Author's Note: This is a collaboration fic the ideas were built through emails after the S4 finale but the chapters were divided between us. Emma POV's (like this one) are the awesome work of BelovedCreation (on AO3 and Tumblr). Killian POV's are written by me. Story is complete and will be updated every Wednesday.

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It's like floating in a pool or in the ocean, this weightlessness, this sense of vulnerability. Emma Swan has no control over the bands of darkness that wrap around her limbs like the firm but kind hands of a lover.

She had thought the darkness would be cold. Instead it's pleasantly warm, as though she were being cocooned in something cozy, protected from the outside world—even though she knows, deep inside, that the very thing she needs protection from is working its way into her body. The darkness seeps into her pores, makes her nerves spark with excitement; it makes her bones twist, her muscles relax and contract, her blood flow faster, boiling and excited.

Emma Swan is the darkness.

And yet, she is not.

She looks at her family for as long as she can, stares at her parents and at her—at her Killian for as long as the darkness will allow her. She wants to memorize everything about them, remember how it feels to love them like this, to love them as a hero. Because whatever this darkness does to her, things are about to change. What she feels now—the security of her parents and the fumbling caring with Killian—there is no telling how the darkness will pervert it, make her love into something as sinister as the magic lifting her up into the air.

In cartoons, to demonstrate when it was really fucking hot, little thermometers would fill with red liquid until they exploded out the top. Emma has never identified with scribbles on a page more. The heat pounding in her body is vividly red and she isn't sure she will be able to stand it much longer before she shoots out into a million pieces, bits of the Savior littering Main Street.

That would give Regina something else to complain about.

She finds a quiet center inside herself, a cool river near her heart, and waits until right before the exploding point, channeling her light magic so that when it comes, when the darkness finishes its elaborate hazing, she can send herself somewhere else, so she can spend her first few minutes as the Dark One without risking her loved ones' lives.

Emma's like a lead balloon—her fall is fast and it hurts like hell.

When she wakes, the weightlessness is gone and her world consists of the mud under her clenched fingers and the dampness of wet grass seeping into her jeans at the knees. Earth, glorious earth, and she's never been so glad to feel so disgusting.

So, we have a new one.

When people talk about how the Devil made them do it, Emma imagines the voice is something like this one, the S's sibilant and slippery, the vowels breathy. It makes her shiver, the cool night air finally working its way back into her boiling skin. The breeze blows through the trees perched on Storybrooke's scenic overlook, whips her hair around her face, and raises goosebumps across her arms.

Hello, dearie. You are quite the prize, aren't you?

Oh.

Oh my.

She has magic.

It's like when Cora tried to take her heart. There's a tugging on her chest, the resulting resistance making her legs and arms tremble where they are still dug into the wet earth. The way her fingers slip through the mud is her only reminder she isn't dreaming. This is real.

No one with their own magic has ever welcomed me before.

"You're not exactly welcome," she grits out, back bowing so her head almost touches the ground. This hurts like hell, the voice rattling around in her brain.

There's a resulting chuckle, something that wouldn't sound out of place coming from a serial killer. You can always kick me out, but the price is quite steep.

Gold's still, frozen body flashes in her mind's eye and the darkness laughs again, high-pitched like the man she encountered in the Enchanted Forest of the past. Weakling. Not all are meant to handle the darkness. It takes a certain strength to keep the dark from seeping into the heart. The first human lasted almost six hundred years.

"The first human?"

And now the images are of things Emma has never seen before. There's a man in a burgundy robe with vivid orange eyes that seem to see more in the room than Emma can. He's standing on the other end of a huge, round table, addressing a group of men dressed like those in the Enchanted Forest. In the man's hand is a frightening familiar sight.

The dagger.

But this one, like the one she held in her grip only a minute ago, isn't etched with a name. The men in the room are all staring at the guy with excitement and Emma can feel the tension deep in her belly, the anticipation tight around her gut. She wants that dagger more than she's ever wanted anything in her life. No matter what it takes.

She stands, taking a moment to make eye contact with a man with curly black hair and kind blue eyes, before turning her gaze back to the man speaking.

"I will do it," she says in the same slimy voice that echoes in her brain.

Then the pictures drop away and she's back in the mud, on her hands and knees, a massive headache threatening to tear her head in two.

You seem to be made of stronger stuff than that Rumplestiltskin.

That means we will be together even longer.

"Won't you at least buy a girl a drink before you move in?" she grunts. "Seems like the polite thing to do."

The voice laughs again. You are a feisty one. Feel free to drink, new Dark One, if that is what helps you with this adjustment.

Illogically, Emma wants to pull up great big clumps of mud and pile them on her face and on her chest and under her arms, to drive out this boiling darkness with the chilly earth.

You will get used to the warmth.

I suggest sleeping on top of the blankets.

The idea of sleep, of oblivion, is bliss, but there's no way that's going to happen right now without medication or intoxication, whichever she can handle on her own.

Oh, what she wouldn't give for a flask full of rum.

Ah, the pirate. The voice laughs. He has been a problem for quite some time. He does not care for me.

You already have some proficiency with magic. If you would like some help as to the best way to kill him or subdue him…

"No!"

The scream rips from her throat and another series of images—she can't tell if these come from the darkness or are something her own mind has cooked up—bring tears to her eyes.

Killian, sprawled out on the deck of his ship, blood pouring from his chest and staining the polished wood.

Killian, eyes closed as though in sleep, face a sickening green and a bottle of poison sitting ominously next to his flask.

Killian, hands behind his back and dressed in his pirate garb, head lolling as his body swings from the gallows.

"No!" She shouts again, swallowing down the strange sense of satisfaction that wraps around her gut at the sight of the images. "I don't want that! I've never wanted that."

Tsk tsk tsk, no need to yell.

I am only here to help you defeat your enemies.

Forgive me, I have had centuries to imagine such things.

Perhaps, instead-?

And then the pictures are of Regina burning at a stake, trapped in a cell, run through with a sword. Emma growls against those images too.

No?

I could have sworn you hated the Queen as much as Rumplestiltskin did.

"Not anymore," she grunts, finally bringing those mud-covered fingers to her temple and rubbing. "She's my friend."

Ah, friends.

She sees Lily, looking at her defiantly from the other end of a gun. She sees Neal kissing her goodbye and never coming back.

We cannot do anything about the dead one, but the living one isn't a problem.

The dragon bit could even be fun.

"No, no, no! I don't kill people, I don't hurt them. I'm a goddamned hero."

There is no response for a very, very long time. Emma gingerly opens her eyes and gathers her strength to stand, her legs wobbly but otherwise unharmed. Now, without the voice, she feels strangely alone out on the scenic overlook gazing down at Storybrooke. She is going to fight this darkness. She will protect these people and get rid of this curse altogether.

The voice snickers again and she isn't sure what exactly the sarcastic words are in response to.

We'll see about that.

Emma opens her mouth to speak but another voice bounces around in her mind, this one as familiar and as loving as the other is sinister.

"D-d-dark One, I summ-mmon thee."

Mary Margaret's voice is shaking, but she gets the words out and Emma can already feel her body ready to zap to her mother's side, to kneel there in the middle of Storybrooke and do the bidding of the one who wields the dagger.

We must go.

And perhaps, while we're there, we can get that dagger for ourselves.

We can be our own commander.

"No."

Puffs of light blue magic rise from the ground and send her away from the edge of town, but not to where the dagger is being held aloft. Emma reappears in the Sorcerer's library, the last place she had been with all her family, trying to figure out a sensible plan. A place too far for them to find her right away.

Someplace safe.

Someplace where they are safe from her.

Safe from you?

No one will be safe from you.

Not with your powers, new Dark One. I have never seen one who could resist the pull of the dagger.

There is another high-pitched giggle and Emma rubs her temple again, wishing she could chase the voice away with a gentle massage. Her fingers and face are still covered in mud.

You're in deep shit now, Swan, she thinks sardonically. But another puff of blue magic and her hands are sparkling clean. If only they could stay that way.

The voice giggles again and Emma finally snaps. "Could you just be quiet for a minute, Donnie Darko? This constant banter is giving me a headache!"

She hears a faint hmph, but otherwise, no more noises. She slumps in a wingback chair and takes a few deep breaths. Apparently, after the first attempt to summon her, Mom had given up really quickly. Emma knows, somewhere inside of herself, that her mom hadn't wanted her to show up; not really. If she had, then there would have been no way for Emma to resist the pull of the dagger. But for now, there's a cool little river running around her heart, keeping it from melting under the heat of the darkness. She imagines that she's Elsa, putting a layer of frozen ice between the center of her being and the boiling blood in the rest of her body. Emma doesn't know if it's successful, but the thought calms her a little bit and helps her drift into a restless sleep.

In her dreams, she's raised by a woman who is not her mother, someone with dark hair and darker eyes. The woman's face is twisted in disgust when she tells her that she will never reach her full potential; that she is not a prince, not a knight, just a little boy who was sent out into the country so she didn't annoy her parents.

"You want to be king? You will have to earn it."

She trains with a sword for years, and the day she rides a beautiful, midnight steed across the drawbridge of Camelot and battles her father to prove her mettle—to prove she is worthy to be a knight of the Round Table—she sends a missive to Morgause.

"I have done it. I am a knight of the Round Table."

"Is that enough for you? To be a lowly knight?"

"No," she sends back a month later, having seen the way her father favors Lancelot. "I want more."

Emma's sleep is light, despite the strange deepness of her dreams, and the quiet sound of a door opening on the other side of the huge home wakes her with a start. Her hands fly to the arms of the chair and the muscles of her calves spasm almost painfully.

Company.

Good. It was getting boring.

Before the voice can get too worked up, Emma stretches her arm toward the secret door to the library and with a twist of her wrist, a lock clicks into place. Only someone with magic would be able to open it.

And maybe only someone with magic should face Emma in this state.

She can hear the footsteps approach the library and the voice in her head starts to cackle with increasing glee. She'd punch this darkness in the face, if only she could. A few hours is more than enough to drive you nuts.

How did Gold stand it for hundreds of years?

The footsteps stop outside of the library and the bookcase moves a bit with the force of someone trying to push. But it's no use, what with locks that hadn't existed a few minutes ago now keeping Emma safe and secure from whoever's stupid enough to—

"Mom?"

Henry.

Henry?

Oh, Henry.

Smart lad, smart lad, finding us here.

I always liked Henry.

Even if he was a little dangerous.

As the voice returns, Emma's own lips close tightly, determined to fake him out and get her son the hell away from her before she makes another mistake. The memories of hurting her son—of fucking hurting her son, his body flying through the air and collapsing on the ground in the forest—are still seared in her mind. The reminder from the darkness is not a pleasant one, despite how the voice cackles.

Ah, so you've hurt him before.

I can help you do it again.

"Not a chance," she mutters quietly.

"Mom, I know you're in there." She can practically hear the eyeroll in his voice and despite her overwhelming fear, her cool heart freezes over a little more at the familiar sound. He's better than the darkness as company, but she is more than a little nervous about bringing the two together.

"Mom!" His voice is losing all trace of patience. Distantly, she thinks how this is a sign of things to come, the life of the mother of a teenager. "Mom, don't you trust me?"

Trust?

Her early life was built on anything but. These days, however, she's learned the comfort and the power of letting someone else bear the load, of giving up control and believing in others. It's something Henry had taught her before anyone else here in Storybrooke ever could.

She would trust Henry with her life. But does she trust herself with Henry's life?

No. She doesn't trust herself. Or the darkness.

We do not trust anyone.

Let the fool in. See who he trusts now.

The voice is eager to get to Henry. Emma bites down on her lip, the copper taste of blood filling her mouth. It slides down her throat when she swallows.

"Henry, get out of here."

"Mom! What if I put something on the bookshelf? Would you let it swing through? Without me?"

Her heart screams no and the voice screams yes and Emma, against her better wishes, listens to her son.

Well, she tells herself it's her son she listens to.

"Promise you won't come in."

"Promise."

His feet shuffle a bit and then she hears him step back. Her tongue swipes at the twin indents from her front two teeth and the tiny cuts they produced. Now or never, apparently. She waves her wrist slightly and lets the bookshelf swing open. When it has rotated 180 degrees, she stops it with another wave.

Emma stands on shaky legs and makes her way to the bookshelf, searching for something new that Henry would think is helpful. She finds it immediately, a small black leather cuff that reminds her of one placed on her arm ages ago, in another land, to help her on a quest to find a way home. Emma remembers Killian's flirtatious smile, the way he had placed her hand on his shoulder to put the cuff on and the soft feeling of leather beneath her fingers. Killian. The ice strengthens around her heart again and she picks up the item despite the screaming in her brain.

No.

No.

Get it away from us, get it away.

I don't want it on again.

"It's the cuff that Pan made. It keeps you from being able to perform magic!" There's some of that teenage boy pride in his wobbling voice and, for the first time since she stood at Granny's—head resting on Killian's shoulder, chatting easily with her parents—Emma smiles. Damn, she has a smart son.

The voice yells and hollers and puts on a horrible tantrum, but Emma still slides her wrist into the cuff and takes a deep breath.

The voice is still there and her skin still feels like it's on fire.

But she can't do magic. That means she is a little safer to be around.

The bookcase is now easily opened with a little pressure and Emma smiles again when she sees Henry on the other side, her strong, smart, amazing son.

He takes after his grandparents with no effort at all. She's still working on following in their footsteps.

Emma opens her arms and before she can say anything, he flies into them, nearly knocking her over. "Mom," he says into her shoulder, his voice trembling and his arms tightly wrapped around her waist. "I'm glad I found you."

"That's what we're good at, kid," she replies with a pat on his back. "I'm glad you found me and that you found an answer."

Her son somehow holds her even tighter and Emma allows herself to close her eyes and remember this moment. The cool center inside of her is frozen despite her burning skin and she runs her fingers through Henry's hair with a sigh.

Didn't you know, new Dark One?

Love will only bring you pain.

And children - they will only become your downfall.

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So thoughts?