["Faith has to take in all of the other possibilities it can." – Flannery O'Connor]

He can hardly see straight, those first three days; a numbness that is wrapped around each member of their party, isolating thought and movement in a world frozen in those last breaths before the curse.

Where it had devoured the buildings, homes, roads of Storybrooke, it seemed to have sighed all of the Enchanted Forest back into existence.

The sun is brilliant and the glade is lush and green and Killian thinks he would hate it, if he could feel anything at all.

On the fourth day, an aggressive storm forces him to remain in the castle.

It takes all of ten back and fourth paces from his well-appointed four-poster bed to the jarringly empty wardrobe before he's bored, agitated, and all but drowning in his promised thoughts of Emma.

An eerie hush has shrouded the palace and he's not sure if it's because everyone is still immobile with loss and quarantined in their chambers or if that ever-expanding hole in his chest is blossoming outwards, drawing noise and light and promise in with its pull.

He rubs his hand over his heart.

He's drawn to a room in a far corner of the castle. From the floor, a magnificent sun spread across a carpet attempts to shine brightly in the grey pall of the rain, and jungle animals track his movements across the space to a crib, carved with sloping spirals. He gently glances his fingers over a hand puppet – a pirate in a bicorn hat – before lazily trailing to elegant, crystalline unicorns, suspended as if by magic in the air.

"This was Emma's nursery," her voice startles him, and he turns guiltily, snatching his hand away as if he has desecrated a sacred space. "Or, well, it was supposed to be."

Snow's arms are crossed defensively against her chest, and Killian thinks for an absurd second that she's trying to hold herself in, keep all of the shattered pieces from falling apart.

It's rare, but he cannot find the words he needs in this moment. "I'm sorry."

Her face contorts into that frown-smile – that same caged expression of stubborn equilibrium that he saw on Emma's face during their more candid conversations in Neverland – and she nods, stepping to the side of the crib.

"Charming," she clears her throat, thick with unshed tears, "David once told me that the unknown isn't always bad, that you can always find another future. Do you believe that?"

When she looks at him he wants to run. Her face is open and honest and all he can hear is Swan that day in the jungle, "You think so?"

And he doesn't believe that happy endings are real, after all he's seen in his centuries in this cruel world, but he finds that there's a lingering spark of Emma's newfound hope flickering in him.

"I think that Emma has found her son, and that after all of this madness, she can finally be happy," he licks his lips, pretending his voice isn't hoarse. "And while happiness might not be in order for a pirate – or a thief queen – we have the immense fortune of keeping Emma in our memories."

He stops, presses his eyelids tightly. "It would hardly be good form to ask for more than that."

Killian feels Snow's warm hand clasp his shoulder lightly before turning toward the door. "Good night, Hook," she calls. "Get some rest, we all need it."

When he returns to his room, he stares thoughtfully at the smooth, unmarred wall above his small writing desk. After a moment, he leans forward and scratches four, deep lines into the stone.

On the fifty-sixth day, he's looking over a crude map he and Robin have sketched of the Black Fairy's kingdom when a bag drops directly over the dark square indicating the rough dimensions of a fortress.

He lifts the gossamer satchel closer to his face. "Thanks for the…twigs, mate. You shouldn't have."

He casts a curious eyebrow at David, who still dons his full riding regalia.

"It's zeylan bark," he supplies.

Obviously. "Ah."

The Prince's face has found an expression somewhere between pleased and melancholy and Killian can only guess what that means. Some men just love trees, he supposes. Perhaps it is a remnant from his days as a shepherd.

"I found it at a market in Glau," he continues. "It's all the way from Agrabah – hard to come by."

Killian gives the bundle of unappetizing curls one last, suspicious survey before glancing back up at David, who looks expectant.

"Well, thanks again," he thrusts the tangle of chips forth in indication. "Glad to see you've returned in one piece."

David's mouth curves slightly into a knowing smile, before heartily patting his back and exiting the chamber.

Killian shrugs, opening sack, inhaling its contents deeply.

It smells like cinnamon.

Killian enjoys sharing a pint with Robin at the tavern after long days patrolling the Enchanted Forest or hunched over maps and battle plans. But of the Merry Men, it's the company of Mulan he finds himself seeking on nights like this, when, one hundred and twelve days after leaving Storybrooke, the weight of his heart is nearly too leaden to bear.

They're perched on the edge of a small quay, feet dangling over the edge, with a bottle of rum situated between them.

There's an absence in her person that is mirrored in his own, a tangible fissure that he finds oddly comforting. And though he knows that others suffer from the loss of Emma – the Prince, Snow, Baelfire – there's an ungenerous part of him that is eager to share the loneliness, but not the object of loss.

"I'm not sure what you've done, love, to deserve such a fate," his eyes trace the creatures that the stars form in the sky, forcing them past the crossing orbs of Cygnus as he takes a long draw of rum.

"Drinking alone with a one-handed pirate?" she gestures to the alcohol in his grasp and he gladly relinquishes it. She laughs softly against the lip of the bottle, "Truly, I do not know who I displeased."

He affords her a dark chuckle, but exhales a thick sigh, "You know that's not what I meant."

She bends her legs up in front of her, elbows resting on knees, hands dangling the bottle between them. "I know."

Her voice has a steely reserve, a sort of stoic dignity in its resignation that whispers of Swan and makes his marrow ache.

He intently twists the rings on his fingers, "It's just, you're the hero, lass."

The silence that follows is gaping, his unspoken thought swallowing greedily the vestiges of hope he's tried desperately to preserve.

But when she speaks, her words canting only slightly over the waves of heartbreak, he remembers.

"I don't believe in destiny. I don't believe that we exist to fill a space the universe created for a shadow, a flat imagining of a person. I am not a warrior. I am not a hero. I am not one of Robin's men. I am Mulan. And I am lost…and, if the gods are kind, perhaps one day I will be found."

He remembers a single word: Good.

When Snow White and the Prince share a conspiratorial look of excitement over breakfast that morning, he's not sure what to expect – he's still not accustomed to being treated, well, like he belongs – so he lifts the corner of his mouth in his best attempt at a smile.

After plates have been cleared – another aspect of life Killian is not sure he will ever adjust to – David leads him beyond the castle walls, through the winding streets of the village, and down to the small port, bustling with residents reacquainting themselves with the unforgiving nature of life on the wharves.

Killian nods tersely to a few gawking gazes, but keeps his eyes, for the most part, locked on the slats of the docks beneath his feet. The familiar give of weathered wood yawning over lapping waters and swirling tides. It's the same. It's entirely, painfully different.

It's been two hundred and three days and the Jolly Roger has yet to be found.

He fears that when the curse reclaimed all that was magical within the bounds of Storybrooke, that it had been cast once more into the waters of Neverland – and if he were to live three hundred years more, he wouldn't set foot in that bloody hellhole.

"This, Captain, is your new command," David says with a sense of pomp that has been conspicuously absent since their return.

It's a small frigate, sturdy and well-kept, but not nearly as beautiful as the Jolly. He's willing to wager that it was once the property of the royal navy, and he hesitantly runs his fingers along the gentle curve of the hull.

The sea used to call to him, siren murmurs seeping into sleeping hours, bubbling over on landlocked days. But it's been noiseless here. And he thinks that while Snow's taste for food has dwindled – scraps pushed deceitfully about the plate – his appetite for the open water has died.

He's found that he's unable to be a great many things without Emma, and a pirate, it turns out, is one of them.

David folds his arms, and looks down, shifting slightly. "I know it's not much, but–"

And somewhere buried deep, he knows he's got to try because if she ever found out he'd given up this, sacrificed the sea for her, he'd never hear the end of it.

"It's brilliant, mate. Brilliant."

The whole kingdom is in chaos weeks before Snow White is taken prisoner by the Wicked Witch. But when the Queen is gone, all hope seems to fly with her.

It's been three hundred and forty one wretched days without Emma, but it feels like three hundred agonizing years – and Killian would know – when Charming, Tinker Bell in tow, corners him in the cabinet room that he, Robin, and various members of the royal army seemed to live in of late.

"You need to find her," his eyes are red and desperate, and it hurts Killian a bit to deny him when he's already lost so much.

He places a consoling hand on the Prince's shoulder. "You know we can't do that, mate."

David shakes his head, shakes free of his grasp, gesturing to the fairy behind him. "No, no! Tinker Bell thinks she has a way, but it has to be you, you have to–"

Killian laughs bitterly. "It may be possible, but we can't bring her here. She doesn't deserve this and you know it."

David goes terrifyingly still for a moment, and the gaze that locks on Killian is as effective as a curse. "My people, my wife. They will all be lost. We need Emma. We need the Savior."

When he looks at Tinker Bell, a living ghost of the Green Fairy looks back. He's sat beside her as she's tenderly cleaned and stitched and dressed Baelfire's wounds, he's watched her press her goodbyes against Bae's temple, and he's watched as she's worked to prop up the crumbling walls of her new life here in the Enchanted Forest.

And he knows. He knows this isn't what Emma would want. That in all of her denial, they will always desperately need her, and she will always, always sacrifice herself because she's Emma Bloody Swan. And gods, he needs her.

"All right, Tink. What do you have in mind, then?"

When he's packed a leather bag with all he requires for his journey – carefully tucking the pixie dust inside a velvet satchel – his attention is drawn to the candle flickering from his desk. Moving to blow it out, he takes in the wall behind it, crowded with tally marks. He smiles, a true twist of hope, and adds a line.

"Ready or not, Swan."