.

“This is the way the fairy dust wants us to go,” Emma reminds David, keeping her voice as calm and level as she can manage as she gestures to the gold string on the map that they’re following. “If you don’t trust Killian, can you at least trust that?”

David looks unconvinced for a moment, but Emma’s expression turns pleading and she can see the moment he relents.

“I think I’d rather the pirate than the dust,” he admits. “But I trust you.”

You don’t know me, she thinks, and stamps down on the bitterness rising in her chest.

“Well, I trust him.”

Killian stiffens slightly, and it stings to know he still doubts that, stings still more to know it’s her own fault. The muscle in David’s jaw works furiously for a moment, and then he nods.

“Very well.”

There’s an awkward moment while the three of them stare at each other that’s broken by Killian letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“Shall we then? I assume her Majesty Queen Snow isn’t likely to come gambolling through the trees at any moment, and there is likely an entire army at our backs, so if we could save the ethics debate for a more suitable time that would be wonderful.”

“Oh, like you don’t pontificate,” grumbles Emma before prodding him again, this time a little more good-naturedly. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

--

She’s practically starving by the time Killian’s sword meets thin air and they’re able to stumble out into a woodland clearing, so much so in fact that she thinks she might be hallucinating the cottage before them. Where the walls should be made of wood, stone, or mud, they’re the smooth golden brown of gingerbread, the sun glinting off windows made not of glass, but of thick, unctuous pieces of brightly coloured boiled sweets, the shutters painted with cinnamon and the doorknob made of candies. Above it all there rises the most magnificent smell of sugar and baking and it makes Emma’s stomach protest loudly.

“Oh, come on,” she mutters. “This is not fair.”

“Not exactly offering a healthy option, is she?” Killian says, keeping his cutlass drawn. “Well, shall we?”

David strides forward, knocking Killian’s cutlass out of the way as he goes, and for the first time Emma sees the king in him. His back is straighter now, his head unbowed as he hammers once, twice, three times on the door.

“Come iiiiinnnnn, sweeties!” calls a high pitched voice from inside. Emma and Killian exchange looks.

“This dwarf seemed reliable, did he?”

“He seemed insane,” admits Emma. “But needs must.”

David huffs, pushes open the door, and without having much choice in the matter, Emma and Killian follow.

--

The witch herself is not unlike an engraving from a child’s picture book, all stringy hair, long fingernails, and a laugh like steel against steel. She sits in an armchair in front of a roaring stove, the smell of burnt sugar thick in the air, and grins up at the three of them with sweet-blackened teeth.

“And what exactly is it you want from me, sweeties?”

“The dwarf, Grumpy, he said you could help us. That there might be a spell - ”

“A spell? Yes, there are a dozen, no doubt. But why would you need such a thing from me?” Her grin grows wider. “I know who you are, Saviour. Your magic is surely far greater than any of my little party tricks.”

Emma shuffles uncomfortably on the spot. “It’s not that easy,” she mutters. “I don’t - my magic isn’t something I have a lot of - well, experience with. I guess.”

“Magic isn’t about experience,” tuts the witch. “It’s about much more than that.” She leans forward and beckons Emma closer with one long finger. “I can see it,” she says, her voice low. “It surrounds you, sweetie, but you won’t ever be able to control it, not until you admit it to yourself.”

“Admit what?”

“Magic,” she says again in lieu of an answer, “is emotion.”

“Well, that sounds about perfect,” snaps David. “Because I have a very strong feeling about what will happen to you if you don’t help us to find my wife.”

The witch laughs, clapping her hands together in delight. “Oh lovely! I do like a customer who knows what they want. No vagaries! It makes life oh so much easier. But listen.” Her expression drops into a scowl. “Don’t you come complaining to me if it doesn’t work as you wish.”

“Why would it not?” asks Killian.

“Did you not hear me? Magic is emotion. You may wish to find this woman with every fibre of your hearts - but that does not mean she wishes to be found.”

“Of course she wants to be found,” David scoffs. “She’s my wife, Emma’s mother, what possible reason could she have to stay away?”

The witch shrugs, and peels her body out of her chair, brushing her hands on her skirts as she turns towards a large cabinet in the corner of the cottage.

“Suit yourself,” she says, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She opens the cabinet and taps her fingers along a line of mismatched glass bottles, each filled with some sort of thick, unctuous liquid that seems to move away from her touch. Something about them makes the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck stand on end, and she moves surreptitiously back until her shoulders are pressed to Killian’s chest.

“What are those things?”

“Spells, silly,” says the witch, her bony hand hovering over a tall cylindrical bottle full of something that swirls purple and black. “What were you expecting, a magic wand? Yes, yes, this one will do. Come here.”

Emma shuffles half a step forward, then stops.

“Why?”

“Because I need the other ingredient, of course.” She beckons again. “Do you want to find your mother or not?”

Emma lifts her chin, folding her arms as she reaches the witch’s side.

“Alright, now what?”

The witch reaches for her hand, giving her a little nod, and Emma lets her take it.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, this’ll do nicely.”

“What do you - fuck!”

Emma tears her hand back, Killian and David rushing to draw their swords behind her, but the witch is grinning happily and there’s a bloom of blood across Emma’s palm.

“Blood seeks blood, sweetie,” she says and Emma clutches her injured hand to her chest. “All I need is a little drop.”

“All you need is a good - ” begins Killian, but Emma cuts him off with a shake of her head.

“You could just have asked.”

“But where would the fun be in that?” she says brightly, and holds out the uncorked bottle. “There you go, not too much now!”

Emma holds her hand over the opening, and lets a small rivulet of blood work its way over the edge. As soon as it touches the liquid, the witch forces the cork back inside and shakes it vigorously, patting Enma’s bloody hand with a slightly grubby cloth as she does so.

“There,” she says finally, holding the vial out to Emma. “All yours.”

“What are we supposed to do with it, exactly?” asks David.

“Open it, fool. Outside though.” The witch shudders. “I don’t want that in my house.”

“How comforting,” says Killian drolly.

“And the price?” asks Emma. “I don’t imagine you’re doing this from the kindness of your heart.”

“For a girl with such magic you’re terribly judgemental,” says the witch, “but yes, I have a price in mind.”

“Well?”

“Well, you can’t pay it sweetie, not at the moment,” she says mildly before turning back to her stove. “But rest assured that when you can, I’ll be there to collect.”

“Wonderful,” Killian mutters. Emma elbows him in the side.

“So that’s it? We just open this thing up and it leads us to Snow White?”

“That’s what you asked for, wasn’t it?” sighs the witch as she carefully lowers herself back into her chair. “So off you go, sweeties. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

--

They make sure to be far enough away from the witch’s cottage so that they’re safe from any natural form of eavesdropping before passing the little bottle between themselves.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Emma asks, eyeing the swirling contents warily as Killian holds it up to the light.

“Only one way to find out,” David says, reaching up to snatch the bottle from Killian. “I’m done with waiting.”

“David, wait - ” Emma begins, but it’s too late. He’s already popped the cork, and the smoke begins to twist its way out of the neck of the bottle as Killian and Emma take a cautious step back. It’s just as well, the smoke billowing quicker and quicker until David is almost entirely cloaked in a thick, purple mist, all of them coughing into their sleeves as it begins to solidify into a dark, sulphurous mass that hangs inches above their heads like some child’s drawing of a stormcloud.

“Lovely,” mutters Killian. “Creepy magic cloud. Really fills a man with confidence. I think I prefer the fairy way.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but wipes slightly sweaty palms on her breeches nonetheless.

“Maybe you should talk to it?” David says, eyeing it warily, the bottle held tight in white fingers.

“Because that isn’t ridiculous,” Emma grouses, but she can’t deny there’s a sort of anticipation in the way it hovers, the air thick with waiting, the birds silent. “Alright,” she finally concedes, turning her face up to the cloud. “Show us the way to Snow White!”

The cloud vibrates.

“Please?”

It thins, spreads, like wine spilled over a sheet of glass, and a long tendril coalesces to point the way inland where the thickest undergrowth lies, bramble heavy and threatening in their path.

“Delightful,” sighs Killian as all three of them draw their swords. “Shall we?”

“Oh,” says David, his expression grim, his jaw tight. “After me.”

Killian follows him, the two of them slashing and hacking a clear path, small animals running in the face of their ferocity, but Emma hangs back for a moment, her hand stinging as she looks back over her shoulder in the direction of the witch’s home.

Be careful what you wish for, she thinks, the woman’s cackle ringing in her ears. You might just get it.

She shivers in the sudden breeze, and turns to follow in their wake.

Behind her, the birds begin to sing.