#that whole “strangles you with the red string of fate” drawing i did was meant to capture that as well

[kaladinkholins]

yeah taimizu IS toxic and off putting actually ‼️‼️🗣️🗣️🗣️

EDIT: TO BE CLEAR THIS IS A POST IN FAVOUR OF TAIMIZU!!! I AM A DIRTY TAIMIZU SHIPPER!!!!!

[doodlelolly0910]

Close Encounters of the Spiritual Kind

Summary: Emma Nolan spent a lot of time alone, and that was fine by her. Because one is never truly alone. She should know. She can talk to dead people. What she didn’t expect was one of these spiritual encounters to hang around, taking her down a rabbit hole of missing women, revenge, and, least expected, love. Can she save the day and Killian Jones? Is there even another choice?

Read it from the beginning on AO3 and FFN!

A/N: So here we are at chapter 14! I cannot believe how far we are already! I have about 5-6 more chapters planned for this fic, but we will see how it goes lol. This is a really pivotal chapter not only for Hook, but for the development of things moving forward, in a few ways. As always, THANK YOU to every single person who reads, reviews, reblogs, or even looks this piece's way. I appreciate all of you more than you know! A very special thank you to @kmomof4 (it's her birthday today!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY KRYSTAL!!!!) who is the best beta I could have ever asked for this fic, and thank you thank you thank you to @courtorderedcake for the gorgeous art banner she put together for this piece. 14 chapters in and it still blows me away every single time. Hope you guys like the new chapter!

Chapter 14

The world was black and Emma was blind.

“Emma.”

A voice rang out in the darkness. She knew that voice.

“Emma, it's time to wake up, lass.”

Wake up. Yes, that was a good idea. Maybe she couldn't see because her eyes were closed.

“Killian is waiting for you.”

Killian? Oh, yes. Hook. But why was he waiting for her? Right. Will Scarlett. At Gold’s place.

“Wake up, Emma.”

No, that wasn't right. She just saw him at the docks, didn’t she? And then the call from Gold…

“Lass. Come back.”

A ringing started in her ears. It grew louder and louder until she thought her eardrums might burst.

“Wake up.”

A face flickered in her vision, the first thing she'd been able to see, curly copper hair, soft blue eyes, stern, handsome features. The ringing drowned out everything but his voice. She tried to call out to him, his name passing her lips on reflex, but she couldn't even hear her own voice.

“Wake up.”

“LIAM!”

Emma bolted upright, drenched in sweat and her heart pounding so hard she feared it might break a rib. Her hand pressed to the skin above it, almost as if to hold it in her chest.

“Easy, Swan, easy.” She heard someone say and her head snapped to the side. Her eyes connected to Killian's like a magnet to metal.

Then the consequences of her sudden movements caught up with her.

Her shoulder and hip felt like they were on fire and Killian crouched beside her was the only thing in her line of sight that was in focus. She was definitely going to be sick. She must have paled or turned green or some other indicator that the very little she had eaten in the last day was about to make a reappearance because in the moment her body decided to heave, a small plastic trash can was shoved under her face.

“Oh, God,” Emma groaned, her voice sounding hollow bouncing from the sides of the receptacle. She spit into the container and lifted her head.  Once he was sure she was spent, Killian removed the bin and stowed it beside the raggedy couch she was on.

“Back in the Fun Room, I see,” she said as her surroundings became a little clearer, recognizing the couch, the metal desk with the hole in it, and that fucking beam. The throbbing in her head was no less, though, and she realized the ringing in her ears, while not as loud as before, was definitely going to be there for awhile.

“I wasn't sure if I'd have to tie you back up or not,” Hook replied with a nonchalant shrug as he stood and Emma's head screamed in protest as she jerked her gaze to his again, a chill running down her spine. “You hit your head quite a bit harder this time, though, so I thought I might take my chances.” Killian walked away back towards the desk and Emma's hand went up automatically to find the wound on the crown of her head had reopened and there was freshly dried blood in her hair again. She winced and hissed as her fingertips grazed the area, her eyes looking to where Hook was now, leaning against the desk with his arms folded across his broad chest.

As before, he had a few things laid out on the surface next to him, that ridiculous knife, a binder, black this time, and something else that made her heart stop. She felt all the blood drain from her face and her arm lowered slowly from where it had been inspecting her injury.

A gun sat well away from the rest of the objects, like it was on display, which it probably was, considering it was her gun, her badge propped neatly against it, along with her keys.

“I do believe we should have a chat, Detective Nolan.”

Emma swallowed hard, feeling the action sharply in her temples, and a rush of jasmine billowed around her, almost making her feel like Milah was trying to protect her. Of course Milah was here still.

“What do you want me to say, Hook?” Emma's voice was barely audible, the tightness in her throat strangling the words as they came out.

“Let's try the truth this time, shall we?” His voice was dark and calm, like the sea before a storm, a malevolent gleam in his darkened blue eyes.

“Alright,” she said and turned to place her feet flat on the floor. She grimaced at the pain flowing through her body as she moved.

“Alright. So, you're a police officer.” It wasn't a question.

“I am. A detective in missing persons, to be specific.”

“And Gold?”

“I'm undercover right now investigating a string of missing women and at least one body that we've been able to link back circumstantially to him,” she told him honestly. Honesty was probably going to be the only chance she had at leaving here intact.

“And that's how you found me and how you know so much about me and my life, your research into Gold,” he prompted.

“No, the only thing that turned up when I searched your name that connected you to Gold was a slew of charges you were arrested for back in 2010 when you were fresh off the boat. Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be the mysterious ‘Hook’ as well.” She leaned forward, the bruised muscles in her shoulder and hip sparking with pain at the motion as she settled her forearms on her thighs.

“So my name and my more colorful moniker are not yet synonymous. Good to know. How did you learn of me before Gold, then? My name, that is. What prompted you to search for me?” His words were genuinely curious, as if he were solving an equation.

“Ah,” she said, clearing the tightness from her throat again. “That was Milah. And Liam. The medium part was true. I never expected to find you in the middle of all this.”

“Oh, not this bit again,” Killian scoffed.

Emma felt her temper rise up in her chest. "You know what, Hook?” she snapped, struggling not to wince as she pushed herself to standing. “I don't give a shit if you believe me or not anymore." "How can I believe anything you say?!” He stormed towards her, his own anger slipping through the cracks of his carefully constructed facade. “Please, enlighten me, love. What brilliant bit of wisdom have the fates imparted upon you just now? Hmm?"

Stubborn arse, Milah said irritably. Emma snorted a laugh. "I don't know about the fates, but Milah thinks you're a stubborn ass." Killian did an almost comical double take. Idiot, the disembodied voice added. "And an idiot," Emma repeated with a smug smirk. "I am not stubborn, nor an idiot," he protested, sounding much like a petulant child, to Emma's great amusement. See. "She thinks you're proving her point," Emma replied, raising an eyebrow. "I kind of agree." "Oh, just bloody perfect. Gang up on me with a figment of your imagination." Hook ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the ends, frustrated. Listen, agrà, Milah murmured. "She wants you to listen to me, and she said that agrà word again." Emma folded her arms over her chest and stood her ground. "How the fuck did you learn that word?" he growled, stepping towards her and into her space. His chest almost brushed hers with every deep breath he took, and she could practically feel the tension vibrating off of him. "Milah," she replied with a nod, slowly enunciating the syllables and widening her eyes exaggeratedly.

He held her gaze, silence extending between the two of them, like he was willing her to say something different. Something he could accept as the truth. He let out a growl of irritation when she didn’t budge, turning and veritably stomping away from her. "Alright, let's play this game, then, Swan. Tell me something only she would know,” he snapped, leaning against the desk again and fiddling with his hook, rubbing the prosthetic like it was bothering him just as much as this whole discussion was, an action that did not go unnoticed by Emma. This exchange was going just as she expected it would have with anyone she revealed herself to, but it also still stung, no matter how she'd prepared for something like this her entire life. "You mean besides the ring thing and the nickname?" she pointed out. Killian glared. Cock and bull, Milah interrupted the rising hostility between the two. Emma flushed red at Milah's words and Killian visibly took notice of her change in demeanor. She knew it meant something different, but she couldn't help wanting to curl up in a ball and die at the thought of saying that word to this man, especially with the strain in the air already. She felt like a 15 year old girl. "What is it now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and drawing her attention away from her own self loathing and embarrassment. "Uh, cock and bull," Emma muttered, reddening further. Killian's other brow swiftly made the climb up his forehead to join the first, his mouth dropping open slightly in sheer shock. He snapped it closed and narrowed his eyes, studying her. "Are you... embarrassed, Swan? You know it doesn't mean..." he gestured in front of him and she made a noise of exasperation. "I know, jackass," she snapped. "Get your mind out of the gutter." "Seems you had already beaten me to the gutter on that one, love," he teased, like he couldn't resist. "Whatever. Does it ring a bell or not?" He paused. "Aye." "So you believe me." "No." Stubborn mule pig headed arse. Emma laughed out loud, clapping a hand over her mouth immediately against the sound as pain exploded through her tender head, and Killian raised an eyebrow in question. Emma rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Apparently she was pulling out all the stops on the Teenage Angst Express today. She dropped her hand carefully, as not to jar her injured shoulder further before speaking again. "She's making a colorful point. About you." "Enough of this!" he roared but this time, Emma wasn't afraid. She was getting madder herself, in fact. "She says you're stubborn, again. A mule. A pig headed arse," she said, ignoring him and affecting a sarcastic British accent for the last bit. He gave her a dangerous glower and came to stand toe to toe with her once more, his hand balled into a white knuckled fist at his side, clearly trying to intimidate her.

“So I should just believe you because you knew about some pub I was going to open with Milah, then?” he growled.

“You should believe me because I'm telling you the truth! Think about it, Hook. How else would I know about these things?” Emma stared him down, not giving an inch.

His wild blue eyes should have frightened her, and they probably would have a few days ago. But now, she just felt understanding for him. She couldn't explain it, but she couldn't bring herself to be afraid. Her temper didn't help, her own anger dimming all other emotions in her brain. Seconds ticked by, the muscle twitching in his jaw keeping time as Emma's eyes bored into his. "Bah," he growled and turned away from her, pacing back to the metal desk, hand clenching and releasing, reminding Emma very much of an angry panther. It was then that Emma knew that he really wasn't going to hurt her. Tell her the truth, agrà. Emma froze at Milah's urging. "The truth about what, Milah?" she answered out loud, her eyes glued to Killian and he stiffened and spun back around on his heel. "What is she saying?" he asked with genuine curiosity and a sliver of unease, seemingly at the question itself.

“Oh, now you believe me,” Emma huffed in exasperation. Killian looked like he was going to refute the notion again but snapped his mouth shut and pursed his lips against the words, urging her to continue with just his eyes. Stubborn. “She wants you to tell me the truth.”

About Gold, Milah added.

“About Gold,” Emma repeated, her senses on full alert now. “What are you not telling me?”

Killian's jaw ticked again, and he didn't speak.

“Truth and trust run both ways, Killian,” she said and he inhaled sharply, his eyes searing into hers.

“It's a day for the names of the dead, it seems,” he said darkly. Emma blinked at that.

“That's your name, isn't it?” she said, flustered for words. Killian chuckled, a disparaged sound.

“That man is gone. He died with Milah and Liam,” he spat, tracing his finger along the edge of his prosthetic. “Hook is what has risen from the ashes.”

“God, you are so dramatic,” Emma laughed out a reply. Hook looked offended, surprised, and even slightly impressed in one fell swoop.

Always dramatic, Milah added and Emma snorted again.

“Milah says you've always been this way,” she filled him in.

“Oh, yes, as she's one to talk. She once screamed the bloody house down over a spider,” he shot back and Emma almost fell over at the acknowledgement of Milah's presence.

Jasmine swirled around her, a happy little flush of fragrance.

Big spider. Deadly. He went to hospital for a splinter.

“You went to the hospital for a splinter?” Emma raised an eyebrow and the pointed tips of Killian's ears flushed pink, in embarrassment this time, rather than rage. His hand came up to scratch behind his ear, giving him away completely.

“My foot went through a rotted board on the dock! I was impaled by a half the bloody plank!” he defended.

Splinter, Milah reaffirmed and Emma had had enough.

“Can we have this little lovers spat another time?” Emma near shouted, her eyes screwing shut against the throbbing in her temples and crown of her head. “What are you not telling me about Gold?”

“Why did you scream my brother’s name when you woke up?” he asked, refusing to answer her.

“Because I had an encounter with him while I was unconscious. He visits my dreams a lot. Now, tell me about Gold,” she demanded, trying to pull the focus where it was important.

“Is Liam here now as well?”

“No. Are you going to tell me about Gold?”

“I didn’t intend to, no.”

“Then I'm fucking leaving. I'm not wasting any more of my time here.” Emma marched over to the desk, intent on retrieving her gun and badge, but she should have known he was going to stop her. His hand closed around her bicep a moment later.

“Wait just a second.” The muscles of his jaw worked beneath the skin and scruff there, as if he were trying to work out the words to say.

“I don't have a second. I have to call my handler and sort this whole mess out. I don't have time to play games with you. I told you the truth, you don't believe me, that's your problem,” she snapped and tried to move around him again but his grip tightened, holding her in place.

“I've already texted him from your phone. Chapelle, right?” he replied. Emma's heart dipped into her stomach. “I spoke as you, let him know you were safe and that you'd call when the job was done.”

“Why?” She couldn't tell if the breathless quality of her voice was from fear or awe.

“Because we needed to talk.” He shrugged.

“And yet all you've done is argue with me, and Milah through me, and we've gotten exactly nowhere.” She yanked her arm from his grasp and stormed back to the couch, sitting down in a huff and massaging her aching skull.

She felt a dip in the cushion beside her, taking her by surprise. She peeked at Hook from the corner of one eye. He was gazing at her with a soft expression, his breathing more calm and even and he scrubbed a broad palm over his face, his jaw relaxing as he rubbed at it.

“You're right, Swan. This is just… it's just a lot to take in. And I've worked too hard to protect myself and take down Gold once and for all for it to be ruined because I got tangled up with the police.” Emma looked like she might interrupt him but he cut her off. “What I'm saying is I believe you, love. Despite my better judgement, I trust you're telling me the truth. And I think we can take Gold down together.”

Emma was sure her jaw had hit the floor. She stared blankly at him, periodically stammering out a few vowel sounds and he chuckled, reaching up slowly and tipping her mouth shut with a knuckle under her chin. He skimmed his thumb over the flesh there, just under her lip, and she felt heat unexpectedly rush to the surface of every inch of her skin even after he withdrew.

Work with him, Milah urged, interrupting whatever had just passed between them. Emma schooled her features into something more controlled and cleared her throat.

“What did you have in mind?”

Hook grinned at her acquiescence and stood, making his way back to retrieve the binder on the desk. He sat beside her and propped the binder on his hook, flipping it open and scooting so his thigh was pressed against hers. She felt dizzy. It was probably more the head wound than his closeness. Probably.

“Here, this is a shipping yard that Gold works out of,” he tapped on the page with dexterous fingers, showing several highlighted sections of an aerial map. “We have mapped out shipment processes and schedules, as well as security and entry points. We often use it to take shipments and keep ourselves afloat, but something big has been happening lately. They're moving something that has significantly more value than black market art and finery. Security has nearly doubled.”

“What does that have to do with my case?” Emma asked, leaning in to get a better look.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” He shrugged, his shoulder brushing hers, and she stiffened slightly at the innocent contact. The spicy scent of his cologne invaded her senses and overwhelmed the jasmine that usually took residence there. “Fact is, if we can find out, you have leverage, darling. You can use it to find your women, if they are truly connected to him.”

Emma thought about this for a moment. Now that she was clearly out with Gold, this was her best option. Maybe she could work out some kind of deal for Hook as well, since he was being so cooperative. She could take down Gold, save these women, and save Killian Jones, all in the same instance. This would work. It had to.

“Alright, Killian,” she felt his breath hitch again beside her when she said his name, “I can work with this. You've got a deal.”

She looked up from the page at him and realized just how close he was. She could feel the warmth of his breath fanning over her cheek, and the blue of his eyes was even brighter up close, like two glittering pools of ocean water drawing her in. If she wasn't careful, she was afraid she could drown in them. His tongue poked out, tracing the inside of his bottom lip slowly, and she didn't even realize that she'd tracked the motion with her eyes until the corner of his mouth lifted in a satisfied smirk.

“Aye, love. I think we'll make quite the team.”

[chasinganecdotes]

Shankshaw’s Revenge 🎭

Prince Roland clinked his silver against the glass goblet, standing from the velvet cushion of his throne. He looked so elegantly regal in his midnight attire, a black silk coat cinched tight to his slim frame and a crimson cloth draped over his shoulder. His hawk-like features were hidden beneath a lattice threaded mask beaded with onyx pearls and rubies that curved up into a plomb of wings, as if he truly were the predator incarnate. His only betrayal were those frozen river eyes that didn’t quite match the rest of his darkness.

“My esteemed courtesans, welcome to this Hallow's Eve Masquerade. A night to celebrate the souls of those we’ve lost. A night, I dare say, to ravish in their memory and indulge in revelry on their behalf.” Though the mask covered his mouth, Georgina sensed that the corners of his lips had upturned  in a rather bemused smirk. “I have prepared our jester with a small game for your entertainment.” He motioned to his guards. “If you would kindly bring in the clown.”

He was dragged in on chains, his body limp with the weight of the gilded manacles biting into his ankles and wrists. Bent over, his spine punctured his dirty rags like tiny daggers slicing the skin, starved and broken as he was. He was placed at the foot of the dais, the guards unshackling him, and for a moment Georgina thought the clown might collapse. But slowly, ever so slowly, he began to roll up on limbs seemingly inflated with life. With his head still bowed, he peered through strands of silvered hair, his eyes red rimmed and swollen. A smile stretched across the whole of his face- not just any smile though. It was a smile carved from flesh, a mangled mess of a puckered wound that sliced up his cheekbones from the corners of his mouth. Georgina gasped. She had never seen someone quite so hideous, nor anything so gruesome. It wasn’t becoming of a lady to be present to such eeriness. 

“Ghouls,” the clown rasped, crooking a finger toward a woman seated at the front, “and gremlins.” He lurched toward the man seated opposite her. “Tonight we feast on the dead.” 

“Enough with the dramatics, Shankshaw. You are not here to frighten the guests,” Prince Roland scolded. 

Shankshaw glared up at the prince from the corner of his eyes, his smile widening to teeth.“Yes master.” He turned back to the crowd, pulling out a blunt of sage from his bootleg. “To begin this ritual, I must first perfume the air with the burning of a beauty.”

“He means a beauty burning the sage, of course.”

Shankshaw nodded vehemently. “Of course, of course.” He skidded over to Mrs. Westlow, the wife of the Captain of the Guard. “Misses, if you would.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly-“ she protested, her thickly jeweled neck blushing stark white.

“Oh but you must!” He dug his talons into her naked shoulder. “The spirits call to you, my lady.” Mrs. Westlow’s eyes rounded as he thrust the sage into her hands and, as if by magic, blew a breath of fire to ignite the wrap. Thick purple smoke began to mist around the room, obscuring the clown as he weaved in and out of the rows of courtesans. 

“And now, if you would, may I have a volunteer to draw just a drop of blood?” The clown’s voice was a wailing whisper, like claws scratching violin strings. 

A man wreathed in the insignia of the scroll chamber jolted from his chair. “And what of this? Why should we spill our blood on the plea of a court jester.”

“Mr.Chamberland, keeper of the ancient scrolls, is it?” The clown unsheathed a dagger from a scabbard at his side and palmed the blade. “Hasn’t there been anyone dear that you’ve lost? Anyone you would simply die to speak with one last time?” Georgina watched as the man’s face slacked, his outburst extinguished by a sudden veil of sorrow. It had been rumored, she knew, that the man had just lost his youngest daughter to a terrible bout of pneumonia.

“I suppose I volunteer tribute then. I will slice my palm, but just enough to get on with the ritual.”

Shankshaw handed Mr. Chamberland the dagger, blade first. Mr. Chamberland carefully sliced a line across his palm, watching in fascination as a well of blood began to pour from his open fist. Shankshaw crouched below the line of blood, letting the next drop catch on his tongue. 

“Now look, you tortured creature-“ Mr. Chamberland started.

“And for our last bit of fun I shall use the help of our prince.”

“Do not involve me in your antics, Shankshaw. I am not meant to partake in your little game.”

“Oh, oh, but Prince Roland you must lead example to your court! It is a small part. Insignificant really. Why you don’t have to do anything at all. Just stand center to the ritual. A figurehead. A leader. A king.” Georgina could see the cold, calculating fury starting to fissure through Prince Roland’s eyes. She knew the clown had struck a cord with that forbidden word, the title Prince Roland so steadfastly reached for but would never quite grasp. The prince lifted his chin and waved a gloved hand, unimpressed by Shankshaw’s performance but unwavering in his determination to not be bested by the tricks of his fool. 

Shankshaw bounded up the steps of the dais so that he was face to face with Prince Roland, a cruel mirror of the beautiful black hawk of Rathia to his broken and bloody plaything. The clown no longer looked hunchback, but rather stood taller than even the prince. They could be about the same age, Georgina thought, though the clown’s mutilated face made it hard to discern any signs of youth. 

The clown pulled from his pocket a leather bag, which he began to upturn in a circle around the prince, creating an almost protective sphere, like she had seen some of the witches do in their hexes. Though instead of candles and salt, small shards of bones and what appeared to be ash crowned the prince. Shankshaw howled, a truly vicious laugh that stopped Georgina’s blood cold. 

“For years you have laughed at my misery, prince. Humiliated me, tortured me. Carved up who I was born to be into the tiny pieces of who you forced me to become. I was born to be a magician, you know that? Born to the blood of the magi. But you stole that from me. You all,” Shankshaw turned to the crowd, “have stolen that from me.” 

“Your game this night is over, fool. Do not think I will take kindly to what you have done here,” Roland seethed. “Guards!” But the guards did not come.

Mrs. Westlow began in a fit of coughs, a rib rattling hackle that seemed to worsen the more the sage smoke burned the air.

Shankshaw bent back his spine and let loose another cackle onto the night. “You think me so dim witted. A lowly court jester. Ha! I have paid attention over the years.” With a wave of his hand, the smoke parted to reveal the mask of horror that lay beneath. All across the room, velvet and jewel encrusted vizards drop bloodstained on the floor, the courtesan’s faces unveiled to the skin. And across each, a smile of flesh and blood sliced from ear to ear.

 Amid the coughing, Mrs. Westlow let out a strangled scream, though to Georgina’s ears it sounded more like choking. 

“Mrs. Westlow, how I do regret that the smoke will trigger emphysema, especially with such a case so severe as yours. A hidden opium pipe addiction will do that, I suppose.” 

She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to muffle the next onslaught. But instead of air, a ripple of flame crawled through her lips, licking its tongues down her neck to catch fire to her dress of jaded satin. The fire didn’t just burn her skin, it seemed to melt it, a sort of hellfire that incinerated her in the same instant it took for her to breathe. In just a blink of an eye, she became mere ash, as if she had ceased to exist at all.

“You monster!” Prince Roland bellowed. “Have you no remorse, no mercy for the carnage you have wrought upon your kingdom?” The prince dared to charge the clown, drawing the sword that always lay ready at his back, but was hurled back by some invisible force that enchambered the circle of bones.

“Tenfold for the carnage you have wrought upon me.” Shankshaw countered. He dragged a finger across the wreckage of his smile. “Just a boy prince is all you are. Cruel without purpose. Tell me Roland, how does it feel to be trapped as the world you love dies right before your eyes?”

Prince Roland’s eyes flickered to Georgina, a plea to run, to escape the fate of the dying court. 

“Ah yes, the jewel of Rathia,” Shankshaw purred. He stalked toward her, an icy fear paralyzing her to her seat. She looked to Mr. Chamberland, her last hope, and gasped as his body fell to the floor, blood leaking from his eyes and nose and mouth. 

“Georgina!” Prince Roland screamed, though it was as if she were hearing him from beneath water. She could hear him, but the words could not reach her. Silent tears wet her cheeks as the clown bent a knee before her, pulling from his shirt sleeve a single rose and extending it to her. The rose was in full bloom, strangely plump in a season where the rose bushes were beginning to wilt.

“A beauty such as the Gardens of Botanica would be jealous.” Shankshaw whispered.

Georgina reached for the rose, and for the moment her skin touched his, she was reminded of another boy at another time with another rose jimmied up his shirtsleeve.

“Peter?”

Shankshaw smiled, a true grin without malice or menace. “Georgina.” And then, in a motion swifter than her eye could track, he slashed a dagger line across her chest, just above where her heart lay.