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pi-cat000 · 4 years

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MSA: A (sort of) Necromancy AU

Summary: Arthur remembers the cave. He wants Lewis back and is desperate enough to try anything.

NOTE: Started this serval months ago and its been in ‘planning’ for a while. Probably won’t continue until after either ‘time travel idea’ or ‘winged-Arthur’ is complete. But was in an editing mode today so here it is.

The mental case clicks open. The red light flickers to green, and Arthur carefully replaces the plastic panel he’d removed to access the lock’s inner-workings. Around him, the room remains mostly dark, dimly lit by a glowing red exit sign. Far off, if he strains and holds his breath, he can hear the sounds of people moving up and down the hospital’s hallways. This section of the hospital may be closed for the night, but the wards and emergency room operate 24/7.

Quickly, not wanting to try his luck, Arthur snatches the plastic bags of donated blood, shoving them into his backpack. The process is made hard by his single, solitary arm. In his hast, he accidentally bumps his bandaged shoulder against the cabinet. Pain shoots across his chest, forcing him to pause and wait for it to settle to a more manageable dull ache. This is the third time he’s knocked the still-healing injury and it’s been equally, if not more, painful each time. Probably shouldn’t be moving around this much after his surgery. There are a lot of things he probably shouldn't be doing. Like stealing blood, driving long distances, transversing creepy cave systems, and attempting to resurrect his dead best friend.

Backpack is appropriately stuffed with blood packets, Arthur heads out the way he came, closing doors behind him, trying to leave as little evidence as possible. No one stops him. It’s not too surprising, he can’t imagine that many people want to seal blood in a small town like this one. He makes it back to the van emptying his backpack into a cooler box which is set to the correct temperature. Next, he’s manoeuvring through empty streets, ignoring the steady throb of his shoulder, speeding towards The Cave - Location of all his recent nightmares and scene of Lewis’s death. Arthur tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

It is almost three in the morning when he pulls up to the gapping stone entrance. So far, everything is running according to his well-planned timeline. If this doesn’t work, he wants to be home before Vivi wakes up to find him missing. He hopes it doesn't come to that, but a small part of him acknowledges that this whole expedition is a long shot. In the still night air, the slamming of van doors and his occasional pained grunts echo unnaturally in the surrounding trees.

Arthur ignores the prickling unease running down his back while he struggles to carry the cooler of blood, his bag of resurrection supplies, and the hefty necromancy book down the stone tunnels. He ends up having to hold a flashlight between his teeth to properly light his way. The trip is slow and laborious, requiring several stops to catch his breath. He pushes on. Occasionally, the silence is broken by the wail of wind whistling through stone crevasses and slow dip of unseen water. By the time he makes it to the site of Lewis’s murder, he is shivering with both cold and unease. Arthur drops his load, freeing up his hand so he can use the flashlight to scan the space. Tall pointed stone barbs tower over him and throw long shadows, which crisscross the ground in uneven patterns. Nervously, he inches forward, feeling awfully exposed in the open space.

“This is such a bad idea,” He mutters, glancing up at the high stone ledge and trying to calculate Lewis’s fall trajectory. His voice bounces around. A suspicious organic lump catches his eye. Arthur takes a sharp breath, freezing, riding out the sudden wave of nausea.

Lewis…

The necromancy book states that the closer the necromancer is to the body, the higher the chance of success. Arthur swallows, pointing his flashlight away from the darkened misshapen mound at the foot of one particularly sharp spike. There is no way he can approach Lewis’s body, let alone draw the sigils needed for the ritual around it.

Arthur picks a spot on the further side of the cave. Technically, the book only specified that the ritual needed to be ‘at the location of the target's demise’. As long as it was the most recent death then everything should work out fine.

“This is fine…Everything is fine. A-okay. Nothing to worry about.” He glances into the darkness. Everything not lit up by the flashlight is completely obscured.

“Just a normal guy, doing a completely normal necromancy ritual that will totally work. This will be fine and is not in any way a bad idea.”

Wind moans somewhere overhead as if in response, and he points his torch upwards. Nothing is there but more pointed rock formations. It would suck it one fell on him…Arthur shivers. The ritual he’s planning to follow is convoluted, the instructions poorly translated by Vivi, with potential consequences ranging from deadly to horrifying. A relic from Vivi’s macabre phase, he has no idea where the necromancy manual came from originally only that it's the only option available. Of course, he has had to substitute almost all of the ‘ingredients.’ For example, there was no way he’d be doing any ‘human sacrificing.’ Hopefully, the donated blood would be an adequate replacement for the rituals ‘liquid life’ requirement.

“Okay…ah," He hesitates, "…Wards. I need to set up a protective ward.” A ward is, according to Vivi's necromancy book, needed to protect his soul from some loosely defined 'darkness. Unfortunately, the book fails to describe how to set up a protective ward. As a substitute, he’s stolen a stack of paper talismans from Vivi and the giant scroll from the shrine in Vivi’s backyard. Vivi had once said the scroll was for protection and, with his lack of options, he hopes it’ll work for him. Trying not to feel too guilty about the theft, he shuffles around slapping paper rectangles on every surface he can reach and slinging the scroll haphazardly over a nearby rock formation so it can sit unfurled. The moment the scroll roles open, its fancy Japanese characters start to glow a faint gold.

Arthur stares. Okay…He has no idea what that means. Why had he never looked into any of this supernatural stuff before now? He should have been investigating this stuff years ago! A bit late now. Hopefully, it means it is doing its ‘protective’ thing.

Arthur continues his preparations, which is made slightly easier in the light of the scroll. His hand is shaking so much that the sigils for the ritual are almost impossible to draw, never mind that the rough stone doesn’t take chalk very well. The whole process is slow and painful, but he pushes on and manages to sketch out a large circle, decorated with intricate symbology. All the practice he’d snuck in during the week seemed to be paying off.

Now for the hard part. Arthur takes the first packet of blood and ends up having to stab it open with his pocket knife. The blood spurts all over the place and his clothes and he almost throws up right then and there. He tries not to think or look as he empties out the rest of packets into the centre of the circle. When he finally finishes, his good arm is tired, his shoulder is throbbing, and he is panting with exhaustion.

Arthur pulls out a locket containing a picture of both Lewis and Vivi. He had had to steal it off Vivi’s nightstand because, despite not recognising the man in the picture, she was very attached to it. Hopefully, it would work as an ‘emotional anchor.’ He drops the locket and some of Lewis’s hair, collected from an old hairbrush, into the circle. All that is left is a long and overly complex Latin chant.

Sitting at the edge of the circle, laying the book down flat, Arthur traces the words with a finger.

This is it…If this doesn’t work…He doesn’t know what he’d do. Probably cry. He takes a deep breath and begins to read. When Arthur finishes reciting, he waits for several long, agonising seconds.

At first, nothing happens. The cave remains cold and silent. Then, a loud wind moans overhead, tearing down through the tunnels, twisting in a circle around him and pulling at his hair. The flashlight flickers off, but it doesn't matter because the stolen scroll is growing brighter and brighter. It continues to increase in brilliance, lighting the entire cave floor, reflecting off the stone spikes. Arthur’s eyes sting and he sees spots.

Then the scroll bursts into purple flame. Simultaneously, all the paper talismans explode, burning and flaking away. The area begins to grow steadily hotter until Arthur is sweating and breathless. It is so hot that the blood in the circle starts to boil also catching on fire, evaporating in long wisps of smoke which twist in the wind overhead. Arthur feels a sharp pain in his chest, tugging him forward. He grips his shirt, having trouble thinking, and edges of his vision dim.

‘Bad idea confirmed.’ Is his last coherent thought. .

Lewis breathes in like he’s returned from some deep-sea dive. His chest expands as he inhales in one desperate action. The next thing he does is groan loudly. Everything hurts. There is a constant throbbing pain in his left shoulder and his whole body aches with exhaustion. Cold air makes him shiver uncontrollably. Lewis blinks up from where he is lying on hard stone ground. He can’t see anything despite knowing his eyes are open. When he moans it is all wrong, too high pitched.

“Lewis?” Arthur’s voice, faint and whispy, drifts through the dark towards him. Lewis tries to pull himself into a seated position to get a better sense of his location. Only, he overbalances and smacks into a nearby rock, sending spikes of more intense white-hot pain through his shoulder. He grits his teeth.

“Lewis!” Arthur's voice is way too enthusiastic, piercing through the haze of pain.

Where is he? The last he remembers is walking with Arthur, navigating down a stone tunnel. They’d come to a stone platform overlooking a larger cavern, then…everything gets blurry. He’d fallen…He vaguely remembers falling.

“Arthur. Where are you?” Lewis, using his good hand, grips the rock to hold himself up in a seated position. He is not imagining it. His voice is definitely different.

“I don’t know…but I can see you,” Arthur answers and Lewis glances about, confused, peering into the dark.

“How? It’s pitch-back in here.”

Something is wrong with his left arm. It is completely unresponsive. He can’t move it at all.

“I’m not sure,” Arthur also sounds confused now. Lewis presses his back against the stone, using it for support, feeling for his shoulder, trying to find the source of the pain.

"Whoa hey. Ah...I wouldn’t....” Arthur responds to his movement, “You may notice some body parts missing, but don’t panic."

“Don't panic?! Was I injured in the fall? Oh god,” He discovers why his arm is unresponsive, “My arm’s gone!”

“I said don't panic!"

Lewis gasps, heart beating way to fast. "I'm dying."

"No. You’re fine. I swear you're fine. Just try and calm down. You need to breathe.”'

“I am breathing,” He snaps, taking several hash breaths. He’s feeling lightheaded and woozy now. It doesn’t help that he still can’t see anything. That, plus the pain, saps the rest of his strength right out of him. Lewis hears is Arthur's panicked. "Lewis!" And then hears no more. . . . Of course, Lewis doesn't die. He wakes back up and is met with the same throbbing pain and cold stone. However, unlike last time, it is no longer pitch-black. A ball of floating fire, burning a mix of purple and yellow, is hovering over his chest. It lights the immediate area in a dim haze. He freezes, alarmed, staring in the soft light.

"Lewis? You're awake." Arthur's relived voice is coming from the ball of fire, which wavers and fluctuates when he speaks. What the...?

“Arthur?” He asks, hesitant, scanning the surrounding space. It is still too dark to see beyond a few meters, but he can make out taller stone structures.

“Yeah? You can see me now?”

His attention returns to the slowly bobbing fireball. Yes, Arthur’s voice is coming from the fire. Maybe he is dead after all.

"What happened?" Lewis whispers, swallowing and glancing down at where his hand should be. In the low light cast by the floating Arthur-fire, he can see there is no blood or any other sign of recent trauma. It just hurts a lot. He lifts up his remaining hand to examine that as well. It is pale. Far too pale to be his own hand. How?

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #fanfiction #fanfic #Lewis pepper #arthur kingsmen #nercomancy #sort of necomrancy #but not realy #references to injury #tw: blood #blood and injury

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

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THE HOUSE, (part 2 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

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THE HOUSE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

Written 1990

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of Fan activity, Fiction, Art, Cosplay, Music, or any other thing is actively encouraged!

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Next, I began to check the walls for hidden panels or the like. The walls of the parlor, sitting room, and kitchen were smooth with elaborate flocked paper. The wainscots were all of solid, if elaborate, woodwork. That left the study, dining room, and library. I set eagerly to work. The paneled walls of the study proved depressingly solid.

I was delighted when I finally found the basement stair in the library. A bookcase camouflaged a hidden door with the spring catch concealed as one of the few knots visible anywhere in the wood of the house.

Flashlight in hand, I ventured down the short flight of stairs. The basement proved to be small and bare. It had mortared stone walls and a cement floor. There were no hiding places, even the space under the stairs was empty, no rats, no dust, and no cobwebs … Slowly I went back up the stairs to the library.

I put away my flashlight and went to the study to look at the land records again. The papers revealed that the house’s first buyer was George Oates. His brother and sole heir sold the house seven years later. His name was Harold.

As I am something of a bibliophile, I decided to give the house’s library a detailed look. I was more than pleasantly surprised. Not one book was published later than 1866. Many were far older. Some of the books went back to the 1400’s. Mr. Wickes was apparently somewhat dishonest, intellectually. He had signed and dated the flyleaf of each book, for example, “Hiram Wickes, acquir’d 1565.” Some of the dates went back to 1540 in books published from 1483 to 1497. He would have to have been over 300 years old, if the inscriptions were true.

Hiram was heavily into the occult. There was little that did not pertain to the various occult ‘sciences.’ Even the books in foreign tongues, and there were many, had illustrations that indicated that they belonged to this awesome collection of lore. The impression was that Hiram had read all or most of this collection. His marginal notes were in a wide range of languages, often not the language of the book in question. From scanning the shelves, I deduced that there were over twenty five hundred books in the library.

My near drenching of the day before had taught me that it was wise to take my car into town. Mrs. Alderman greeted me at the slightly shabby old counter that served the library for a check-out desk. “My goodness, young man, how did you get on when the power went out? I have a gas range, ‘cause you never can tell when, hereabouts, the power might go.”

“I’ve got gas where I’m staying, too,” I told her, “I made out okay.”

“Well,” she said knowingly, “the radio says it’ll be another two-three hours before we got power again. Why don’t you go sit by that window? It’ll give you light all morning.”

I thanked her and turned at once to the death certificates. Bingo! George Oates, his wife Wilfreda, daughters - Caroline and Charity, and son Harold (named for George’s brother in Boston), had all been declared legally dead, seven years having passed since their disappearance, and all reasonable attempts at contact having failed. Now, the reason for that malevolent plaque came into focus.

Turning to the letters, I started with the earliest. The Post Office had saved Hiram’s mail in the hope that it would yield some clue to his whereabouts. This practice was followed in the disappearance of all subsequent owners of the house. Hiram’s mail was of considerable interest to any who might know a bit of the occult and something of rare books, as I did. The first letter follows:

My Dear Hiram:

It is with the utmost concern that I read your last communication. You were always my most talented pupil and are a valued associate. I pray you, please, reconsider the rash course that you are now contemplating.

Remember, your copy of Alhazarad is not a good one. The edition of 1784 contains many minor lacunae. Before you attempt anything, consult also the Pnakotic Manuscripts and collate what you learn there with Von Junst.

I know that reading the Pnakotic Manuscripts is a difficult and time-consuming task. Never forget that the source of your present wealth and mine lies in those ancient pages. There is much wisdom there for those with the courage to seek. Everything must be checked against other knowledge.

To call upon Him Whose Name Must NOT be Uttered for so trivial a task is a sure way to serious mishap. Remember, your Alhazarad is incomplete!

In concern for your welfare,

I remain, Richten

At Darkhouse, Arkham, Mass.

Unfortunately, the authorities were unable to trace the mysterious Richten or his address. Arkham, Mass. is, of course well known to all scholars and bibliophiles as the home of Miskatonic University, with its astounding collection of rare books of occult lore.

I had never heard of the Pnakotic Manuscripts but the other items mentioned in the letter were familiar to me. Alhazarad could be none other than the author of the infamous Necronomicon. The 1784 edition survives only as a fragmentary copy in the vaults of Miskatonic University. Von Junst could only be the almost as infamous Black Book. This book also survives in only a few priceless copies. Two of the best ones lurked in the vaults of the rare book collection at Miskatonic. They were separate editions, published a century apart.

Another letter, about a week later than the first, was a bit more specific. Richten started in much the same vein as before but went on:

Calling so mighty a being for so trivial a task is absolutely insane. I know that you enjoy tidiness. Who does not? Yet He Whose Name Must NOT be Uttered is not a mere servant and can be disastrously literal, even when all else is done perfectly.

Binding Him, as you have, cannot please Him. What you have learned from the Necronomicon and the Pnakotic Manuscripts has enabled you to compel Him to bring you gold. The first time that He did was almost fatal. Remember, being able to compel is not the same as being master.

For your own safety, Do Not Do This!!!

Wishing you the best,

Your friend and former Master,

Richten

At Darkhouse, Arkham, Mass.

There were also, unfortunately, not translated, letters from Korea, China, India, the 0ttoman Empire, Germany, France, Morocco, and several places in South America. Apparently our Mr. Wickes had been something of a polyglot and did in fact read all of the languages of the books in his library.

It appeared that a careful search of the house, attic to basement, was in order. If there were any chance that I might find a copy of either the Necronomicon or the Black Book, I could turn a fine profit. Either book in almost any condition, was worth in far in excess of mere $45,000.00 that I had paid for the house.

Turning to the newspaper clippings, I found mostly stories of the disappearances of people who had bought the Wickes place. The George Oates family was only the first. They were not alone. The clippings gave some flesh to the legal death declarations. There was another detail to add to my list. No trace was ever found of the possessions of any person who vanished.

Electric wiring had been installed. Several times. It too had vanished without a trace. After each disappearance, the house was exactly as it had been when Hiram Wickes vanished. Even if the furniture and books were sold or even burned, everything always came back.

The Reverend Orville Olson piled all of Hiram’s books and furniture on the lawn and burned it all. He then exorcised the whole place of the “evil ghost of Hiram Wickes.” To prove that the evil was gone, he spent the night in the house. The burn scar on the lawn and the Reverend Olson both vanished. The furniture and books returned.

I made careful tracings of the strange gold coin in the file and made longhand copies of such of the letters as I could and included all of the oddments that I knew of Hiram Wickes and the Wickes house, and prepared the lot for mailing. I addressed it to Professor Gordon Wetherbee at Miskatonic University.

He was a sort ‘uncle’ to me. He and my father had been close friends since long before my birth. That friendship had been extended to me as I grew and was largely responsible for my love of books and learning. I did not know all or even a fraction of what ‘uncle’ Gordon knew or did but I trusted him absolutely.

I did know that his research had taken him all over the world. He knew more of the occult than any other man of my acquaintance.

One set of clippings caught my eye. “BOY GOES MAD!!” Curiosity piqued, I read on. In essence, the story was this:

It was a fine day in April, 1896. Willie Asphel, age 10, was in the mood to get into trouble. He sneaked off to the Wickes place to break windows. Apparently he missed the house with the first stone, as there was no crash of glass or thump of stone on board. He took precise aim and watched carefully where the stone went. Ever after, his hair was stark white, his eyes crossed, and even after he stopped raving, his mind was never fully normal. He demonstrated a talent for seeing into closed containers and the like.

He died of a brain hemorrhage at the age of fifteen.

The power which had failed last night, came back at 3:30 p.m. I felt a need to digest the tale of Reverend Olson and young Willie Asphel, so I left the library. I walked up the street in the sunlight. Cobbles could be seen here and there through old cracks and holes in the paving. Stepping around the occasional weed, I followed the sidewalk to the Post Office. There I mailed my letter to uncle Gordon.

Thoughtfully, I retraced my steps. My car awaited me. No sooner had I got into it than a gust of wind slammed the door. The impact caused the glove box door to fall open. Inside were five gold coins exactly like the one in the file

To say that I was stunned by this occurrence would have been an understatement. A breeze plucked at my right hand, almost as if it were guiding me to the gold. The moment that I took the gold in my hand, the breeze died away. Only then did I notice that my car windows were closed.

My first response was to say, “Thank you, whoever or whatever you may be.” I drove home slowly, mulling over the day’s events. The clouds roiled overhead like fighting dogs.

Once home, I got my flashlight and went straight to the attic. At the stairs, my light would not shine. Somehow, I must have left it on when I last put it away. Irritating.

I had lots of candles down in the kitchen. For a prize like the Necronomicon or the Black Book, I could search by candlelight. An obsession to find those books seized my spirit.

I hurried down to the kitchen and set up a candlestick, which I took back to the attic. The soft glow of the candlelight revealed the same boxes and trunks that I had seen before. There were still no dust or spider webs to be seen. I heard what sounded like a hundred rats on the floor below. A glance out an attic window showed that night had fallen. The ‘spectral brigade’ never started before dark.

The boxes and trunks contained the curios, mementos and journals of travels on six of the seven continents (only Antarctica was not represented.) Glancing through the journals revealed that although Hiram was meticulous at recording detail and observations, he was also quite secretive about the object of his searches and research. It was both fascinating and frustrating.

Some of the boxes contained disturbingly carved stones and other artifacts. Many of these were only disquieting to look at but a few were truly mind twisting. A number of the journals contained finely drawn sketches in ink of architecture that Escher would have loved, had it not caused actual nausea when studied too closely. Many of the drawings were of ruins but they still retained their otherworldly power. Their geometry was subtly skewed from any earthly construction. There was little else, aside from literally thousands of the above mentioned journals. Valuable to the right collector perhaps but not the precious books that I was seeking.

I tried the second floor next. Both bedrooms, the bath, and the large room that I had dubbed ‘the work room’ all proved to have no secret hiding places. If there were any hidden doors or concealed panels they defied me.

The ground floor was next. I started with the kitchen. The parlor got a once-over walls and ceiling. (I had done the floor when I searched for the basement.) The same was done with the dining room, sitting room, and study. Then it was the library’s turn.

Looking at the wall to wall, knee to ceiling, cases of books with their sliding ladders, I despaired of finishing my search that night. There were over twenty five hundred volumes on those shelves.

I stared at the sea of brown leather backs, some stamped with gold, and decided to start at the right of the door and work my way around the room. Each book had to be inspected to be sure that it was not concealing another book in innocent appearing binding. Many of them were valuable in their own right but none could compare with the Necronomicon or the Black Book.

I did not get far before I was too tired to continue. The books that I was seeking had waited for century and a third. They could wait until morning.

The next day, my inspection of the library resumed. Here, at least, Hiram had achieved order. The books were shelved by subject and author, regardless of language. There was precious little of outright fiction though many were obvious foolishness in the light of modern knowledge. At ten in the morning, I stopped, arms aching and eyes swimming. I was less than a quarter of the way through the herculean task.

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#THE HOUSE #part 2 of 3 #Flocking Bay #Written by De Writer

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jarienn972 · 6 years

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Only a Little Superstitious - Chapter 15

I'm going to preface this chapter with the revelation that it came together as the result of a very stressful couple of weeks for me. So, that said, this one is going to be heavy on the angst - with just a couple of major developments playing out both in Phoenix as well as back home in Storybrooke. I promise, there is going to be a happy ending, but there's still a bumpy road ahead for both Emma and Killian.. @killian-whump, I’d forgotten to tag you on the last couple of chapters, but I didn’t want you to miss out on some juicy angst.

AO3 FF.net

From the beginning on Tumblr: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Evening was quickly descending on Storybrooke as Regina yanked open the heavy front door of the town library, here thanks to an urgent message from Belle stating she'd discovered something very important. Regina didn't see the brunette librarian anywhere as she entered but she could hear a couple of muffled voices off in the distance.

"Belle?" Regina called out, having recognized Belle's voice as well as a male one – David. "You've got news?"

"Regina!" Belle's voice shouted back from further back in the dusty, musty building. "We're back here – in the computer room."

"We?" Regina asked. She had only made out two voices so she wondered who else might be present.

"David and I," Belle replied as Regina came around the corner into the library's make-shift computer room which also housed most of the reference section. David, clad in a blue plaid flannel shirt and jeans, was leaning against the wall across from Belle. "I figured he should be here as acting Sheriff so he could hear this as well…"

"Must relate to Emma and Hook then," Regina said in what came across as a perpetually annoyed tone.

"Sort of…," was Belle's cryptic response as she took a couple of steps over to a huge, solid oak library table stacked with piles of leather-bound first editions and reference materials. Belle pushed one of the stacks to the side and produced a fistful of papers. "Actually, it has more to do with Yzma's partner, Kronk…"

"Kronk? The guy who stabbed Hook then followed my daughter and son-in-law through the portal to Arizona?" David queried.

"That Kronk," Belle confirmed, plucking the first page from her pile of papers, one that looked like a poor quality photocopy. "I've been doing some research into both of our recent troublemakers, both Yzma and Kronk."

"Okay…" Regina hadn't expected the the petite librarian to continue looking into the pair once they'd been identified, but maybe this was a good thing.

"Well, we know that they arrived here with Mr. Hyde and his cronies from the Land of Untold Stories," David stated, curious as to what else Belle might have uncovered.

"Yes, they did come from the Land of Untold Stories," Belle verified. "I confirmed that through some of the journals found with both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde's belongings. Each seemed to be trying to keep records which partially identified the story book characters trapped in that realm. Thing was, neither of them made any mention of Nehemiah Kronk or what his story was. That got me very curious so I started to do a little digging and, with the help of some modern technology, I found something very interesting…"

"Are you going to kill us with suspense?" Regina deadpanned, eager to get home after a long day.

"Sorry, let me get to the point," Belle responded, voice dripping with sarcasm as she had no intention of being bullied by the mayor's insolence. "Nehemiah Kronk isn't a fairytale character at all…"

"What?!" both David and Regina chimed in unison.

"What do you mean he isn't a fairytale character?" Regina repeated Belle's revelation. "He has to be…"

"He's most certainly not," Belle replied very matter-of-factly as she passed the paper clutched in her hand to Regina. "Nehemiah Kronk is from this world, the Land Without Magic. Look…"

Regina perused the slightly blurry page before her which appeared to be a badly preserved copy of a very old newspaper article. "What exactly am I looking at? Old news?"

"That is a printout of an article I uncovered, published by the Arizona Republican newspaper in 1892…" Belle started to say as Regina handed the barely legible page to David.

"This says something about a missing US Marshal?" David asked as he glanced down at the page, confused as to what this had to do with Yzma's dangerous henchman. "I guess I'm missing something here…"

"Let me finish?" Belle asked, to which both David and Regina agreed, promising not to interrupt again. "That article talks about the mysterious disappearance of United States Marshal Nehemiah Kronk who vanished somewhere outside of the city Phoenix, then in the Arizona territories, while escorting a prisoner from Denver to Los Angeles. He and his partner turned their prisoner over to the California team, but when his partner checked in the next morning before they were to board the train back to Denver, Kronk was nowhere to be found. Witnesses reported he was last seen in a tavern talking to an old man. No one ever saw Kronk again and he was suspected of becoming a victim of one of several Apache attacks that week."

"Okay, but this is from the 1890s… How could someone from this world still be alive and unaged over a century later?" David wondered. "I'm sure the frozen time aspect of the Land of Untold Stories had something to do with it, but how did he get there if he isn't from a story? And how did he manage to hook up with Yzma?"

"I can't give you answers to those questions, but it's definitely the same guy…" Belle peeled the second page from her pile which contained a grainy, black and white photograph of the missing Marshal and while the hairstyle, attire and facial hair were different, David recognized the face of the man he'd fought alongside his son-in-law.

"Damn… that's him…" David sighed, unsure what this would mean for his daughter and her wounded husband.

"Well, at least we now have something that explains how they ended up in Arizona," Regina spoke up. "If Emma's right about the dagger being the object that opened the portal, not the scepter, Kronk may have had an impact on their destination."

"You think Kronk had a reason to go back to Arizona after all of these years?" David asked.

"Maybe. There are a lot of things we aren't going to be able to answer, but maybe this information would help Emma's friends track him down before he finds them?" Belle questioned. "Maybe we should call her?"

"She's still waiting for the dagger and potion to arrive," Regina said as she glanced down at her gold, diamond encrusted watch. "It won't get there for a few more hours but she's supposed to call when the package arrives and let us know if the potion works."

"Emma's got enough on her mind right now," David began. "Let's wait until we know the potion worked before we give her something else to worry about…"

"Agreed," Regina said. "Let's not bother her with a story about a century and a half year old former Federal Agent until the dark magic is dealt with. As for me, I'm heading home. If you happen to hear from your daughter sooner, let me know."

Sunsets in the Valley of the Sun were always spectacular and Carlos found his eyes immediately drawn to the blaze of color stretching across the Western sky as he exited his battered old pickup truck. The last few rays of sunlight could be seen reflecting off of the front windows of the nondescript office building in Scottsdale that he'd parked in front of, one which housed the National Parks Service field office. At nearly 6pm, only a few of his fellow government employees would still be here, most swapping their assigned Parks Service SUVs for their personal vehicles after a long day of patrolling the surrounding expanse of Federal lands.

He tapped his ID badge against the electronic security panel to the right of the entrance, tugging the door open when the panel buzzed and flashed a green light. Ana, their receptionist, glanced up from her desk as he entered, momentarily startling her as few people entered through the front door at this hour.

"Littlecreek? What are you doing at the office at this hour?" she asked, her dark eyes narrowing in confusion. "And isn't it your day off?"

"Hey, Ana," he greeted her with a friendly smile, hoping he could sell her on the basic story without going into a lot of detail. "Yeah, sorry for the confusion. I've got a package being delivered here from back East. It's pretty important so I didn't really want to risk having it dropped off at my place."

"Ooh, the mystery deepens, huh?" Ana teased him as he pulled one of the waiting area chairs away from the window and flopped down onto it. "Must be pretty important for you to show up here on your day off…"

"Yes, it is. Important enough to warrant private, same-day courier delivery. Good thing it's not on my tab. Figured I'd get over here early though in case the plane lands earlier than scheduled."

"Okay, well, you're on your own. I'm not sticking around while you wait," Ana stated as the clock on her desk now read six o'clock. "My day is over and I'm heading home. See you later, Littlecreek."

"Goodnight, Ana," he replied as she retrieved her purse from beneath her desk and scurried out the door. While he would have preferred the company, the less prying eyes, the better. He didn't want to have to go over the story of the package's contents more times than necessary.

He'd nearly drifted off from boredom when a loud knock sounded against the thick glass door forty-five minutes later. Carlos sprang to his feet and took a step towards the door, taking in the sight of a slight, blond haired man in his early to mid twenties dressed in a navy blue uniform and clutching a small box wrapped tightly in clear tape.

"Evening," the courier greeted Carlos from the opposite side of the thick glass door. "I've got a package here for a Mrs. Emma Jones, care of a Ranger Carlos Littlecreek?"

"And that would be me," Carlos replied. "One moment. Let me buzz you in…" Carlos found the button to his left and pressed it before pushing the door open for the courier to enter the office lobby.

"Thank you," the courier said as he took a few steps inside toward the reception desk. He rested the package on the desk while fumbling through his pocket with his free hand to find his tablet so he could collect Carlos' signature confirming the delivery. It was only as the package was placed atop the counter that Carlos noticed that one side was dented significantly. "I just need you to sign here but I'd also like you to take a look over the package and the contents and make sure they're intact in case you need to file a claim. We had a pretty bumpy flight and everything in the cargo hold got jostled around a lot. 'Found this package beneath a heavier one that got bounced on top of it and since the manifest stated it contained medicine, I was a little concerned…"

"Yeah, it contains some cough medicine for a colleague of mine. Desert air doesn't quite agree with her," Carlos chuckled as he hunted around Ana's desk for a pair of scissors so he could cut through the many layers of tape securing the box. Upon closer inspection, it appeared the courier had valid reason for his concern. He could see that beneath the tape, corners of the cardboard seemed to be damp with a reddish liquid and as he lifted it, the bottom was sticky against his palm. It was all adding up to be a little disconcerting. What if the potion bottles were damaged? There might not be time to wait for another batch… He cautiously cut through the tape securing the top flaps of the box and pulled them open to reveal layer after layer of bubble wrap lining the carton. He dug into it, easily finding the first prescription bottle and breathing a small sigh of relief upon discovering it was intact. They'd have one dose at least.

Unfortunately, as he discovered more of the sticky liquid clinging to the plastic, it became fairly evident that the second container hadn't been spared and as much as he hated it, he was right. He found the second bottle positioned against the dented side of the box sporting a large crack down the side. Grabbing what looked to be a clean coffee mug from Ana's desktop, he carefully extracted the second bottle, trying to preserve as much of the precious liquid inside as he could. He dropped the damaged container into the mug so it could catch any additional spillage, then slowly removed layer upon layer of bubble wrap, pouring what he could salvage into the mug.

"Damn…," the courier sighed. "I'm so sorry about that. We'll notify the sender so they can put in a damage claim if they want."

"Nothing you could do about the turbulence," Carlos assured the courier, not blaming him for this setback. At least one bottle had survived so they had one full dose and he was doing all he could to collect every drop he could rescue from the broken bottle. "Here, let me sign that so you can get out of here and I can get this stuff over to my colleague." The courier handed him the tablet and a rubber tipped stylus to sign and Carlos scrawled out his name as best he could with his now very sticky fingers. Once the transaction was all completed, he buzzed the courier out and tried to decide if he should call Emma now to warn her or just explain it all in person. Neither option was particularly pleasant at the moment.

Deciding it preferable to explain face to face, Carlos packaged the borrowed mug inside the box with the unblemished container and the still wrapped dagger then hurried out to his truck. He headed south toward Mesa, driving as quickly as he could without drawing too much unnecessary attention. Last thing he needed was to get pulled over for speeding and lengthen the delay the snarled traffic was already causing.

He finally arrived back at the hospital just after 7:30pm, box carefully tucked under his left arm. The unusual package had gotten a bit of scrutiny from security, but a casual mention of Tim Stillwater's name managed to get him through without too many questions. As he at last approached the room, it looked like Killian was asleep. Emma's back was to him but Grandmother spotted him lurking in the corridor and waved him inside.

"Why were you standing out there just staring?" Grandmother scolded him. "You could have just entered."

"I saw that Killian was sleeping and I didn't want to disturb him," Carlos replied in defense of his stalling.

"Right now, I don't care who you wake," Emma stated, standing up and hurriedly retrieving the box Carlos was carrying. "This package right here is the only thing I'm worried about right now."

"Well, the potion is definitely in there, as was the dagger," Carlos told her. "I wasn't even gonna try to bring that thing in here though so it's locked in my truck, but unfortunately, we may have a small problem…"

"Problem?" Emma's gaze shot up to meet Carlos', the earlier eagerness now tempered with a hint of trepidation. "What kind of problem?" She had already placed the cardboard box atop the rolling side table and was lifting the flaps to open it, not yet noticing that the corners were damp and discolored, but Grandmother's eagle eyes had spotted the stains.

Sharing a knowing glance with her grandson, the old woman was already asking "What happened?" even before Emma had the lid open, knowing not all of the potion had survived the journey from Storybrooke. Grandmother's intuitive suspicions were confirmed when Emma peeled back the sticky bubble wrap to discover the ceramic mug holding the cracked prescription bottle and the remnants that Carlos had managed to salvage.

"One of the bottles was broken?" Emma asked with a very audible sigh, lifting the mug carefully from the box so she wouldn't spill any more of its valuable contents. "It's all soaked through the box…"

"The courier said they hit some nasty turbulence and some other boxes fell on top of this one," Carlos explained. "I salvaged what I could from the broken one, even what I could manage to save from inside the layers of bubble wrap. 'Borrowed a friend's mug so I'd have something to catch it all. Looks like there's maybe a third of the original amount left…"

"The other bottle is intact?" Grandmother asked just wanting to be certain.

"Yes, it's fine," Emma responded as she withdrew the undamaged bottle from the package and placed it atop the table. Resting the mug beside the prescription container, she extracted the broken bottle and removed its lid, dumping the remaining contents into the mug. The thick, reddish-brown liquid certainly looked and even smelled like cough syrup. Regina had done well disguising it, but they had only a little more than a single dose. "Might as well have him drink all of it now," Emma decided, raising the second bottle to remove its cap and emptying it into the mug as well. Now all she had to do was get Killian to drink it.

"You're not worried it might be too much?" Carlos wondered, figuring there had to be a reason it was split into two separate doses. He didn't really expect Emma to answer as there definitely wasn't enough left to make a second dose that would likely have any effect, but he was still curious that too much could be equally as troubling as not enough.

"I don't see much of a choice," Emma replied as she gently nudged her husband's shoulder in an attempt to get him to stir. "Killian? If you can hear me, you need to wake up…" There was little response from her first effort so she had to try a bit harder this time, stroking his upper arm as she called out to him once again. "Killian – we've got the potion… You need to wake up so you can drink it…" This time, his head lolled toward the sound of her voice, followed by a faint, pained groan of displeasure. "That's it…" Emma continued to encourage him out of his drowsiness. "C'mon, talk to me…"

"'M tired, Swan…" Killian complained, eyes still closed tightly.

"I know," she apologized. Emma hated forcing him, but deep down, she knew it was for the best. "You've got to wake up and drink this to fight off that dark magic that has a hold on you." Killian's eyelids parted to slits, barely enough to make out the shape of his wife's face as she leaned over him. He took another moment to allow his sleepy eyes to adjust until he could discern a mug clutched in her right hand.

"Regina's potion?" Killian asked, his left eyebrow arching with suspicion.

"Yes," Emma smiled at him. "It's the potion we've been waiting for." She gently took a seat beside him on the narrow bed. "Let me help you sit up…" She found the controls for the adjustable bed and pressed the button to raise his head, slipping her left hand behind his shoulder to help ease him forward until he was seated upright, nearly eye level with her. He immediately grimaced and nearly tumbled back against the pillows as a twinge of pain shot through his chest. "Ooh, sorry… Shouldn't have done that so fast…"

"Be fine in a moment…," Killian insisted, gritting his teeth until the discomfort lessened. "Where is it?"

"Here," Emma replied, offering the ceramic mug. He managed to wrap his fingers around it, but found his hand shaking too much to keep a grip on the handle. "Maybe I should hold it?" his wife offered, to which he nodded in agreement. "Okay… take it slowly, but you'll have to drink it all." She raised the mug to his lips and gradually tipped it. When he nearly gagged on the first mouthful, she instinctively pulled the offending vessel away, fearful that it might be too much right now, but Killian shook his head and reached for her.

"It's fine, Love," Killian assured her despite a crinkled nose and a frown stretching across his lips. "It's a bit much. Rather distasteful, to be honest, but I can do this…" The frown melted into a weak smile as he cupped his hand around hers, still trembling from even such a slight exertion. His fingers stayed with hers as she brought the mug back to his open mouth again. Killian wasn't shy about displaying his displeasure at the foul-tasting liquid but he drank all of it. Emma lowered the mug and passed it to Grandmother as Killian forced himself to swallow the last of the potion.

"Feel any different?" Emma asked, remaining at her husband's side while Grandmother placed the mug on the counter next to the sink to wash later.

"Burns a little," Killian responded, his fingers latching onto Emma's upper arm for support. "Kinda like heartburn after eating that noxious substance Granny calls chili…" That statement had Emma trying to stifle a chuckle even as she felt his grip tighten.

"You sure you're okay?" Emma asked, no longer amused. "You've got a death grip on my arm."

"Sorry… Don't know my own strength…" Killian grinned, but the forced smile was soon betrayed by a powerful spasm that sent his body tumbling into his wife's arms.

"Killian?!" Her arms immediately wrapped around his torso as she caught him crashing into her, nearly knocking her over. His heart was thumping against his chest wall; his breaths coming rapid and shallow and suddenly, the electronic monitor behind him was beeping in time with his racing heart. This was definitely going to draw attention they didn't need.

Sensing what was happening, Grandmother shooed Carlos away from the door as Emma clung to her trembling husband. These spirits weren't going to give him up without a fight, but the old woman recognized that an interruption by medical personnel at this critical moment would disrupt the process so she moved swiftly to intercept the nurse before she entered.

"Is everything alright here?" the nurse asked suspiciously as she saw her patient clenched in his wife's embrace, apparently wrought with tremors. The first thought as the monitors had lit up with alarms was that Killian Jones was suffering another seizure. "This might be another seizure so if you'd please, move out of my way so I can examine my patient."

"Everything is fine," Grandmother insisted, voice calm and steady so that she might sound more convincing. "It's not a seizure. Mr. Jones merely woke from a very visceral nightmare – the poor man forced to relive the horror of being stabbed by an assailant that has yet to be captured. His wife is attempting to comfort him. She gave him a little bit of water and is holding him while the shaking subsides. Please, give her some time before you interrupt them. You might startle him anew." The nurse relented, partially because she noticed that the monitor displaying the patient's heart rate showed his pulse returning to normal and partially because she didn't want to argue with this old woman standing before her.

"I'll be back in two minutes to check his vitals," the nurse insisted. Grandmother responded only with a nod, returning to the room to find that Killian had passed out, his body slack in Emma's arms as she eased him back against the mattress, lowering the bed's angle to a more comfortable sleeping position.

Once Killian was resting seemingly peacefully, Emma drew her arms back from beneath him, but then raised her right hand to sweep away the unruly strands of dark brown hair that had cascaded over his temple when he'd fallen forward. His forehead still felt a bit warm to her touch, but perhaps not as much as earlier? "Please let this work." Her plea came out in a barely audible whisper.

"I don't sense the evil spirits here in this room any longer," Grandmother stated as she extended a hand to help Emma to her feet. Emma's gaze remained fixed on Killian as she stood, allowing him to rest without crowding him.

"I sure hope you're right," Emma responded, her voice quivering as she allowed only a single tear to escape. "I guess only a little time will tell us for sure…"

#cs ff #cs fanfic #cs fan fiction #captain swan ff #only a little superstitious

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