Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 5: The Ills of Asclepius
Title: The Ills of Asclepius, Chapter 5 of Lament of the Asphodels
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 3,200
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
The Keeper labored over the Survivor's wounds for several hours after she passed out. He had little in the way of anesthetic, so, in that respect, her blackout was a boon, as it enabled him to clean her wounds without witnessing her discomfort.
Remarkably, she had little more than a few scrapes and bruises, which was a minor miracle. He saw no sign of broken bones or any indication of the kind of grievous injuries that require a doctor's care. Her arms were in a particularly bad way, raw and bleeding as if she had fallen on and crawled over broken glass. He had incurred injuries similar wounds when swimming along the bluff and in the treacherous shallows near Cellar Island.
He had thought her blessed previously, but now he had absolute proof. She had been aboard a ship that a monstrosity of a storm chased into the ocean's gullet, thrown into raging waters littered with dangerous rocks, and yet the Survivor not only escaped to shore but also found and secured shelter.
She was an absolute marvel if not a complete mystery to him. She had covered herself with rice, which was either a very strange custom or an act borne from delirium. He first noticed it when he began to inspect her head, and it took considerably longer to examine her scalp, as he had to comb knots and rice from her long locks.
Mercifully, she had no head wound; the blood on her face and neck had seemingly transferred from her arms. He felt warmth flood his face as he started to examine her torso. It was foolish, but it seemed poor form to lift her shirt or lower her trousers whilst she was unconscious. He was aware that he would have to at some point, for any untended wound was another opportunity for the rot or blood loss to take her as tribute to the tempest.
The blood on her attire was bright red. Had she been impaled or sliced open, the blood would've been a much darker, deeper red, so he concluded her injuries were superficial. Therefore, there was no need to remove her garments.
Then he spotted the darkened red around the ankles of her trousers, and he cursed under his breath for not examining her feet first for the sake of the bloodied footprints. The most worrying element was that they still bled; she must've reopened them during their rather harsh introduction.
The Keeper wiped the blood away with a damp rag, revealing the many jagged cuts from toe to heel. The true culprit of the bleeding, however, was the debris - glass and pebbles - embedded in her fair skin along the side of her foot. Her left leg also had a deep cut by the ankle that required stitching.
"Bloody hell."
He would have to debride and clean the wounds and stitch the cut on her leg before he could bandage her feet.
He had a well-practiced reef knot from the many times he had to attend to his own injuries, but he had yet to stitch somebody else's wounds one-handed. It would likely leave a scar on her otherwise perfect skin, where a doctor's more practiced hand would provide seamless healing, but his real concern resided in the possibility of her waking. It would be a wonder if she didn't rise during the agonizing debridement, and if that failed to rouse her, the burn of the alcohol or the continuous piercing of the needle would surely succeed.
The Keeper gathered what he needed: a basin, bandages, silk thread, a binding needle, tweezers, a small knife, soap, and a bottle of rum. Before he began working, he cast a glance to the Survivor's face, forcing himself to remember that the life of this amazing woman was at stake. Though the thought didn't ease his anxiety, it steadied his hand, and he went to work with a furrowed brow and a focused mind.
He noticed nothing from her other than the steady, ragged sound of her breathing. From time to time, a particularly violent intake of air would stay his hand and draw his attention to see if the pain had finally awoken her, but she remained resolutely still and unconscious, enabling him to continue uninhibited.
It was after he lowered her feet to soak in the basin that her muttering reached his ears.
He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead to check for signs of a fever, but her skin was cool to the touch. He cursed himself as he covered her with the layers of cloth that had fallen to the floor when his arrival had forced her to abandon her makeshift recovery bed. He had been so worried about infection and stitches that he forewent common sense and failed to keep her warm.
It didn't help that he only stored spare sailcloth and the fabrics required to mend clothing in the cellar. Everything else he kept laundered on Stagrock, including the heavy blankets. He already commandeered the small stockpile of towels he stored by the cellar door for the task at hand. The best he could do was neatly layer the dry fabrics over her and hope it was enough.
Had he his wits about him, he would've carried her to the rowboat and transported her to Stagrock to treat the rest of her injuries, where he had all the requisite materials at his disposal, including a roaring fire. As it happened, however, he had already submerged her feet, and the solution within required at least a half hour of soaking to provide relief and remedy. Transporting her now would be fruitless, so the Keeper went to the south side of the cellar, where the old fireplace and chimney stood. He hadn't used either for many years, back when a particularly cold winter forced him to retreat to the cellar for nearly three weeks during a snowstorm.
Good firewood was in stock, but the flute was blocked. Most of the blockage crashed inside when he jimmied the lever, but he needed to pass a rake through it to clear it fully. With any luck, he'd have the beginnings of a fire before it was time to start stitching.
It took him longer than he expected to clear the chimney, and upon his return, he discovered that her whispering had grown into full, incomprehensible muttering with the occasional interrupting from the chattering of her teeth.
He took off his long coat and covered her with it. He removed his sweater next, wrapping it around her head. He dried her feet and shifted the layers down so she'd be covered while he stoked the fire to full flame. It took longer than he'd like - as many urgent tasks did for a one-handed man - but once the flames erupted in earnest, he turned his full attention to debriding her wounds before moving on to stitching.
At some point, her muttering had slowed and then drawn to a close, and he desperately hoped that she was blissfully unaware of his clumsy treatment. By the time he finished suturing, his entire body was stiff from the awkward position and the meticulous, repetitive motions the stitching required.
Though he ached, he didn't stop to rest or to stretch; instead, he applied a medicinal salve over the abused soles of her feet and bandaged them.
He examined her arms, which had only minor scrapes and scratches, but to be safe, he wiped each one clean and began applying dressings.
"They're all after me," she said quietly.
He jolted from the unexpected words, but when his eyes fell upon her face, he saw that she yet slept on.
"All of them. After me."
"Who?" he asked in a soft voice, unsure of how else to respond. "Who is after you?"
"Everyone," she replied, her voice hushed with a startlingly clear note of terror. "They have no faces."
She spoke lucidly, though it was plain she wasn't awake. From the things she said - people with no faces, shadows and monsters in pursuit - her dreams were none too pleasant.
"You know I hate flowers," she said sharply, her volume increasing. "Or you should. You should know by now."
He attempted to ignore the Survivor's chatter, but her voice kept changing tone and volume, sometimes barely an audible whisper, at other times a screeching shout of condemnation.
"I never promised you that," she continued. "You both knew. I never hid it from either of you. Why is it suddenly a problem now?"
Her inane ramblings progressed into a kind of one-sided dialogue. It was odd. There were pauses where he surmised the other, imaginary person must be speaking, yet he couldn't conceive the full conversation. He dismissed it as best he could so he could finish dressing her wounds.
"Why am I not surprised?" she asked, her voice low and gruff. "I should've known you would throw that in my face. You're the only one who'd do that."
That made his heart stop.
"If you loved me, you wouldn't do this to me. That's not love," she said.
Her once-strong voice trembled and cracked, and the sound reverberated in his heart, filling it with a deep, unshakable ache.
He finished dressing her arms, tucking them under the layered fabrics. His work completed, he stood up and walked over to the fireplace, where he paced to stretch his tired legs. The Survivor's words became more erratic and emotional; one minute, full of anger and rage, and the next, fear and sadness.
For some reason, her somniloquy compelled an ancient urge to flee, to escape the words flooding the world from her lips. He felt like a wild animal in a trap, aware that at any moment the hunter may return with the fatal blow not far behind, yet unable to free himself. It was as if the Survivor's mutterings were steel bars all around him, coming closer with each new phrase.
The Keeper stormed out of the cellar, leaving the door opened as he bent forward and placed his hands on his knees, gulping down the salty breeze for fresh air. The sunlight proved a surprising remedy, though its savory salve was tainted by the knowledge that it was but a few hours before sunset, which would leave him without reprieve until dawn.
He and the Survivor had much in common, for she was just as haunted as he.
The Survivor's awareness gradually increased, though the exact state of circumstances escaped her. Every time she forced her eyes open, she found herself at home in bed, and not alone.
It was an illusion, or something akin to one, for though she tried to speak, tried to explain, the conversations and arguments repeated just as she remembered with no variation. The Bailiff promised to protect her as they traveled to safety, refusing to remain behind and wash his hands of her. The Barkeep accused her of the tragedy that she barely survived, claiming he collected false evidence to prove her innocence, but instead, it verified her guilt.
The Locksmith repeated the accusation, his hollow cheeks pale with death and his eyes like empty never-ending blackness. He was invisible to all but her, a ghost hovering behind the Barkeep. At first she refused to look at the ghastly visage, focusing resolutely on the living man before her. He was angry about their relationship, or lack thereof, and he wanted to hurt her. He went looking for anything he could use against her, and he found it.
"This need not come to light," the Barkeep assured her. "I am the only one who knows. If there is any truth to this, speak now. Confess. I will vault everything. I will protect you, Emma. You need not hide anything from me. We can still be together, no matter what you've done."
"The Yellow Bug went down in a storm, and it nearly took my life," she replied. "I nearly died."
"Nearly," he said. "You lived, and the Locksmith did not. Who would blame you for casting him off the only driftwood to save yourself?"
"I would," she said. "I would blame myself! It wouldn't be a secret."
"How can I know?" he demanded, getting to his feet. "The man I hired to recover facts about the shipwreck tells me that reports of The Yellow Bug put her within reach of the harbor before the worst part of the storm blew in, but you remained at sea."
"Reports?" she repeated. "You mean reports and stories that the original search failed to find? Sightings that no one mentioned in all the years since the worst storm in Midland's history. And you believe them?"
"People often find what they seek," he said. "The search and investigation only wanted to find you both living. When they failed, they only cared to end everything quickly. Who was some Locksmith compared to the daughter of the Mayor and the Judge?"
"People find what they look for," she replied, deftly repeating his own point. "You went looking for a reason to condemn me. Tell me why."
"I love you," the Barkeep replied. "I've loved you for a long time. I've been patient."
"You want to hurt me."
"No, no, no," he said. "I want to understand you. Why deny yourself happiness and security? Not for some spare affections form that tousle-haired Bailiff. He can't possibly be what's keeping us apart."
"I never promised you anything," she snapped. "You both knew. I never hid it from either of you. We're just dating, Walsh. That's it."
The argument erupted as it had a dozen times before, only this time her voice was lost in the enraged ranting of the Barkeep. That wasn't right. He had gotten her ire up, and she had yelled back in equal force.
And she had been standing.
She took in a sharp intake of breath when she shifted and experienced a radiating pain from her leg. It was enough to distract her from the horrible wrath plastered across the Barkeep's face. She turned away only for her eyes to fall on the semi-transparent image of the Locksmith.
It had happened so long ago that the Survivor could not rightly recall what he looked like. She could barely remember his face and his eyes.
The memory of his dark brown hair and eyes made her blink. She hadn't known that moments ago, yet the image of his face and the sound of his voice returned to her as if they had spoken only yesterday. She glanced up at the ghostly mirage before her, horrified to discover his true form.
The Locksmith was faceless.
"His name was Neal," she said.
As if she'd spoken an incantation, the illusion before her vanished in a swirl of smoke and rain. She blinked several times, her eyes stinging from dryness. Her entire body ached.
She wasn't in her bed at home. She was on a hard, cold floor in a makeshift cot. From the smoke, she could tell a fire burned nearby.
She shifted only to have her skin protest even the tiniest movement. It felt unnaturally tight, like she had been salted dry rather than kissed by the sun. Her feet, on the other hand, throbbed from misuse. She peered down and saw stitches and bandages.
Everything came back to her in a rush. The Barkeep's accusation, the Bailiff's promise, her escape to Northedge, the storm.
The storm.
No, not that storm, she reminded herself firmly.
Her recollection of The Yellow Bug going down had been little more than a sense of dread in the swirling winds, followed by hours freezing in the water, waiting and terrified. But now some fractured memories returned: laughing with the Locksmith on the deck under the sun, the news of the storm coming after the wind and rain began, the terrible moment when she realized the ship was taking on water.
She closed her eyes to make it stop. Did those things really happen? Or was she conflating her latest brush with death on the high seas with the her first sea tragedy?
The Survivor sat up straight. She hadn't been well enough to tend to her wounds, let alone stitch up her leg. Someone else must've done it.
As if to answer her thought, a man appeared out of the shadows. He wore a simple undershirt tucked into a pair of dark trousers, which were held up by a belt. She vaguely registered the fact that his figure was pleasing to the eye: slender and muscular. The otherwise perfect symmetry of the man was marred solely by the brace worn on his left arm, which secured a hook in place of a hand.
They had spoken before. She had a knife to his throat at the time.
"Are you awake?" he asked, his voice softer than she expected.
She meant to answer him immediately, but his face captured her attention, distracting her. His white skin contrasted his charcoal facial hair and the matching, somewhat wild mop atop his head. But even that failed to compare to the way his eyes lit up fiercely against his other features, both light and dark. They were bluer than the sky or the ocean at any time of year. If she had to name something similar to their color, her only recourse would be that one star whose name she could not recall, though anyone living would know which one she meant. Unlike all its siblings who burned white or red, this one shined with nothing but the brightest, clearest blue in the night sky.
It was as if that star had fallen from the sky and settled in the heart of his eyes, gleaming onto her from somewhere deep within.
"Are you awake?" he repeated, coming closer.
She replied, "I'm awake."
He sat down on the floor beyond an arm's reach, his star-shining eyes brimming with concern and curiosity.
"We spoke briefly before you passed out," he continued. "Do you remember?"
She nodded her head, yes.
"I'm the Keeper of Stagrock Light," he said. "You're inside the lighthouse's storage cellar."
"I made it to the island," she said quietly. "I had to swim, and I could barely see, but I made it. I had to break the lock, it was the only shelter."
"I understand," he replied. "You tied a line to keep the door shut, which saved the supplies. For that, I'm grateful and in your debt."
"They were only compromised because of me," she said. "You treated my wounds?"
"As best I could. I thought to move you to Stagrock, but you were in no state. So I treated you here."
"Thank you."
"No thanks required," he replied. "It was my duty and my honor. In a few days, you'll be fit to return home."
"Home?"
"To the Northedge mainland," he said. "You were quite adamant about the locale."
"Yes, I apologize," she replied. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I was afraid."
"Understandably so."
"Do you mind if I ask, what is your name?"
"I don't mind at all," he replied jovially. "Anyone who's drawn my blood has a right to know my born name. Killian Jones, at your service."
She smiled weakly at him, for though she had threatened his life mere hours ago, he spoke with genuine kindness, as if it were custom to make introductions over a knife's edge. If anyone had ever earned the right to learn her born name upon first meeting, surely it was the Keeper.
"I'm Emma Swan."
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Chapter 4: In Memory of Charybdis
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Chapter 6: With the Blessings of Aether
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Asclepius was the Greek deity of healing.
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 3,200
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
The Keeper labored over the Survivor's wounds for several hours after she passed out. He had little in the way of anesthetic, so, in that respect, her blackout was a boon, as it enabled him to clean her wounds without witnessing her discomfort.
Remarkably, she had little more than a few scrapes and bruises, which was a minor miracle. He saw no sign of broken bones or any indication of the kind of grievous injuries that require a doctor's care. Her arms were in a particularly bad way, raw and bleeding as if she had fallen on and crawled over broken glass. He had incurred injuries similar wounds when swimming along the bluff and in the treacherous shallows near Cellar Island.
He had thought her blessed previously, but now he had absolute proof. She had been aboard a ship that a monstrosity of a storm chased into the ocean's gullet, thrown into raging waters littered with dangerous rocks, and yet the Survivor not only escaped to shore but also found and secured shelter.
She was an absolute marvel if not a complete mystery to him. She had covered herself with rice, which was either a very strange custom or an act borne from delirium. He first noticed it when he began to inspect her head, and it took considerably longer to examine her scalp, as he had to comb knots and rice from her long locks.
Mercifully, she had no head wound; the blood on her face and neck had seemingly transferred from her arms. He felt warmth flood his face as he started to examine her torso. It was foolish, but it seemed poor form to lift her shirt or lower her trousers whilst she was unconscious. He was aware that he would have to at some point, for any untended wound was another opportunity for the rot or blood loss to take her as tribute to the tempest.
The blood on her attire was bright red. Had she been impaled or sliced open, the blood would've been a much darker, deeper red, so he concluded her injuries were superficial. Therefore, there was no need to remove her garments.
Then he spotted the darkened red around the ankles of her trousers, and he cursed under his breath for not examining her feet first for the sake of the bloodied footprints. The most worrying element was that they still bled; she must've reopened them during their rather harsh introduction.
The Keeper wiped the blood away with a damp rag, revealing the many jagged cuts from toe to heel. The true culprit of the bleeding, however, was the debris - glass and pebbles - embedded in her fair skin along the side of her foot. Her left leg also had a deep cut by the ankle that required stitching.
"Bloody hell."
He would have to debride and clean the wounds and stitch the cut on her leg before he could bandage her feet.
He had a well-practiced reef knot from the many times he had to attend to his own injuries, but he had yet to stitch somebody else's wounds one-handed. It would likely leave a scar on her otherwise perfect skin, where a doctor's more practiced hand would provide seamless healing, but his real concern resided in the possibility of her waking. It would be a wonder if she didn't rise during the agonizing debridement, and if that failed to rouse her, the burn of the alcohol or the continuous piercing of the needle would surely succeed.
The Keeper gathered what he needed: a basin, bandages, silk thread, a binding needle, tweezers, a small knife, soap, and a bottle of rum. Before he began working, he cast a glance to the Survivor's face, forcing himself to remember that the life of this amazing woman was at stake. Though the thought didn't ease his anxiety, it steadied his hand, and he went to work with a furrowed brow and a focused mind.
He noticed nothing from her other than the steady, ragged sound of her breathing. From time to time, a particularly violent intake of air would stay his hand and draw his attention to see if the pain had finally awoken her, but she remained resolutely still and unconscious, enabling him to continue uninhibited.
It was after he lowered her feet to soak in the basin that her muttering reached his ears.
He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead to check for signs of a fever, but her skin was cool to the touch. He cursed himself as he covered her with the layers of cloth that had fallen to the floor when his arrival had forced her to abandon her makeshift recovery bed. He had been so worried about infection and stitches that he forewent common sense and failed to keep her warm.
It didn't help that he only stored spare sailcloth and the fabrics required to mend clothing in the cellar. Everything else he kept laundered on Stagrock, including the heavy blankets. He already commandeered the small stockpile of towels he stored by the cellar door for the task at hand. The best he could do was neatly layer the dry fabrics over her and hope it was enough.
Had he his wits about him, he would've carried her to the rowboat and transported her to Stagrock to treat the rest of her injuries, where he had all the requisite materials at his disposal, including a roaring fire. As it happened, however, he had already submerged her feet, and the solution within required at least a half hour of soaking to provide relief and remedy. Transporting her now would be fruitless, so the Keeper went to the south side of the cellar, where the old fireplace and chimney stood. He hadn't used either for many years, back when a particularly cold winter forced him to retreat to the cellar for nearly three weeks during a snowstorm.
Good firewood was in stock, but the flute was blocked. Most of the blockage crashed inside when he jimmied the lever, but he needed to pass a rake through it to clear it fully. With any luck, he'd have the beginnings of a fire before it was time to start stitching.
It took him longer than he expected to clear the chimney, and upon his return, he discovered that her whispering had grown into full, incomprehensible muttering with the occasional interrupting from the chattering of her teeth.
He took off his long coat and covered her with it. He removed his sweater next, wrapping it around her head. He dried her feet and shifted the layers down so she'd be covered while he stoked the fire to full flame. It took longer than he'd like - as many urgent tasks did for a one-handed man - but once the flames erupted in earnest, he turned his full attention to debriding her wounds before moving on to stitching.
At some point, her muttering had slowed and then drawn to a close, and he desperately hoped that she was blissfully unaware of his clumsy treatment. By the time he finished suturing, his entire body was stiff from the awkward position and the meticulous, repetitive motions the stitching required.
Though he ached, he didn't stop to rest or to stretch; instead, he applied a medicinal salve over the abused soles of her feet and bandaged them.
He examined her arms, which had only minor scrapes and scratches, but to be safe, he wiped each one clean and began applying dressings.
"They're all after me," she said quietly.
He jolted from the unexpected words, but when his eyes fell upon her face, he saw that she yet slept on.
"All of them. After me."
"Who?" he asked in a soft voice, unsure of how else to respond. "Who is after you?"
"Everyone," she replied, her voice hushed with a startlingly clear note of terror. "They have no faces."
She spoke lucidly, though it was plain she wasn't awake. From the things she said - people with no faces, shadows and monsters in pursuit - her dreams were none too pleasant.
"You know I hate flowers," she said sharply, her volume increasing. "Or you should. You should know by now."
He attempted to ignore the Survivor's chatter, but her voice kept changing tone and volume, sometimes barely an audible whisper, at other times a screeching shout of condemnation.
"I never promised you that," she continued. "You both knew. I never hid it from either of you. Why is it suddenly a problem now?"
Her inane ramblings progressed into a kind of one-sided dialogue. It was odd. There were pauses where he surmised the other, imaginary person must be speaking, yet he couldn't conceive the full conversation. He dismissed it as best he could so he could finish dressing her wounds.
"Why am I not surprised?" she asked, her voice low and gruff. "I should've known you would throw that in my face. You're the only one who'd do that."
That made his heart stop.
"If you loved me, you wouldn't do this to me. That's not love," she said.
Her once-strong voice trembled and cracked, and the sound reverberated in his heart, filling it with a deep, unshakable ache.
He finished dressing her arms, tucking them under the layered fabrics. His work completed, he stood up and walked over to the fireplace, where he paced to stretch his tired legs. The Survivor's words became more erratic and emotional; one minute, full of anger and rage, and the next, fear and sadness.
For some reason, her somniloquy compelled an ancient urge to flee, to escape the words flooding the world from her lips. He felt like a wild animal in a trap, aware that at any moment the hunter may return with the fatal blow not far behind, yet unable to free himself. It was as if the Survivor's mutterings were steel bars all around him, coming closer with each new phrase.
The Keeper stormed out of the cellar, leaving the door opened as he bent forward and placed his hands on his knees, gulping down the salty breeze for fresh air. The sunlight proved a surprising remedy, though its savory salve was tainted by the knowledge that it was but a few hours before sunset, which would leave him without reprieve until dawn.
He and the Survivor had much in common, for she was just as haunted as he.
The Survivor's awareness gradually increased, though the exact state of circumstances escaped her. Every time she forced her eyes open, she found herself at home in bed, and not alone.
It was an illusion, or something akin to one, for though she tried to speak, tried to explain, the conversations and arguments repeated just as she remembered with no variation. The Bailiff promised to protect her as they traveled to safety, refusing to remain behind and wash his hands of her. The Barkeep accused her of the tragedy that she barely survived, claiming he collected false evidence to prove her innocence, but instead, it verified her guilt.
The Locksmith repeated the accusation, his hollow cheeks pale with death and his eyes like empty never-ending blackness. He was invisible to all but her, a ghost hovering behind the Barkeep. At first she refused to look at the ghastly visage, focusing resolutely on the living man before her. He was angry about their relationship, or lack thereof, and he wanted to hurt her. He went looking for anything he could use against her, and he found it.
"This need not come to light," the Barkeep assured her. "I am the only one who knows. If there is any truth to this, speak now. Confess. I will vault everything. I will protect you, Emma. You need not hide anything from me. We can still be together, no matter what you've done."
"The Yellow Bug went down in a storm, and it nearly took my life," she replied. "I nearly died."
"Nearly," he said. "You lived, and the Locksmith did not. Who would blame you for casting him off the only driftwood to save yourself?"
"I would," she said. "I would blame myself! It wouldn't be a secret."
"How can I know?" he demanded, getting to his feet. "The man I hired to recover facts about the shipwreck tells me that reports of The Yellow Bug put her within reach of the harbor before the worst part of the storm blew in, but you remained at sea."
"Reports?" she repeated. "You mean reports and stories that the original search failed to find? Sightings that no one mentioned in all the years since the worst storm in Midland's history. And you believe them?"
"People often find what they seek," he said. "The search and investigation only wanted to find you both living. When they failed, they only cared to end everything quickly. Who was some Locksmith compared to the daughter of the Mayor and the Judge?"
"People find what they look for," she replied, deftly repeating his own point. "You went looking for a reason to condemn me. Tell me why."
"I love you," the Barkeep replied. "I've loved you for a long time. I've been patient."
"You want to hurt me."
"No, no, no," he said. "I want to understand you. Why deny yourself happiness and security? Not for some spare affections form that tousle-haired Bailiff. He can't possibly be what's keeping us apart."
"I never promised you anything," she snapped. "You both knew. I never hid it from either of you. We're just dating, Walsh. That's it."
The argument erupted as it had a dozen times before, only this time her voice was lost in the enraged ranting of the Barkeep. That wasn't right. He had gotten her ire up, and she had yelled back in equal force.
And she had been standing.
She took in a sharp intake of breath when she shifted and experienced a radiating pain from her leg. It was enough to distract her from the horrible wrath plastered across the Barkeep's face. She turned away only for her eyes to fall on the semi-transparent image of the Locksmith.
It had happened so long ago that the Survivor could not rightly recall what he looked like. She could barely remember his face and his eyes.
The memory of his dark brown hair and eyes made her blink. She hadn't known that moments ago, yet the image of his face and the sound of his voice returned to her as if they had spoken only yesterday. She glanced up at the ghostly mirage before her, horrified to discover his true form.
The Locksmith was faceless.
"His name was Neal," she said.
As if she'd spoken an incantation, the illusion before her vanished in a swirl of smoke and rain. She blinked several times, her eyes stinging from dryness. Her entire body ached.
She wasn't in her bed at home. She was on a hard, cold floor in a makeshift cot. From the smoke, she could tell a fire burned nearby.
She shifted only to have her skin protest even the tiniest movement. It felt unnaturally tight, like she had been salted dry rather than kissed by the sun. Her feet, on the other hand, throbbed from misuse. She peered down and saw stitches and bandages.
Everything came back to her in a rush. The Barkeep's accusation, the Bailiff's promise, her escape to Northedge, the storm.
The storm.
No, not that storm, she reminded herself firmly.
Her recollection of The Yellow Bug going down had been little more than a sense of dread in the swirling winds, followed by hours freezing in the water, waiting and terrified. But now some fractured memories returned: laughing with the Locksmith on the deck under the sun, the news of the storm coming after the wind and rain began, the terrible moment when she realized the ship was taking on water.
She closed her eyes to make it stop. Did those things really happen? Or was she conflating her latest brush with death on the high seas with the her first sea tragedy?
The Survivor sat up straight. She hadn't been well enough to tend to her wounds, let alone stitch up her leg. Someone else must've done it.
As if to answer her thought, a man appeared out of the shadows. He wore a simple undershirt tucked into a pair of dark trousers, which were held up by a belt. She vaguely registered the fact that his figure was pleasing to the eye: slender and muscular. The otherwise perfect symmetry of the man was marred solely by the brace worn on his left arm, which secured a hook in place of a hand.
They had spoken before. She had a knife to his throat at the time.
"Are you awake?" he asked, his voice softer than she expected.
She meant to answer him immediately, but his face captured her attention, distracting her. His white skin contrasted his charcoal facial hair and the matching, somewhat wild mop atop his head. But even that failed to compare to the way his eyes lit up fiercely against his other features, both light and dark. They were bluer than the sky or the ocean at any time of year. If she had to name something similar to their color, her only recourse would be that one star whose name she could not recall, though anyone living would know which one she meant. Unlike all its siblings who burned white or red, this one shined with nothing but the brightest, clearest blue in the night sky.
It was as if that star had fallen from the sky and settled in the heart of his eyes, gleaming onto her from somewhere deep within.
"Are you awake?" he repeated, coming closer.
She replied, "I'm awake."
He sat down on the floor beyond an arm's reach, his star-shining eyes brimming with concern and curiosity.
"We spoke briefly before you passed out," he continued. "Do you remember?"
She nodded her head, yes.
"I'm the Keeper of Stagrock Light," he said. "You're inside the lighthouse's storage cellar."
"I made it to the island," she said quietly. "I had to swim, and I could barely see, but I made it. I had to break the lock, it was the only shelter."
"I understand," he replied. "You tied a line to keep the door shut, which saved the supplies. For that, I'm grateful and in your debt."
"They were only compromised because of me," she said. "You treated my wounds?"
"As best I could. I thought to move you to Stagrock, but you were in no state. So I treated you here."
"Thank you."
"No thanks required," he replied. "It was my duty and my honor. In a few days, you'll be fit to return home."
"Home?"
"To the Northedge mainland," he said. "You were quite adamant about the locale."
"Yes, I apologize," she replied. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I was afraid."
"Understandably so."
"Do you mind if I ask, what is your name?"
"I don't mind at all," he replied jovially. "Anyone who's drawn my blood has a right to know my born name. Killian Jones, at your service."
She smiled weakly at him, for though she had threatened his life mere hours ago, he spoke with genuine kindness, as if it were custom to make introductions over a knife's edge. If anyone had ever earned the right to learn her born name upon first meeting, surely it was the Keeper.
"I'm Emma Swan."
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Chapter 4: In Memory of Charybdis
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Chapter 6: With the Blessings of Aether
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Asclepius was the Greek deity of healing.