Chapter 14

Consciousness began to creep in at the edges. The first thing she became aware of was the disturbing sensations in her head, the pain intensifying as the dullness of her senses receded slowly. She squeezed her eyes tighter shut. It was as though her skull had been stuffed with cotton until it had started to swell. With every throb of her pulse, she became more worried that a blood vessel deep in her brain was going to burst.

Groaning softly, she dipped her head down. Her clammy forehead touched her bare knees. Where was this pain coming from? Had she and Killian overindulged in the rum again? She was pretty sure she was naked, and the fabric wrapped around her felt familiar. It definitely wasn't his bunk pressing into her side, though. The solid surface beneath her did not warmly cradle the curves of her body as Killian's mattress did. Her brows furrowed. The tempest in her head still denying her the ability to open her eyes, she started to lift her hand in an attempt to probe her surroundings.

Her hands wouldn't separate.

As she slowly rubbed her wrists together, she felt the well-known scratch of the rigging lines on the skin there. An experimental shift of her feet proved that her ankles were bound as well. She forced her breathing to remain deep and even, as though she were still sleeping. Her heart rate was beyond her control and it raced ahead until she began to feel dizzy. Finally, she mustered the willpower to open her eyes – just the barest bit at first, in case anyone was watching – but she saw nothing. Even as she finished raising her lids the rest of the way, there was nothing but darkness. Through the fog in her head, she gathered what wits she could find.

Patiently, she took her time making mindful motions imitating those she might make in her slumber. In addition to the ropes around her, the fabric around her kept her contained in the fetal position. She fought to keep calm and think clearly, which became all the more difficult of a struggle when it dawned on her that the world beneath her did not roll and sway as the ship did on the water. What could she remember? Trying to think was like swimming through molasses.

Killian. She was back in his cabin. He'd taken her back from the brig. She'd been so tired and disoriented when he'd relieved her of that misery, and she'd known that both his motives and apologies had been genuine. She hadn't even teased him. As he'd ducked out of the chamber, she'd immediately begun the process of stripping down to her bare skin. Though her desires to shed the fabric were urgent, the aches that resonated through every muscle of her body slowed even her smallest movements. Gently and gradually, she peeled back the layers, damp with bilge water, stained with crusted blood. Most of it wasn't even hers, but some must have been. There were so few areas of her pale skin now unmarred by irritated scrapes, raw rope burns, or the multicolored bruises – forming the most hideous of rainbows in their various stages of healing. She added "throbbing blisters" to the list as she eased the first sock over her heel and took a sharp inhale.

All that was left to remove from her body was the binding on her chest. Getting her hands into position behind the knot was agonizingly slow. Finally, she pinched it between her fingers and began to coax the ends loose. It came undone all at once, falling to the floor around her feet, still holding a circular shape. She felt the air rush from her lungs as her breasts fell suddenly back into place, the tissue sore from being pushed out of place for so long. The smell of dead, peeling skin and old sweat assaulted her nostrils. Right now, rest was most essential, but she assured herself that once she had done that, the very next thing should would do would be to bathe.

Placing her palms on the edge of the bunk, she had hunched forward and breathed as deeply as she could, allowing her ribs to expand far more than they had been able to while the binding was still in place. She'd heard the latch of the door click softly back into place and remembered being surprised that she hadn't heard the thumping of Killian's boots on his way back into the room. At the time, she'd dismissed it, and she cursed herself now for doing so. The last thing she could recall was a cloth clamping over her face, clutched in a rough hand coming from behind her. She tried to scream, but the sound was too muffled to be of any use. Something smelled strange, she remembered thinking as the world had started to darken. A pair of hands caught her just before she'd hit the floor.

Lying still, Emma considered her next move. With enough effort and dexterity, she might be able to free herself, but had no way of knowing whether she was being watched. She couldn't hear much of anything. Every so often, she would hear a pop that could have been attributed to a nearby fire. Her heart at last began to slow as her thoughts accelerated. Each throb in her chest coming a bit later than the last one had. She felt her blood surging into her muscles, her body preparing for whatever may be expected of it at a moment's notice.

Her patience paid off in mere moments. Somewhere quite near her, she heard a match light. A voice muttered in agitation. "How much longer is this wench meant to sleep, then?"

"Well," a casually confident voice on her other side exaggerated a sigh, then dropped a conspiratorial note. "You followed my instructions?"

A faint and distant memory tugged at Emma's attention, but she brushed it off, needing to focus.

"Aye, your lordship. Just –"

"Don't." The interjection was a sharply authoritative order. "Don't call me that. My dad's the one with all the titles. Not me."

"I beg your pardon... sir?"

"Yeah, 'sir' is fine."

"I did just as you said, sir. Poured th' whole bottle on a rag an' covered her face 'til she went down."

Both speakers sounded vaguely familiar, but she could place neither. For some reason, the notes intoned by the man seemingly in charge made her stomach heavy with churning bile. She quieted her breathing even further, wanting no distractions for her ears.

"And aside from her constraints, she is exactly as you found her?"

"Entirely unspoiled, sir. Though I can't say it weren't tempting, nude as I found her an' all. Pretty little thing she is, even with all them cuts an' bruises an' the like."

"So," The voice took on a matter-of-fact tone. "You're telling me that when I open this sack, I'm going to find Emma Swan, naked and covered in injuries."

A hesitant pause lasted only a heartbeat. "Aye, sir."

"And you say you have nothing to do with it." On its surface, the comment could be construed as offhanded. However, the accusation lay neatly within its folds. Emma couldn't help but smile slightly, despite her predicament. She actually found herself fondly recalling every little misstep that had marked her body in recent weeks. If her captor got blamed for it, maybe there was some sense of justice in the way the world worked.

A sputtering cough erupted. "I swear, sir! I didn't – I only touched her with the cloth, then caught her 'afore she fell. Sir. Bagged her up and made scarce. On me honor."

The footsteps that crossed the room were slow and deliberate as the one passing down commands approached his subordinate. She could almost hear knees knocking together. "Honor? The honor of a pirate who can't even stay loyal to his captain?"

So it was one of the crew. Emma had a sneaking suspicion of who it might be and took a deep inhale. Sure enough, the stinging scent of tobacco had begun to saturate the fabric she was held in.

Clark apparently mustered a small bit of pride. "Oi. I made a deal with your father, and I held up my end. I know I did. I read the terms careful enough."

"Oh, I doubt that."

Wait...

Father? Deal?

No... That couldn't be. He was dead.

That memory she'd hastily dismissed nagged her again. This time she took it into consideration, but continued to eavesdrop, waiting for more clues, positive that it couldn't be his voice she heard. Surely in a moment one of them would say something proving her suspicions wrong.

"Your dear ol' dad said if I brought you what you want, I get what I want. Signed a contract an' everything. Says he never breaks a deal."

"That's right. He doesn't."

"So where is it? 'Lifetime supply,' our deal said. I see none."

"Well, here's the thing." The inflection was frigid. In the brief beat of silence that followed the phrase, Emma felt the warmth drain from her skin and she suppressed a shiver. "There was one aspect of the deal that you neglected to discuss with my father before you signed."

"Well where is he then?" Clark clearly had not caught on yet. "Whatever that detail may be, we'll get it right sorted."

"See, my father, he was trying to decide what might constitute a 'lifetime supply.'" The footsteps began to tread calmly back and forth as the speaker drawled out a few items of a list. "There are a few factors involved in that calculation, you see. Firstly, there's, the frequency of use, the amount used any given time, and of course, there's that pesky little question of the length of that life." The pacing ceased.

"Sir?" As perceptive as Clark had thought himself to be when he'd teased Emma in her cell, he certainly was proving to be quite thick in his current predicament.

Then, the unmistakable whisper a blade pulled from its sheath hit her ears, followed by wood clattering to the floor – no doubt a chair or stool where Clark had been seated. "Have no worries, Mr. Clark. The reward is yours."

Emma heard the blade plunge into flesh. Clark let out a weak yelp that petered out into a whimper that would have caused her to pity any other man. She tried to muster sympathy while her toes began to feel warm, slippery, and sticky. It didn't work.

The remaining man, who might have been – No. It couldn't be him. The man took several steps toward her, coming to a halt mere inches from her knees and she heard the floorboards shift under his feet as he crouched down beside her. Mentally, she took a quick scan of her body making sure there was nothing to betray her alertness. She found nothing, but the fabric around her began to shift anyway. He was untying her, she realized.

In a snap decision, she continued to feign sleep, not wanting him to know she'd heard any of the preceding conversation. The gentle heat of a crackling fireplace spread over her cheek, the scent of old dust and freshly smoked tobacco lingering in the air. Calloused fingers pressed errant strands of hair off of her brow.

"Emma?" He whispered, and it all came flooding back to her.

All the little moments of calm. Every eye of every storm as the wind settled, leaving just the two of them, making whatever they could of the brief heartbeats of shared peace before once again taking up arms or taking breathless flight. Collapsing in exhaustion each time a brief pocket of safety appeared, indulging in the comforts of each other on secluded moss beds deep in the woods, carnally celebrating beside whatever bounty they'd acquired. The curses and promises uttered for the two of them alone. Her heart squeezed tight, forcing every drop of blood from its chambers.

His lifeless body...

"Come on, Emma, wake up."

She didn't want to. As soon as she opened her eyes, she knew the illusion would be shattered and he would still be dead. The tiny spark of belief that she had allowed to flicker into existence despite herself would be extinguished, and not only would her devastation from the loss become fresh and new again, but she would also have to face whatever was about to come next. Still, there was only so far she could press her luck with this farce, so she began to act out the gradual stirring of a gentle awakening.

Bracing herself for disappointment, she set her gaze on the face belonging to the hand that lay lightly on her temple. Even after steeling herself, the sight that met her knocked the wind from her. She tried to suck air back in, but she had forgotten how.

It was him. He was alive. An impish grin spread across his cheeks, creasing the outer corners of his eyes. "Hey there."

Baelfire.