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Her heart is a ravenous thing. It wants.

It is savage in its need for power, its want for control. It is gluttonous, taking, taking, taking. She has taken their memories. Their control, their power but now?

Now, she wants their souls.

She starts with him.

"We need a hero to pull Excalibur from the stone."

The voice rings in her ears, wild and shrill, spilling over the edges of her mind until all her near-sighted heart can see is how close she is to being truly free. All she needs is a hero.

She knows just where to find one.

After all, she is the one who made him.

The afternoon light spills into the Captain's Quarters of the Jolly Roger as she arrives there. Picturing in her mind the large desk that takes up the centre of the room, the small bed tucked into the corner, the warmth and safety of the room, it is almost too easy.

The hidden part of her, the weak part, it revels in the memory. Holds on the to the echoes of her time in the room, on the ship. The feeling of her family surrounding her, supporting her as they travelled to do good. The warmth of his kiss, the weight of his arms around her waist. Even if it wasn't truly him then, the tiny sliver of her old soul latches onto the feeling anyway.

She shakes it off as she finds his figure lying on the bed, his eyes open as he stares at the ceiling. His hair is just as much of a mess as it had been the last time she'd seen him, like he had been running his hand through it constantly. She imagines she feels a stinging, an ache in her chest at the emptiness of his stare, at the desperation etched into his bones but she can't really be sure anymore.

As she watches, his hand rises again, his fingers delving into his hair before his eyes drift towards her, finally noticing her presence.

He stands slowly, wary as he watches her walk towards him.

"What do you want, Dark One?"

She smiles, the darkness quickly overwhelming whatever tenderness had escaped its grasp but letting the vestiges of it school the expression on her face into something delicate.

(She needs him. She needs him so she can be free of him)

"Why are you so cold, Killian? What happened to Swan?"

She reaches him, her hands stroking the fabric of his jacket, running up his chest.

"To Emma? To love? "

"You're not the same, Emma," his jaw clenches as he speaks, his voice controlled and neutral, his despair only just leaking from the edges.

But, when her fingers rise to run over his cheek, he relaxes, just a little and doesn't pull away. Her magic sings at the victory.

"Is it the clothes? The hair? It's an adjustment I suppose. Since you don't remember."

Her hand scratches at his neck even as a cloud envelopes her, the smoke dissipating to reveal her new form.

"Better?"

His mind is chaos.

A restless tangle of thoughts that has persisted ever since they had come back from a place he cannot recall, a time that escapes his every attempt at remembering. He jumps rapidly from one scheme to another, from one possible solution to the next. He does not allow himself stillness, respite, for he knows that the minute he does, he will begin to wonder what it was that he had done in Camelot, how exactly he had failed her.

He knows that he will be lost if he ever allows himself to dwell on it. So, he tries to fix it instead, tries desperately to bring her back.

But now, she stands before him. Her face is soft, her eyes shining. Her dress the same from a night that seems like it is from a lifetime ago. The pink of her skirt swaying against her bare legs, the sharp edge of her collarbone shining in the afternoon sun.

"Do you see now? I'm here. I remember that night. I remember how you held me. I remember how you kissed me."

Her arms are still around him, her scent assaulting him, making him want to fall into her, to rest, to sleep in her arms and to wake up knowing that she was better, that she was back, that she was his again.

He is so tired.

But it is not her, it is a demon who wears her skin and he will not let it trick him. He shrugs off her arms, stepping back, his voice echoing the violent storm in his heart as he spits out the words.

"No. This isn't you, Emma. That you isn't here."

Her smile wavers, her eyes falling to her hands, face up at her sides before she looks back up at him.

"Killian I—"

And he cannot stand it. She is so much like her. Her eyes the green of endless glades, of emeralds in the sun. Her hair silky and falling against her neck. Her skin smooth, her mouth just open, her lips waiting for him, waiting for his. He speaks before he betrays himself. He speaks the words that will remind him that this is the demon he has been chasing for centuries.

Even if it looks like the woman he loves. Even if it wears her voice, her clothes, her memories.

He speaks before the niggling voice at the back of his head has a chance to break his resolve.

(You did this to her. You did this. You—)

"You need something, Dark One. Tell me what it is."

"All I need is your trust."

Her voice is a whisper as she says it, her eyebrows rising, her eyes wide and gods help him, he is so tired.

"Killian, please. I miss you," her arms come around him again, her forehead leaning against his chest as she lets herself sink onto him.

"Emma, what do you want from me?"

It is the same question, but now, he can hear his desperation trickling through the anger and confusion, the exhaustion that has taken residence under his skin taking over as his arms come around her despite himself.

"I'm so tired. I just want it to be over," she looks up to meet his eyes, "and you're the only one who can help me be free of the dagger."

It is as though he has been jolted out of a haze, his mind clearing, his body stiffening. His hand and hook go to her shoulders, pulling her away from him. His eyes dart between hers as he speaks.

"What do you mean "free of the dagger"? What are you trying to do?"

She moves her hand until it is resting over his, skin against skin and it becomes harder for him to remember that this is not the woman he loves, this is not—

"Do you love me?"

His arms fall to his sides as he hears the words that punch the breath out of his body. His mouth opens to answer but no words come out.

Four words is all it takes.

Four words and he wants to fall to his knees and beg for her to come back to him.

Four words and he wants to kiss the breath out of her, demon or no.

Four words and he wants to let her take whatever she wants from him, his heart, his soul, his life.

Four words.

"Tell me you don't love me and I will let you go."

Her magic sparks within her as she watches his face fall, his posture soften.

"But, if you love me, please Killian, you have to help me."

Her magic sparks but her withered heart feels like it is crumbling to dust. For a second though, it wins and the darkness falls beneath the strength of her need to comfort him. She leans closer to him again, craving his touch. The look in his eyes feels like he is seeing through the darkness that makes her veins lines of fire, that makes her skin the sharp cold of ice.

She steps closer still, her hand coming up to burrow into the heat of his jacket, her lips nudging his in a quiet plea. His breath quickens but his eyes don't close, searching hers even as she gets too close.

He kisses her on a sigh of her name and she begins to melt.

His lips are warm and soft, the kiss nothing like the one they had shared before, desperate and hard. All creaking leather and broken gasps. No, this is a gentle caress, a hand reaching though the shadows to pull her home.

But, the darkness, the magic inside her churns in protest as a pure white light seems to burst behind her eyelids. She feels the power begin to fade a touch, slipping away but then, it is back. The darkness unwilling to let go, her heart unwilling to let it.

She chose this. She chose to be this. She is this.

She is the Dark One.

And she must be free.

She breaks away from the kiss on a gasp. Managing to keep her control, her mask slips easily back into place, her eyes shining again, her face soft again.

"Emma, I know you're in there. Fight back, love."

His voice is frantic.

He had seen.

He is looking through her now, as he speaks, his eyes searching for the woman that had escaped a few seconds ago.

"Killian, I'm here. Why won't you see me?"

She injects her voice with just the right hint of a tremor. But, it is too late, his face closed off again.

"Emma, I saw you. You fought back. You are not this."

"I am. This is who I am. Just say you will help me."

She tries again, tries to make him fall against her with the exhaustion she can see in the shadows under his eyes, in the sag of his shoulders.

"No," he shakes his head, pulling away from her with some effort, "no. I will never help you, demon."

The words are venomous, laced with disgust and even though she knows it is a mask, even though she knows that this is good, him giving up on her, she feels herself recoil, her heart protesting, comparing his voice to before.

(Don't you know, Emma? It's you.)

But, she gives up trying to keep up the illusion, draping her arm around his shoulder again, her lips quirked up in a smirk.

"Alright, you win this one. But, you will help me Killian."

She steps away from him completely.

"After all, you love me."

(She pretends she doesn't see him fall to his knees as she leaves.)

(She pretends his voice doesn't echo in her mind all night.)