The Broken Jaw of Our Lost Kingdoms

[Emma Macmillan]

Emma's father was dead.

She had, all things considered, taken this as well as was to be expected. She had already transferred into wearing the black of mourning, and though she was far too somber to argue with Killian about the paper every morning, she had not shed a tear anywhere that anyone could hear her. (She had not sobbed, either.)

And she had, of course, agreed to send Megara away. If their child caught the laughing sickness, she would die. There was no other way to think about this. A sickness which had taken Reuben Pendergast was sure to take his sickly grandchild; so Megara was away, and the nurse had strict instructions to bring her home if she took ill.

Until the paper announced a quarantine .

Emma's hands shook when she read it. She had taken to reading in the library, alone, where it was safe to look nervous while she read about the plague.

And she was glad for that now, distantly. Her face was pale, her hands felt clammy - Hogsmeade was closed off.

So if Megara were to catch ill -

If Megara were to die -

She and Killian would not be there.

Emma bit down on her lip and tasted blood.

She flipped the page, hoping for good news - something about marriage or flowers, perhaps - only to be faced with a photo of her father.

Her hands tightened on the paper. Her knuckles were white and she pressed her forehead against the pages, determined not to cry - she had been caught off guard, that was all.

She made a keening sound low in her throat and squished her eyes shut. She would not cry. Her father was a disappointment; she should have been someone else's daughter; his photo should not have affected her so when she had come to these conclusions years ago.

If Megara died - if Megara died -- if Megara died she would have to live with herself. Plenty of women had lost children before.

She made a keening sound again but quieted it in her throat. She dropped the paper on the floor in a heap and reached behind her to grip the bookcase, give her something to ground herself with.

This was beneath her.

If she was just left alone, she could regain her composure --

  

[Killian Macmillan]

It had been a somber and largely silent weekend in the Macmillan household. It was as if a tangible shroud lay over them, thickening the air itself. Killian had donned his own dark wardrobe for the passing of his father-in-law and kept to his rooms, trying to give Emma her space. They didn't talk about things, at least not things like this. He wasn't even certain she needed comforting by the way she acted but still, he felt compelled to tread lightly in his own house.

They'd conclusively decided to send Megara away the day the plague was declared. It was no longer whispers and rumor but a real threat. They didn't need to talk about it; there was little doubt that if she caught this sickness she would not survive. Their daughter. His first born. She'd always been so frail, so weak and it was a difficult pill to swallow that she might be safer out of his care. But she'd be away from Hogsmeade and if she showed any sign of illness the nurse would bring her home straight away. If his daughter was going to die it would be at home, surrounded by family.

At least that had been the plan; A solid, reasonable one that backfired explosively. The news of the quarantine hit him like charging hippogriff and reverberated through him. He'd sent her away and now she was out of their reach. If she caught ill...

He gave his coat back to the valet and went to find Emma. He probed various rooms, gently pushing open doors that revealed only empty rooms. A spacious house he'd once appreciated for its grandeur and available distance to put between Emma and himself now only served to underscore the permeated feeling of emptiness. Finally he found her in the library, back to him as he stood in the doorway. "Emma?"

  

[Emma Macmillan]

It could only be her husband. Emma almost wanted to laugh - she did not have the sickness, not yet, but wasn't it funny? Their attempts to save their daughter might just make her die alone - but caught it in her throat. She did not want to explain it to her husband, and she did not want him thinking she was ill.

She supposed that it was entirely possible that she would get ill eventually, though. It seemed that they had all been left in Hogsmeade to die.

Emma turned to him. She brushed a few stray hairs away from her forehead and pressed her lips together, unsure whether a smile or a frown was more appropriate.

"Killian," Emma said, standing up from her seat. The bottom of her dress brushed against the blasted discarded paper and made the pages rustle, and she flinched. Her throat felt thick and her tone was off, but despite her still watering eyes she was still not crying in front of him. Good. He didn't need to see that.

"You've read the paper."

  

[Killian Macmillan]

She blamed him, he could see it in her face. And she rightfully should. Killian had always made it a point to ensure that his was the final decision in their household. It had become a point between them when Emma had tried to have a stronger hand in things. So, despite the fact that it had been a unanimous decision the consequences lay on his shoulders. He had sent their daughter away to die alone.

"I have." he hedged, approaching slowly. What else was there to say really? He couldn't assure her Megara would be fine. Even far away from the source of the plague a case of the sniffles could send her to bed for weeks. After a beat of silence and a measured in take of air he settled for a gentle grip on her upper arm, prepared for any torrent she would fling at him. "I'll... figure something out." his decision, his consequences, his to fix. To keep them all in like this with out warning was criminal.

  

[Emma Macmillan]

Emma's face twitched. "What do you think you could possibly do?" she asked. She wanted to pull away but instead gripped his other arm, not tightly but urgently. "The Wizengamot voted unanimously - they never vote unanimously - and at least one of our staff members seem to be infected. We're not getting out of here until the Quarantine is lifted or whoever placed it dies."

So she was stuck here, with him, and they were both guilty. Emma didn't like this - at least if she caught the laughing sickness she would be laughing instead of sort of angry and guilty and numb. They should have kept Megara with them. At least Owl Post was still available...

  

[Killian Macmillan]

Her immediate discard of his tentative offer was like a knife to the gut. He was the man of the house and it was his job to take care of things. Of course part of him knew it was fruitless but he had to try. But try for what? Who could he convince to let his wife out? That was the entire point of a quarantine; to keep anyone exposed contained and isolated. And even if he could... would he work to bring Megara home? Their home was contaminated, they were probably contaminated. It was a pointless exercise.

But even his own mortality didn't distract him. He gripped her arm more firmly as if he could transfer fortitude from such limited contact. "There is always something that can be done." He insisted, even if he did not fully believe the words himself. He could feel a cloud of eminent anxiety growing in the back of his mind. There were things he needed to do on his own as well. One of which was his will. Were Megara to survive them both she needed to be seen to. Children were supposed to out live their parents but it was supremely ironic that in this case the opposite was expected.

  

[Emma Macmillan]

"You stupid, stupid man," Emma hissed at him. She glared at him with some level of malice - she couldn't blame him for the quarantine, but she could blame him for disturbing her distress - and half-wanted to wrench herself away from him. Let her husband formulate his fruitless schemes on his own; Emma did not need to be a part of that.

But this was the least lonely she had felt in days. Trying to hold on to that was worthwhile, wasn't it? It was very rare that she felt like she needed her husband, but now - maybe she did. Maybe it was worth a shot.

Emma pressed a fierce kiss to Killian's mouth. She let go of his arm and grabbed onto the lapel of his shirt instead in an attempt to pull him closer to her - she was filled with a desperation for closeness, never mind that they were in a library and any of the staff could walk in. They would probably be relieved that they weren't walking in on a screaming match.

  

[Killian Macmillan]

Killian's expression darkened, his brow falling into the frown that was all too familiar to his face. Just because he had expected a tirade from her didn't mean he would take it idly. He might have the patience to grit through her newspaper sabotage but given the current situation he was more than ready to meet her at the battlefront. This was what they did best after all, second only to pretending they liked each other in public. 'Stupid'? She was starting out easy, then.

His grip on her arm slackened expecting her wrench away from him but instead of space and shrill words he found even the limited space between them eliminated. She pulled at his shirt front but it was unnecessary as his free arm had already found its way round her waist. The skyrocketing tension splintered from rage to passion almost seamlessly as he pulled her to him by both her upper arm and the small of her back. She was an unusually tall woman, something Killian usually had mixed emotions about, but in this exact instance it was an asset. They were nearly aligned and as he leaned in, matching her kiss with every bit of fervor he'd expected to fight her with, the difference was nearly gone.

  

[Emma Macmillan]

Emma made a sound low in her throat as he pulled her closer to him. This was not the right place; it was probably not the right time. But they had done things like this before, and besides that, the location was the last thing on her mind. She pressed kisses to her husband's jawline. This felt more like a meeting with a lover than marital relations with her husband, but that happened sometimes, and she didn't dwell on it.

She tugged on his shirt and took a small step back - she pulled him with her, or at least attempted to - so that her back was pressed up against the bookshelf. "The door," she murmured, cupping his face in her hands.

  

[Killian Macmillan]

Volatile was a good word for their home life. He'd decided that a long while ago. It was never more true than in moments like these when her words, designed to cut at him, were replaced with kisses and where they often sought to avoid each other were now fervently and scandalously pressed together.

Killian could feel the rigid and unforgiving corset beneath her clothes though he knew soft and pliant flesh was just beneath it. He stepped forward with out hesitation as she pulled at him, like measured steps of a dance, until his knuckles grazed book spines.

He thanked what ever entity there was to thank that he had his wand on him, as her murmured words registered slowly in his mind. He pulled it from his breast pocket and the doors were shut locked with a hasty flick and a silent incantation with out him moving an inch from her. If they weren't normally prone to outbursts and slammed doors it might be concerning how loudly it had shut.

There was no time for shutting doors quietly, finding a bedroom, or rediscovering the flesh beneath her corset. The time was most decidedly now and as he pressed her backwards still, urging her on to a shelf that was never intended for this purpose, he decided this was a far better use.

  

[Emma Macmillan]

The door slammed and Emma grinned. She made a small noise as he hoisted her up onto the shelf and used her new leverage to twin her legs around his waist. It was lucky, for the moment, that summer generally meant that Emma didn't wear all the skirts she could have, and that allowed for easier access her skirts to be pushed up and aside.

Skirts up, bloomers down. She entwined her legs around his waist.

Emma gripped the back of her husband's neck with one hand - not gentle but not rough, either, just desperate and strangely intimate - and fumbled with his pants with the other.

When they were done, she was careful hopping down from the shelf and grabbed one of his arms to steady herself. Emma let go of his arm and straightened out her skirts with a sweep of one hand - oh, they were still slightly wrinkled, and of course her hair was an absolute mess now.

"I'm going to clean up," Emma said quietly, "Unless you have any - need of me."

Oh, Greer was going to judge her for this, if she caught on.

  

[Killian Macmillan]

He ran his hand up her stockinged leg as she brought them up around his waist taking full advantage of opportunities he rarely had. Of course he knew what silk felt like but it was different when the silk was of the warm and clinging stocking variety. His lips went to her neck as they worked together to get her skirts out of the way, proving they could easily cooperate when they shared the same goal. His chuckle at this idea quickly transformed into a groan of approval as she tugged at his trouser fastenings, the hand at the back of his neck urging him to kiss her in earnest as his free hand helped her to that end.


When they had stilled he took a moment to gather and compose himself before stepping away from her and her perch, his chest rising and falling against hers in their intimate proximity. With a few steps back, her skirts fell back into place and he held out his arm to stable her as she stood. Even if he'd felt compelled to say something he'd have nothing to say. It was... primal, hasty, and entirely improper but it was a level of communication they never otherwise reached. And it was good.

His inhibitions low, he replied with a kiss on her check instead. Merlin, he was going soft. It was probably her plan all along - to weaken his will with her womanly wiles. But in that precise moment he didn't care too much. In fact, he wouldn't mind if more of their arguments went in this direction. Plus, he might get a son out of it.

  

[Emma Macmillan]

She was startled by the sudden affection - usually they just used things like that to spite one another - but, after her eyebrows raised, actually managed to smile at him gently. She trailed her fingertips along his forearm as she exited the library. She opened one of the doors with a swish of her wand and a whisprered incantation, and then she was off to her own room, to put herself back together.

If she was lucky, perhaps she would get with child again - perhaps she would even bear a son. She doubted it - it had been so long, and her recent stress levels certainly could not be conducive to bearing a child - but she could hope.

(If Charles' wife bore a son before her, Emma was going to scream.)

Even if it did not result in a pregnancy, she felt more like herself than she had since the epidemic had been announced, and that was worth something.