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"They say he is the best storyteller this side of the river and you know we need this Emma, just please? Sit through this one?"

Emma's head is bowed, her steps quick and frustrated as she makes her way to the big hall where a celebration for the harvest, meagre as it was, goes on. Ruby's voice is quiet and pleading in her ear and even though all she wants to do is rip the crown off her head and sob into her pillows, she nods her assent, knowing that Ruby speaks the truth. They're in the middle of a bitter and difficult war with Camelot and her people could use a break, some respite.

Gods know, she could use some too.

She hopes the man tells a story with an ending that's happier than hers.

"Presenting for her highness' pleasure, the wizard of words, the man who weaves tales that will leave you astounded, who can command tears and laughter with a mere whisper, the man with a golden tongue, Smith!"

Emma suppresses a chuckle even as a small titter of laughter floats across her hall at the storyteller's incredibly mundane name. The man himself steps forward.

Dressed all in black leather, the shock of his red brocade vest the only colour on his person, this Smith makes quite the striking picture. He comes closer to bow before her as they all do and she nods her head, giving him permission to stand and begin, just as she always does but then, he does something that very few people have had the gall to do.

He meets her eyes.

Her heart begins to pound against her ribs, her hands suddenly cold. His mouth curves into the tiniest smile then, his eyes dancing with mirth as he turns around to address the audience.

Surely, he wouldn't. Surely, he was not that stupid, that reckless. Surely-

"Thank you, Smee!"

He speaks and she knows. She would know that voice anywhere. It had been haunting her dreams for weeks now and he's here and he's in front of her and she can't touch him, she can't kiss him-

She can't.

Her fingers tighten on the arms on her throne, all her energy focussed on trying to keep her face neutral, trying to hide the effect he had had on her.

"You are too kind, my friend and perhaps a little too ostentatious with your adjectives for a man with a name like mine."

He chuckles, his head bowed to his audience now, his hand on his heart as he continues, his voice lowering now. The people, already in rapture even before he has begun, lean in a touch to hear him.

"Tonight, my friends, I will tell you a tale of joy, of happiness, of hope. Some may call such tales dull or perhaps unremarkable. Commonplace even. But to these people I say, that you have not known loss like we have. You have not spent nights wondering when your brother, your father, your son, your daughter will come home. You have not given up your meal for the good of your neighbour. You have not had the first taste of clean water after a drought."

He looks up and speaks louder. She sees him then, the royalty in his blood, the authority in his stance. She sees her people stand taller, bearing their wounds proudly. She sees the truth of him. The man shining through his facade.

"You have not known the power of hope. Of the strength that can be drawn from a single letter, of the determination that comes from hearing a child laugh even as the world falls apart around them. You have not known it, but we have."

It gets more difficult to hold on to herself, more difficult not to rush at him and let him hold her. Not when he speaks like this, not when his every we and our feels true. Like he knows what they are going through, like he knows what she is going through.

She wants to hate him. She knows that she should hate him and rightly so. He is the enemy after all.

"So, tonight friends, I will try to give you a glimpse of what awaits us all when this is over. For the light and the joy and the laughter so that those who think that they have lost it may remember and so that those who have it may grow stronger."

But how could she?

She loves him. It is as simple and as devastating as that.

He turns back to her then, his eyes shining behind his mask, his smile a little shaky as he takes a deep breath.

"Let us Begin."

And so, Killian Jones, King of Camelot begins his tale.

"Once Upon a Time, in a land much like ours there lived a young, strapping lad, much like myself," he takes an extravagant bow and the audience laughs.

"But, dashing as he was, this lad, he was a lonely soul. For you see, he did not have anyone to love him. He did not know the touch of concerned fingers on his forehead when he was ill. He did not know the warmth of a proud embrace. He did not know the fire of a soft kiss."

He walks about the small area in front of her throne that was his stage. His voice lowers and rises in a cadence that has her floating, that has her believing that they are together in their hideaway cabin once more. That he is whispering a tale for her ears alone as the fire in front of them dances across his features in lights and shadows, as she curls into his warmth even though they lie under a pile of blankets so high that she can barely lift her feet.

"He wandered the lands searching for it, searching for the love that would make his heart race, that would make his soul stop aching. But you see, the lad did not know that the old cliché was in fact very, very true. You do find love in the strangest of places."

He flashes a quick smile at her and she can't help but return it. It is the smallest thing, a minuscule curve of her lips but he lights up at her reaction, his smile turning wider as he finishes his circuit and faces the audience again.

"The first time he met her, oh, there was fire." He raises his hand high, his fingers gesturing as his voice rose.

"She was an enchantress, her eyes looking at him as though she could see every chip and crack in his heart, her beauty like the edge of the knife she held to his throat. And the lad? He fell head over heels for her," he pauses, "charms."

The audience chuckles again and she can hear Ruby laughing behind her. A slight warmth begins in her throat and settles comfortably in her chest.

"Look now, I never said the lad was the brightest one you'd ever meet, just the most handsome."

He winks at a woman in the audience who flushes a deep red and Emma lets herself smile properly. She lets his voice wash over her as she remembers that night. They had both been in disguise at the same tavern, attempting to run from the responsibilities that lay behind them. But he had recognised her, even though he had never seen her before, never travelled across the river before that night, he had known her.

And she could not let it stand.

So she had dragged him behind the tavern, knife at his throat and told him to stay quiet or lose his tongue. He had only smirked at her and asked if they could strike a deal. An afternoon of her company for his silence. She hadn't known then that they would one day be here. Even when she had found out the next day who he was, Prince of Camelot, a kingdom that was a prickly neighbour at best and a contentious enemy at worst.

It had never been easy between Misthaven and Camelot, the great river dividing them. They fought and argued and negotiated over who had rights to it, who had the rights to the greenery that grew around it, who had the rights to the places that it could take them for trade. But, none of it had meant much to a young Emma for what she felt with him was electric. It was heat in her belly and sparks in her skin. It was kisses stolen behind the doors of seedy taverns and rushed dressing in the light of the sunrise.

It was a thrill like she had never felt before and she had chased it. He had been nothing more than a way for her to get her pulse racing but she hadn't known then. She hadn't known that a tremulous peace would give way to war. She hadn't known that their kisses, coloured with laughter would turn into desperate embraces. That their nights behind doors would be spent holding one another as tight as they could for when the morning came, they could not anymore.

"The lass was a volatile sort, her heart made of sparks and flames but he was no different, his own ringing with thunder and lit with lightning. Together, they were fireworks on the darkest of nights, they were the blinding brightness of the sun. Together, they fit, even though the way to together was not as easy as that."

He pauses, his voice lowering to that intimate timbre again.

"For you see the lass had been hurt before. Her tender heart had been crushed and squeezed and pulled. It had known loss and pain. Heartache and betrayal." He pauses to look at his enraptured audience, their eyes following his every move.

"So, she had built a fortress around it, thorns at her doors and knives at her windows to hurt those who would hurt her. And in doing so she kept out pain, but she also kept out love."

She feels the lump in her throat grow, the grip on her throne tighten as he continues to speak of the deepest corners of her being to a room full of people who would never know. They would never know that he knows every inch of the fortress he speaks of, his fingerprints on every door, his shadow in every hallway.

"The lad was persistent though, bewitched as he was by the lass, he felt the loneliness in her. He felt his own lonesome soul sigh in recognition. He felt his heart say, Ah! there you are! I've been looking for you."

His eyes meet hers as he says the words, tenderness swimming in the depths of them, his love for her bright and vibrant in their blues. She wonders then, how they didn't know. How the people watching him look at her could not see his longing, see her tears. She felt as though it was screaming out of her.

Perhaps they had gotten better at pretending. They'd had quite a bit of practice after all.

They had been pretending since that first night, years ago, when she had finally thrown open the gates of her heart and led him inside.

She had come running as soon as she had heard, the news relayed gleefully by the messenger who had claimed to have seen it happen.

The Prince of Camelot had lost his hand in a duel.

He had described the blood and the screaming, the pain and the shame with merciless detail. It had taken all the strength in her body to not throw the messenger to the ground, her sword at his throat and command him to stop. But, she couldn't, her life tethered as always, her soul caged. That night though, she could not sleep. Her dreams filled with roguish smiles that turned into desperate cries, with strong arms around her waist suddenly staining crimson.

So, she had flown.

Sneaked into his chambers cloaked in darkness, and sobbed into his chest. Her fingers trembling as she had gently touched the bandage at the end of his wrist. She had told him then, as he had held her the best he could, that she could not bear to lose him. And that night, they had ignored the blood that stained his sheets, the tears that stained her cheeks. They had ignored the loud bells ringing outside, calling for the capture of intruder in their castle.

They had ignored it all.

"The lad should have listened to her. She was right — she often was, he would come to learn— he was the one who couldn't handle it."

The crowd's raucous laughter pulls her from her thoughts. He is facing them completely now, his shoulders held back, his hand cupped around his mouth as though he was whispering a secret. His other hand is tucked behind him, stiffer than the other, made of wood and covered by a glove like his real one. So realistic, she is certain that she is the only one who knows of it. The only one who knows how it pains him when he takes it off each night, who knows the scars left by the leather that criss-crosses up his arm and shoulder.

(Who knows of every scar, every hurt that maps his body and heart.)

"And then, you ask? Would the lovers face obstacles beyond those of their own hearts? Would they be pulled apart by time and fate and circumstance?"

His eyes meet hers again and he speaks only to her, his voice lowering again becoming the one that would mumble her name in his sleep, grit it out, scream it in anger, whisper it.

"They don't. The lad was not a king, the lass was not a princess. They were freedom and light, laughter and hope. And so one day, when the sunlight shone from her smile and flowers wove themselves through her hair, the lad went on his knees," he kneels then, his eyes still tied fast to hers behind his mask.

The crowd is quiet, hanging on to his every word and she wonders if they can hear her heart beating a haggard rhythm against her chest.

His next words are a whisper piercing the silence of the hall.

"And he said, Darling, I love you. It is the only truth I know."

His voice cracks on the last word and her tremulous control snaps for a second. Her eyes close tight to stop the tears from falling, her knuckles white from her grip on her throne. She bows her head to hide the storm in her heart, her crown heavy, her fingers trembling as she pretends to fix a fold in her dress.

"Come away with me and we shall spend the rest of our days loving each other."

She makes herself look up, look upon his face again, her fingers regaining their grip on the arms of the throne. It is the only thing keeping her still. He smiles at her, a watery thing that grows into a wide showman's grin as he prepares to face his audience again and it is this more than anything that feels like a stab in her belly.

"And so they did."

Thunderous applause covers up her shuddering breath, her broken sob and she leaves the chamber with muttered apologies and half-formed excuses, leaving him behind once more.

She is disguised a maid come to turn down his bed. His accommodation had been given to him by Ruby, to thank him, for his wonderful work in lifting her people's hearts, for giving a struggling nation hope again, if only for an evening.

And he is waiting for her. Always waiting for her.

At first, they do not speak, they do not move. She stands with her back pressed to the door, her hand on her mouth, a sob caught in her throat. He sits on the bed, his elbows still resting against his knees from when his head had been in his hands, wooden one still screwed in place. The candle beside his bed and the moonlight shining through the gauzy curtains make his face look as though it is glowing from within, his features soft, his countenance younger.

The spell breaks when he exhales. A deep shuddering breath that travels his entire body, his whole being sighing as he says her name.

"Emma—"

She finally runs to him, her arms tight around his waist, the white fabric covering her hair fluttering to the floor. His own arms come around her, his lips pressing against her temple.

Her voice is muffled against his neck, "Why would you—"

"I had to see you darling. I've not seen you in over two months and I couldn't—"

She pulls away to study his face again. Closer now and finally free of the mask that had hidden him from her, she can see how much he has changed in just two months. His hair longer, the ends curling against his neck, stray locks lying against his forehead. His beard wilder, rougher to her touch. One hand trails along his jaw while her fingers trace the darkness under his eyes. He leans into her touch, his body relaxing, his eyes drifting shut.

It is written on the lines of his face, he was never meant to be king.

His brother Liam had been groomed and was primed to take the throne. Killian would joke then, in those days, a few weeks before Liam's coronation when their hearts were sunlight and their breaths came as one. He would say that he would become a pirate, exchange his wooden hand for a hook and run away. He would denounce his name and his family and become an outlaw so he could be with her.

(They both knew that he could never, but pretending was easier then.)

He would weave her stories of the adventures they would have when they ran away. He would talk of mermaids and sirens, of buried treasure and untold miracles and she would hum into his skin, her hand stopping her slow strokes against his chest to swat at it when he said something especially extravagant.

It had all fallen apart so quickly. A ship wrecked, a family drowned, the ripped remains of a letter.

Liam had been travelling back with their mother from Arendelle a scant week before he was to be crowned but he had not made it home. Killian had come to see her in their little cabin by the river in those days, frantic with worry, pacing and talking about letters and orders for search parties only ceasing when her arms went around him, her voice whispering for him to calm down, reasoning with him, reassuring him. He would fall asleep with his arms wrapped around her middle, his face buried in her shoulder.

They found Liam eventually. His ship beached off the coast of Camelot, only splinters and tattered sails left of the Jewel Of The Realm.

"No survivors," he had croaked to her, his head in her lap, her hands running through his hair.

They had searched the ship for clues as to who had done this, Killian immovable in his quest for vengeance, justice. But, when his general came to him with a half torn letter, orders for the assassination of Prince Liam Jones, the seal of Misthaven still visible through the water stains, he wished he hadn't pushed so hard.

That was the last night that he had seen her. Two months ago, when he had come to their cabin, his jaw clenched, his hand in a tight fist. Camelot had officially declared war on Misthaven, Killian, their newly crowned King. He had come in with all intents to shout at her, hurl accusations, to let out all the hurt and the betrayal he felt but when he had seen her face, red from crying, her hands trembling, he hadn't been able to help himself.

She hadn't known.

They had not spoken that night, for what could they say? He could not move his generals from waging war, he could not move his heart from seeking justice for his brother's death. She could not promise to punish the men who had hurt Liam, she could not shirk from her duties as queen.

So they had clung to one another, their hands memorising skin, their hearts aching with loss.

She had thought, every night after that one, if she would ever see him again. What she would say if she did, what she would do if he came to her.

(She had tried not to imagine seeing him in the midst of battle, standing on the other side.)

(She had tried not to imagine him falling, his blood spilling around him.)

(She had tried.)

But, now as she stands before him, there is only one thing she wants to say.

"I love you."

His eyes open, hand coming up to grasp her fingers, to press a kiss to her palm.

"And I you. More than anything."

The words escape her lips like a wisp of smoke before she can stop them, the weight of the day, of the last few months finally collapsing about her shoulders.

"Then, stop this. All back your troops."

His eyes squeeze shut, his next breath a shallow thing, a soft whimper of frustration caught somewhere behind his throat.

"You know, Emma, I can't. They want your head," his eyes open, his voice steadier now, "You killed their King!"

She pulls away from him abruptly, her hands leaving their place around his waist, her chest suddenly filled with an ache that had never truly gone away, only momentarily assuaged by his presence.

"You know I had nothing to do with that. Killian, I would never-"

He brushes her hair back from her face, wipes her tears away but his words are laced with a hurt long buried, a betrayal fogged over by longing.

"You are the bloody queen of Misthaven, Emma! How could you have not known?"

All the words they hadn't said that night spill out of them, uncontrolled, unfiltered. The air is filled with sharp, gasping breaths and eyes like shattered glass but still, they do not leave one another, do not stop touching.

She pushes him backwards when she tells him that she had hunted the man who had ordered Liam's death. She tells him that had tried to give him justice but it had been her uncle Leroy, her voice breaking apart at his name. It had been the man who had run through the halls of this castle with her when she was a baby, who had been the grumpiest man in the world but had laughed out the loud when his niece told a funny story. It had been her family.

(What could I do, Killian? What would you have me do?)

He pulls her closer, crushes her to his chest and tells her that he had spent the night that he had found out burning every painting, every drawing that he had made of her when they'd been together. Pulled them out from under the floorboard in his chambers and thrown them in the fire.

She kisses his cheeks, wet with his own tears and tells him that she had tried to hate him too.

He whispers into the scarce space between them as their foreheads rest against one another that perhaps it would have been easier if they had never met, perhaps it would have been easier on his poor heart for he had lost too much already.

And he doesn't know if he can bear to lose her too.

She doesn't say that perhaps he already has.

She kisses him instead.

A tender touch of her lips upon his, a silent apology, a shared sorrow. He responds in kind, his hand caressing her side, his wooden one trailing softly up her back. They are feather light in their caresses, his hand drifts along her skin, her hand sinks lazily into his hair and yet it feels. It feels like she is burning from the inside, heat running through her veins. It feels like his every sigh, every whimper of her name is an engraving of his upon her bones.

They had kissed that night too, when they had seen each other last but it had been different then, hard and desperate and pleading. It had felt like a battle against the universe that had schemed to hurt them so, that had broken them in two. It had felt like begging the world to right itself, for the never-ending ache in their chests to cease.

It had been anger and hurt and words unsaid. His mouth leaving fierce marks upon her skin, her teeth leaving their own. It had been lying together in the aftermath, unwilling to leave, unwilling to break the tie that held them together but not knowing what to say to make it better.

But, tonight is different.

Tonight, he kisses her wrist and the ink that marks her there. Tonight she caresses the scar on the end of his wounded arm, pressing her lips to it. Tonight he undresses her, kissing down her back as he unlaces her corset one tie at a time. Tonight she runs her tongue along the lines of the swan tattooed on his hip. Tonight, they are gentle with one another.

Tonight, they love.

Tonight, they mourn.

"Tell me the story again?"

"Which one, my love?"

"The one with the happy ending."