Summary: All his life, Killian has been nothing but the witch's son. At sixteen, he gets the chance to befriend Emma Swan, a street urchin in the village, and it's more than he had ever dared hope for. But sometimes people are just too used to being on their own.

Author's note: This started out as a tiny idea wherein Killian was the son of a witch, and then it became, well, this. A four part story of about 18000 words - good thing is, I've already written it. The rest of the chapters just need some editing, but you can expect quick updates!

Killian bit his lip. The knife was steady in his hand, tracing the lines he had drawn on the wooden bead. It was about the size as half of his thumb.

As a child, Killian had practiced his precision when carving images in beads. Now sixteen, the art entranced him as much as watching the sea did.

Killian started carving the bird's eye. On the other side of the den, behind her bookcase, his mother's cauldron was bubbling. The scent of mint filled the room. She was mixing an elixir against coughing, most likely based on fluxweed. And mint, of course.

Bookcases enclosed his own nook of the den. They trapped the sunlight that fell through the window, warming Killian in his seat. Odd trinkets and books with cracked spines filled the shelves.

On his well-worn desk was a wooden box, one he had carved when he was thirteen. It was full of wooden beads, each with different symbols; some were omens of love, others of good health or a prosperous future. His mother said his carving was a magic in itself. He knew the only real magic came from the charms she laced them with.

Killian blew away the gathering wood dust before grabbing a thinner blade to fully hollow out the eye. Next came the lines of the thick beak that characterized the albatross. The bird was a symbol of freedom and good fortune amongst sailors - or so he had once heard when sneaking in to the tavern in the village, just to get a glimpse of another life. He would never dare admit to his mother, how much time he actually spent in that tavern.

The bubbling stopped.

"Killian, are you set to leave? I have the last potion bottled and ready."

With a sigh, Killian left the bead unfinished on the table. He left the fine, small knife as well; he had a dagger tucked in a sheath on his belt. Not that he'd ever need it.

Althea put the last elixir into the basket on the table, closing the lid as Killian came to the front door.

The boy grabbed his cloak from its hook and fastened it around his neck. Althea had made it of a dark, heavy cloth, and fashioned it with several hidden pockets. Wearing it had always felt like being enveloped in a piece of home, and he had cherished it from the moment she gave it to him on his fourteenth birthday. "A young man must have a strong cape if he wishes to make his way in the world."

Despite proclaiming him a young man, Althea had no trouble with still treating him like a little boy. Only his height was in her way. She beckoned him down to her level so she could kiss his forehead.

"There's a storm on its way, so be home before nightfall, will you? It wouldn't do for you to be caught up in it." Her wide eyes looked huge on her wrinkled face. He wasn't sure of her age, but his mother had never looked old in Killian's eyes - she looked like she always did.

"Aye, mum, worry not. I can handle it." He had been running her errands for six years; he could handle them and a little storm just fine. Her obvious worry for him amused him though. It warmed his heart as well, and he bowed down once more to return a kiss on her brow before leaving with the basket in hand.

All his life, Killian had lived with his mother in a three-story cottage on the top of a hill. Isolated, they could see the village and the ocean in the distance.

He took the narrow path through the trees, down steep steps created by roots. The hill sloped into a small valley of rocks and tall grass, where the path was naught but a thin line left uncluttered and barren. Few ever walked there but him. It must have been ages since his mother left for the village. Perhaps she was too frail to make it down the rocky hill now, but he must have been ten the last time she did.

Magic was not shunned and witches were not hunted, tortured or burned at stake. Not for the past century at least. But they weren't welcome in normal society either. Sure, when an elixir was needed for a cough or a trinket needed to ward off rats, they were eager to ask his mother for help. But they'd never dream of talking to her or laughing with her. They would just throw their money at her and shut the door.

Company must have been way too rare before she took him in as an infant. Now the life of judgmental looks and shut doors was Killian's to share. At least the villagers took kinder to him than they did his mother. At least he didn't have magic. He couldn't turn anyone into a toad with a mere glare (even though that would have been a handy gift).

In the village his job was simple. Althea had a list of which costumers had ordered what, and handing off merchandise and taking payment was easy enough. The costumers were usually the same - hardly everyone trusted magic after all, and only those who did ever sought Althea for help.

When the basket was empty and the pouch full, Killian set off for the town market. At home they had a kitchen garden next to the herb garden and a hen house as well. Flour and fish were a bit harder to come by on the hilltop though.

The tavern wasn't far away from the market square - maybe he could buy a cup of ale and just sit in the corner, take everything in. Or he could make a short walk down to the cliff.

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon. Perhaps it was best if he just went home instead.

Then a merchant cried out.

"Thief! Thief! That rat bloody stole my bread! Thief!"

Killian's spine ran cold. His mind urged his legs to run; dash through the crowd and never look back.

But he hadn't stolen anything. Everything in his basket was paid for with honest coin. But the witch's son was always easy to blame.

Killian dared a look over his shoulder. The merchant kept roaring thief, demanding the guards act quicker. He was pointing at a girl running away as best as she could, weaving through the crowd. Killian only caught a glimpse of tangled blonde hair.

With as much calm as he could muster, he scurried away from the market as well. There would be hell to pay if he ended up in some sort of trouble that had nothing to do with him in the first place.

He didn't walk along the broad cobbled road for long. Instead he turned a corner and wandered through the desolate, small alleys with the narrow paths and bleak façades.

As much as he prided himself on being ever-observant, Killian nearly stumbled when he turned yet another corner.

His eyes were quick to take in what had almost tripped him. Or rather, who.

She was probably around his age. She lay on the ground, leaning against the house behind her with a grimace. He saw the bread lying beside her in a muddy puddle, the twisted ankle that had almost felled him, her tattered clothes, the dirt on her face, her tangled blonde hair.

She was the thief.

Killian froze for a second. Not because he minded the proximity of lower criminals, no.

He had never seen anyone so stunning.

Even lying on the ground, clearly beat, there was a strength in her eyes. Something else too - something familiar. She looked the way he imagined he did, ready for someone to wrinkle their nose at him, tell him he didn't belong, that he would be better off gone.

Well, he wouldn't wrinkle his nose at her. He'd do nothing of the sort.

"Can I offer you some help, love?"

"No," she said, sparing him a single glance. "I'm just fine where I am, thanks." She let her head drop back against the wall and closed her eyes. She clearly expected him to step over her leg and walk on.

"Are you sure, love?"

She kept her stance.

"Yes. And don't call me 'love'," she added.

"Well then, milady, what should I call you?" Killian bounced on his heels with a grin, the image of a prompt knight. She glared at him, but at least he'd gotten her to open her eyes again. He quite admired their shade of green.

"Nothing. And definitely not 'milady'. Just go. Please," she added with a wry smile and a tilt of her head.

"Listen, you might wish to deny it, but that ankle looks near sprained. My mother could heal it; she's quite skilled when it comes to that. And I bet she'd be willing to do it free of charge."

"You listen - I can handle myself, I don't need your pity or 'free of charge' help."

"I'm not offering you pity, I'm offering to be a gentleman; because my mother will surely cuff my head if she learns I left you here with a storm rolling in. So really, it's not to help you; it's to save my own skin."

She just looked at him at that. Scrutinized him.

His reasons had meant to be appealing. Maybe he had gone about it the wrong way. Now it felt like she was trying to open up his head and see what lay inside.

A squirm crawled under his skin.

Instead he straightened his back - if she wanted a look inside his head, he'd let her have it. If only it would get her off the bloody ground and into a warm house with some actual food that wasn't covered in mud.

"You're the witch's son, aren't you?"

He had not expected that. Usually people just knew. They would acknowledge it with their eyes, judge him and size him, but never dare ask. The way she looked at him now was different though. There was wonder, but no judgement.

"Aye." He had no clue of what else to say and suddenly felt incredibly dumb.

"She lives all the way up the hill, doesn't she? How do you expect me to get there with a twisted ankle? Offering to carry me, are you?"

What, was the thought of him carrying her really that laughable? He would have admired her smile if he hadn't been too busy nursing his bruised ego.

"I thought perhaps we could make it with some team effort."

A pause settled.

"Alright."

Had his ears tricked him?

The girl made to get up, steadying herself with her hands against the wall behind her. Killian offered his hand to her instead. She looked at it for a second, the gears turning in her head behind her eyes.

She took it.

Killian couldn't help a small smile from showing.

With her arm slung over his shoulder, and his hand steadying her on her hip (she had seemed ticklish when he first tried to grab her waist), they made their way through the village to the small valley. They huddled along, doing their best to scout the widest and most even path amongst the stones and tall grass. His cape was awkwardly wedged over his left shoulder, the basket in his right hand.

"My name's Killian by the way. Killian Jones," he broke the silence when it dawned on him that they had skipped the usual formalities.

"Jones? I didn't expect the witch to be called something so... I don't know, short? Normal? I guess I imagined something more like Moonseed or Emerald or Blackwood... or Darktoad."

"Darktoad? A bit prejudiced, aren't you?" Killian grinned. He carried on, trying to maintain a serious tone, "her name's Althea Grimsbane - now that's not at all what you'd expect of a witch's name."

The girl let out a puff of laughter. Killian's next step was given a small bounce of pride.

"She named me Jones because she found me by the beach as an infant, 'as if I'd been washed up from Davy Jones' locker', she says."

Only when the girl remained silent, did Killian wonder if perhaps that was too much to share. Did he sound too self-pitying by mentioning his abandonment as a baby? She probably knew of worse consequences than being taken in by a witch.

He opened his mouth, not really sure of what to say - maybe some off-handed joke about the chances of him being a changeling - but she cut him off.

"You can call me Swan."

Swan. He tested it on his tongue for a second. It suited her. Her blonde hair, her charming eyes, her stubbornness - especially her stubbornness.

"Alright then, Swan. Ready for a little climb?"

Getting up the hill to the cottage wasn't easy and it was hardly fast-going. Swan did her best though. Sometimes she couldn't stop a gasp or a grunt from slipping her mouth, but she didn't complain once. She just took a deep breath and tightened her grip on Killian's shoulder. It was tough, but he didn't mind one bit.

They made it to the cottage just before the clouds darkened the entire sky. The door was unlocked as always. Who would ever dare steal from a witch?

"You can sit here," Killian helped Swan over to the well-cushioned couch by the fire place. "I'll go find my -"

"Killian, I told you to be home before nightfall! A few minutes more and you might have resembled a drowned rat!" Althea came through the doors of the kitchen. Her scolding abruptly stopped when she noticed Swan on the couch, sitting so rigidly you would never have guessed how soft the sofa actually was.

Killian took his chance to speak while his mother's mouth still hung wide open.

"Sorry, mum, I was just assisting Swan here. She's twisted her ankle quite badly and I thought you could be of help."

"Why of course, darling!" The witch scuffled over to Swan. She greeted her with a warm smile and quickly lit the logs in the fire place with a flick of her hand.

Swan was tongue-tied. She managed a smile though. Althea needed no more and stooped to look at the bruised ankle, gently touching it to see what damage needed remedying.

"Killian, dear, will you tend to the soup while I fix Swan's ankle?"

He didn't fancy being dismissed. He looked at Swan, silently asking if she minded being left alone with the witch.

She lifted the corner of her mouth.

With a curt nod, more to himself than anyone, Killian unfastened his cloak, hung it on its hook and went to the kitchen.

"First I'll apply some salve to relieve some of the pain, then I can..." the rest of Althea's words were inaudible as Killian went into their small pantry to stow away his purchases. The soup was simmering over a home-made stove, lit with one of Althea's flames. There wasn't much tending for him to do.

His mother spoke softly to Swan but he couldn't distinguish the words, nor could he understand Swan's replies. At least she seemed comfortable. She had looked much like someone ready to bolt through the door when he first showed her to the couch. She probably would have if it weren't for her ankle.

Killian brought the pot of soup to the dining table in the den just as the light disappeared underneath Althea's palm. Swan was now in possession of a magically healed ankle.

"I hope you don't mind mushroom soup, love. I did make quite a lot - almost as if I sensed a guest coming our way." Althea waved the bowls and spoons out of their cupboard and set them on the table, humming a merry tune. The table had rarely been set for more than two -if ever. The gleam in his mother's eyes wasn't one he saw often either.

Swan looked more skittish than merry. Perhaps she loathed mushroom soup, but it was somehow doubtful that her eyes were flickering from Althea, to him and lastly the door because of a lumpy broth.

"You've already helped me enough, and I'm thankful for it. But my ankle's fine now, I can walk back to village."

"Nonsense, darling. That ankle needs a bit of rest and I reckon you need a bit of food. It's really no trouble for us at all."

"I..."

Killian studied the way her eyes longed for the door. He waited quietly for her decision, but she couldn't seem to find any words to properly argue Althea.

Rain battered against the windows - the storm had finally come to their door. Swan would have to physically fight Althea if she still wished to leave.

"I insist you stay, love - I can hardly send you out in this weather! Now come and eat. There's a bedroom upstairs next to Killian's, warm and ready to welcome you with a good night's rest."

Killian could almost hear the cogs turning in Swan's head. Maybe she was afraid of staying the night in a witch's cottage? He knew for certain most of the villagers would be. But she didn't seem frightened, not like that. Sure, her flickering eyes and rigid posture made it plain that she didn't trust them, but not because of who they were - it was their offer that troubled her. A place to stay. A piece of their home.

Judging from the fact that she stole bread to survive, that she didn't seem to mind lying in an alley for who knows how long, Killian presumed she wasn't much used to having people care for her.

"Okay." It was a quiet word, but more than enough to make Killian smile. "I guess there's no reason not to stay."

She probably had many.

Supper was fairly quiet at the table. The slurping of soup accompanied the rain and the wind howling through the windows. Fortunately, they had a crackling fireplace in their favour.

Once Emma had taken her last spoonful of soup, Althea sent the pot and bowls to the kitchen with a flick of her wrist. The broom by the door woke to life and started sweeping the floor by itself. Just like always. But the awe in Swan's face made him look anew at the magic surrounding him.

(And perhaps he chanced a second glance at her awestricken face too.)

Althea went about the house fixing up things here and there. Killian's fingers started itching for something to do as well. Instead of fiddling with his thumbs, he got up to retrieve the bead he had been working on in his nook. The knife too.

Swan was fidgeting with the tablecloth when he sat back down. He was well aware of the way her eyes fixed on him as he started carving the ruffled feathers of the albatross' wings.

"What's that?"

"Ah, it's a wooden bead," Killian grinned. She tilted her head at him, unamused.

"I carve symbols in them - different omens - and my mother charms them to fulfil the purpose of their omen. For instance I'm carving a bird in this one - an albatross. It could be a symbol of freedom I reckon, but I once heard sailors describe it as a sign of good fortune."

"Does it really work?"

"Doubting a witch's magic, are you?" Killian teased. "Well, not really, no. You'll need powerful magic if you truly wish to lace a bead with good fortune, good health, good looks or something akin to that. They're not complete fraudulence, but I doubt they could change the course of your life."

Killian scratched a last ruffle in the albatross' wing and studied the finished bead in the light. Intricate lines adorned the top and bottom of the bead, giving it a well-rounded quality.

He could sense Swan trying to get a glimpse of his work. He laid the bead on the table in front of her and made to stand, meaning to fetch an uncarved bead. She took it in her hand and studied it.

"It's beautiful," she said, keeping her eyes on the bead, rolling it between her fingers.

Her words did something to him. Her approval, somehow it just warmed him.

"Why, thank you very much, Swan."

Morning greeted Killian with a ray of sunshine on his bed, a big contrast to the heavy rain he had fallen asleep to. For a moment he just lay there. He let himself soak in the sun, let the memories of yesterday run through his mind.

Swan.

Should he let her sleep or wake her up? He stood at the top of the stairs contemplating the question for a minute. Finally, he made up his mind.

There was no answer to his knock on the door. Not the first, second or third time.

A sinking feeling formed in Killian's gut. When he opened the door and found what he had expected, the feeling didn't stop though. It just plummeted to the bottom of his stomach.

She had left. Probably as soon as the sun had risen.

The room showed no sign of any guest ever being there. It didn't make sense why it hurt so much. It wasn't like they had become friends; it wasn't like anything big had happened between them. He had simply helped her, nothing more.

At a second sweeping glance, the room didn't lack all sign of her as he had initially thought. A small note lay on the pillow of the bed.

Killian took the scrap of paper in his hands and looked long at the scribbled letters.

Thanks.

A hastily drawn swan decorated the corner. It wasn't very beautiful, but Killian smiled nonetheless.

And if he tucked the note in his pocket to keep, well, no one would ever have to know.

Thanks for reading!