Chapter One – The Dream & The Boy

The forest was unrelenting. The evenly-spaced trees that grew in rows by the side of the road - planted in an effort to increase visibility and reduce deforestation decades ago - had long-since faded away to a tangle of vine-laden overgrowth so thick the very sky was obscured. The lone road that cut through its heart was full of brambles and knarled trees, their boughs reaching downwards. Stories told that they were meant to grab hold of wayward travelers, to hold them fast until the forest's mistress could come and collect the road's toll.

This area was known for the old tales of the forest mistress and her wicked tress. Their lies and truth growing into fable as the years dwindled into memory. The lore set travelers against this path, made them nervous as there was always tell of people vanishing, of lights in the dark. Enough to put people off of the place for good.

The stories said that even the woodland creatures that called the forest home feared its heart. Food was plentiful, but there was a sense of danger there, always, lurking just below the surface.

No birds chirped in the wood. The road was silent as a single, solitary figure lead a nervous horse gingerly down the overgrown path. The only sound that could be heard was the swish of blade hitting branch and twisted greenery. Sword in hand, the traveler hacked away at the vines and bushes that had grown into the path. It was slow going, the effort clearly taxing on the traveler. This was not the purpose of the sword, its owner, nor of the horse. They were bred for war and for fighting. A simple trek through the dense forest was far more taxing than had been initially anticipated.

The horse whinnied low, snorting as it struck its hoofs angrily at the ground. The forest was too quiet, and the placating hand of the traveler on its neck did little to calm him.

Lowering the hood that obscured much of the traveler's face brought into vision the visage of a young woman. Sweat lined her brow, her hay-colored hair held in place by a series of intricate twists that formed a plait down her back secured with several leather ties. Her eyes were alert, but the bags under them gave away her weariness. This journey was to be a long one, and already this place was taking its toll.

"Shhhh," she whispered to her horse. The beast's panicked breathing was setting her senses into overdrive, despite the oppressive silence of this place. The air felt thick and heavy, mist of the rain from above barely making it down into the damp underbelly of the forest floor. She inhaled, nostrils flaring wide as her horse's, something was different here. A scent. The trail moving ever onward, she gripped her sword tightly and leveled her gaze at the horse. "You keep that up; we'll never find her," her tone was stern, and the horse's ears flicked backwards in irritation before it resumed pawing moodily at the ground.

This place made her nervous. Stories said the forest mistress was a harsh woman, not overly fond of trespassers in her sanctuary. The traveler worried at her lip, blinking in the dim light.

Each of her steps was labored under the despite the minimal weight of her lightly padded leather armor and the effort to clear a path for them both. The magic of this place was oppressive; she felt powerless as her footfalls seemed to echo in the silent wood. Her horse followed dutifully, it was a good stead - belonging to her father. It was on loan; as this was a journey that could only be completed by one person, on one strong steed.

Memories swam to the surface in a wood like this. The traveler slid her sword into the scabbard buckled across her back and pulled her hood back up over her head. The rain was beginning to trickle down to their level again; they had gotten through the worst of it. There was no sense leading a spooked horse when it was faster to run through this place. She swung herself up into the saddle and shifted her knees back to pull the stirrups down and slam her feet home into the metal there. Urgency gripped her as the very forest seemed to close in around her.

The traveller's black cloak streamed out behind her as she urged the horse below her into a canter and then a full gallop. The road was clearer here and the way was safe once more. She rode hard, as if the very demon she was tracking snapped at her heels.

Her mission was the same as it had always been. She had to find her queen, to serve her dutifully and honor the favor she'd been given long ago. A simple brush of fingers against her forehead and screams were her only memories of that time. She could feel the presence of her queen, dancing, unbidden, at the barest corners of her consciousness.

Find them. The voice in her mind begged her. Go to your queen.

On the morning of her twenty-eighth birthday, Emma Swan woke up in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, hand reaching for a sword that was not there. She recoiled backwards against the headboard as her body jerked fully into wakefulness. Her breath came heavy to her lips as she tried to force her mind to wake up, to push past whatever it was that plagued her dreams.

A rueful smile grew across her face after a moment. The sword. She still always went for the sword, in some sick and twisted homage to Xena. Emma blinked the remainder of the sleep from her eyes and peered owlishly around the room.

Her apartment was quiet, sunlight peeking around the half-closed curtains. She let her head fall backwards onto the wall behind her bed. That dream, again. It had been weeks since she'd had one, and now it was starting to look as though the peace that she'd thought she'd found in this tiny, Boston apartment was starting to crumble. The dream came before the need to move, always.

Emma ran a hand through her hair and winced as her hand hit a snarl. It was a shame, she'd rather liked Boston: the town was full of culture that Tallahassee and Phoenix had not had - but not the level of depressed despair that cities like Detroit and Cleveland had possessed. There were good people here, Irish and Italian. The whole city was Catholic to the bone and Emma found solace in their faith. The churches were beautiful and provided a sanctuary that remained unchanged from her earliest memories. They were the one place where the dreams that plagued her seemed to be in line with the reality of her life.

"Shit," she muttered, gathering her knees to her chest and trying to shake the dream from her mind. She was searching, always searching, for whatever it was that the dreams forced upon her. The memories of the sword and the horse, of a task that clearly had no place in this day and age.

More than once, Emma had considered purchasing a laptop and sitting down actually writing out the stories from her dreams. She'd make a small fortune, she figured, but she'd never had much skill with the written word. It was easier to just push the dreams from her memory than to try to figure out what they meant.

It was nearly noon; her alarm clock was flashing the time but was silent. She must have hit the snooze button one too many times and the device had simply given up on her all together. She shook her head and flicked the alarm switch back to its off position. There was no reason for her to be up early. She'd done the majority of the work she'd needed to for this particular job the previous evening. The plan for tonight was the final part – the collection and the bringing in of the scumbag who'd stepped out on his wife's hard-earned bail money.

She sighed and shoved the covers off of herself – she had things to do today before she went out on the date she'd arranged with man who'd skipped town. She'd been tracking him since he'd left Concord, headed for Boston where he'd thought he could just disappear for a while. Shame he liked women so much, because if he had just kept eyes to himself, she might not have found him for a few more days.

Emma pulled off the ratty t-shirt that she'd been sleeping in and headed for the shower. Today was going to be a long enough day without the dreams distracting her. She didn't have time for whatever it was that they were clearly trying to tell her. The scent had shifted anyway, she'd be moving on soon enough.

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For as long as Emma Swan could remember, her dreams had always told parts of what seemed to be the same story. They'd started when she was a child, and had continued on her entire life. There was a blissful two year period in Tallahassee where she'd been remarkably free of them. She'd moved there after Phoenix, and, for a while, everything had seemed good again. She'd had a steady address for nearly two years; a job, even friends (to an extent). That peace all shattered when they'd returned, stronger than ever.

Find the queen, find the sword, protect the favor freely given to no one save herself.

It sounded like something straight out of the Disney movies she'd watched as a kid and Emma wanted nothing to do with it. She wanted a life that didn't involve moving constantly, or the constant feeling of searching for something that she could never quite find. She knew that her dreams were probably caused by a rough childhood and the nagging feelings of abandonment that she'd dealt with her entire life. It was a problem that many orphans faced, made even stronger by the lack of consistent parenting during their childhood.

Emma was personally quite proud of herself for not needing to pay a shrink two hundred bucks an hour to tell her that. She'd figured out the dreams at eighteen, when she'd been in the worst situation of her life. The queen was her mother, the sword an analogy for her father's love, and whatever the 'favor' she supposedly sought was their honor and affection.

Her job had gone well today. She'd managed to get the creep back to Concord and stop by a bakery on her return trip home. It was her birthday, after all; she had to have something of a cake. Her three months in Boston had done little to alleviate the whole no-friends situation, and her fellow bonds-people were all men and sort of sketchy men at that. Celebrating with them would only lead to potentially bad things – like her drunkenly sleeping with one of them and they were really, really, not Emma's type.

Her feet were killing her and taking off her shoes was something akin to nirvana as she set her single, solitary cupcake on her kitchen counter and found the half-gone box of candles that had traveled with her through the past two or three years. She couldn't remember where she'd gotten them, but a single candle on a single cupcake was her birthday and she was damn sure going to enjoy it.

Make a wish, Emma. The voice she could barely remember echoed in her mind and Emma lit the candle. She closed her eyes and tried to think of what she wanted. Her life was good; she'd just gotten paid – and the pay for it was as handsome as this guy was very obviously guilty of his crimes. The Concord Police Department had been quite happy to see her bringing the guy in, and had cut her a check on the spot. She had money, an apartment, steady work. This place - this place could actually settle her.

But the compulsion she had to leave, to go out searching for that thing that she could never find, that never went away. Searching, searching, always desperate to keep moving when the answers were not readily provided.

I wish I could find what I'm looking for.

She blew out the candle gently; she'd worked in enough bakeries and restaurants in her time to know that if she blew too hard, she'd get candlewax everywhere. She opened her eyes slowly and reached forward to pull the candle out of the frosting that topped her poor cupcake. Her fingers closed around the candle to pull it out when there was a knock at the door that damn near scared her out of her skin. Her hand slipped and she ended up dunking her finger into the thick frosting.

Good lord, if a fucking Jehova's Witness or something was outside she was going to scream. Emma jammed her finger into her mouth to get the frosting off and padded over to her door. She peered out of the peephole but couldn't see anyone there. She hadn't ordered anything, and no one delivered at nine thirty at night anyway.

She pulled the door open, peering up and down the hallway, only to find a young-looking child staring expectantly up at her. "Are you Emma Swan?" he asked, his tone was inquisitive but guarded. Smart kid, though it probably wasn't smart for him to be alone at night knocking on a stranger's door.

"Yeah," she said quietly, starting at him. He looked oddly familiar, like she'd seen him before. She didn't know where, she couldn't place him. Usually that meant that she saw a resemblance to someone from one of her dreams, which was usually a sign that it was time to move on. She couldn't do this again, not now, not ever. It was too scary and unwelcome.

His face brightened and he pushed passed her and stepped into the apartment. Kicking off his shoes and setting them next to Emma's instrument-of-medieval-torture heels, he spun on her wood floor. Grinning, he announced, "My name's Henry, I'm your son."

The color drained from Emma's face and she let her hand slide down the door slowly until it came to rest in a white-knuckled grip on the door handle.

She didn't have a son. She'd made sure of that ten years ago when she had signed the adoption papers. She hadn't been ready then and she wasn't even sure that she was ready now.

Emma pushed the door closed and exhaled slowly. "Give me a minute," she said. The bottom of her stomach felt like it was about to push its way through her throat and out of her mouth. Bile was already threatening the inevitable fear-induced dry-heaving that she'd though she'd gotten over years ago. No, no, she couldn't do this. There was a kid who'd obviously run away from his home life to find her. Panic attacks over exposure of a secret kept long buried were helping no one.

Running a hand through her hair, Emma bit her lip and stared into her living room. Shit, she thought. He probably has a worried mother at home waiting for him.

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Henry Mills came from the town of Storybrooke, Maine. Consulting Google Maps had given Emma an estimate of four hours if they drove the distance that he'd taken by bus earlier that morning. He'd refused to give her his phone number and confiscating his backpack had revealed no contact information, only the remains of a very healthy and lovingly prepared lunch. There were some school papers but no one would be at a school that late at night, so Emma was forced to resort to threats and bribery with ice cream to get the kid's number out of him.

She had to call his mother and let her know that she'd found her son. It was the only thing to do, especially with Henry babbling on about how his mother was an evil witch – or queen? Emma honestly was having trouble keeping his fantastic rambling straight. "Look," she said, rummaging in her freezer and pulling down a container of Chunky Monkey. "I will let you eat the rest of this if you give me your phone number, Henry."

He appeared conflicted for a moment, before reaching for the ice cream and reciting a phone number so quickly that Emma's fingers were flying across her phone at a rate that would make most crazy teenagers jealous. Raising the phone to her ear she listened to the ringing once, twice, finally, on the third ring, someone picked up.

"Hello?" the voice was unaccented, but Emma could detect a hint of fear in it. She wondered who this mother was that Henry didn't like so much. She couldn't have been that bad, as the fear and anxiety contained in that one word alone spoke volumes about the mental state of the woman on the other line.

"Um… hi?" Suddenly, she felt tongue-tied, like she didn't know what she was supposed to say in such a situation. She handed Henry a spoon and stepped into her bedroom and closed the door. "My name's Emma Swan, I'm a bondsman out of Boston. I think I've found your son."

"Henry?" Her breath caught in her throat and Emma could hear it hitch ever so slightly. "Oh my god, you've found him?" There was an almost hysterical pitch to the woman's voice now. "Where is he?"

"Boston," Emma explained quietly, for some reason she did not want Henry to hear her telling his mother that he'd run away in so many words. "Said he took a bus. Look, I need your address and directions so that I can bring him back."

The woman's breath stilled on the other end of the line and it adopted a steely undertone. "Who are you, exactly?"

"Ma'am, it's my job to find people and bring them back to where they're supposed to be," Emma explained. She understood the apprehension of trusting a total stranger with a child. She ran a tired hand through her hair. "I'm going to give you a number that you can hang up and call, I do a lot of work for the Concord Police Department, and they will vouch for my creditability. All I want to do is get him safely back to you and figure out what he was doing in Boston in the first place." Emma dug in her pocket and pulled out the business card of the detective she'd been working with on and off for the past few months. She rattled off that number and then her own, as well as her address.

"So help me, if you have taken my son, I will have every branch of law enforcement surrounding your home," Mrs. Mills said before hanging up the phone. Emma bent down and grabbed a duffle out from under her bed. She'd rented the place furnished, and it was very impersonal even now. She threw an armful of clothes from the hamper into it and headed for the bathroom.

"Are you going somewhere?" Henry asked, licking the chocolate ice cream off of his spoon. His feet were swinging from his chair, collar perfectly in place. He looked clean and well-fed, certainly not under any threat from an evil queen. Generally, if Emma remembered the stories right, they liked to eat small children or starve them.

Emma shook her head. "No," she explained. "You, however, are going home and you live four hours from here so I'll need to spend the night before I drive back as it's already -" Emma glanced at the clock on her microwave. "Nearly ten." She gestured towards the door, "Put your shoes back on."

Henry looked incredibly put-out, his chin jutting outwards and pouting in an expression that clearly looked far more like one that Emma knew graced her face far more often than it should. The expression, a put-out pout, set Emma ill at ease – she still was not ready to accept that this child may actually be her own. She shook herself violently and tried to rid her mind of the idea of her face on that child. It was too scary, too completely and utterly terrifying. She didn't want this. Not now, not ever.

The kid put his used spoon in the sink and put the cap back on the ice cream. He handed it to Emma, who shoved it back into the freezer as he disappeared down the hallway towards where he'd removed his shoes.

Her phone rang, buzzing violently in her ear and she raised it to her ear in a heartbeat. "Swan," she said.

"Ms. Swan, it seems that you have an impeccable record for someone in your line of work and come very highly recommended," Mrs. Mills' voice seemed to be even colder than it had been before. Emma bit her lip, trying not to retort. She just wanted to get this kid back home. "I would suggest you start driving, as Henry has school tomorrow. I will be waiting up."

Emma swallowed, fear cutting deeply into her stomach. She didn't know why the woman didn't want her to turn Henry over to the police; she wasn't a cop and therefore could not technically be trusted under the blanket-umbrella of public servant. It seemed illogical that the kid's mom wouldn't be speeding her way towards Boston at that very minute. Emma supposed that her contacts up in Concord must have given her a pretty stellar reference if this woman wasn't even remotely perturbed by the idea of her driving Henry back to Maine. Not wanting to anger Mrs. Mills further, she chose the neutral path, "Of course. Will Henry know the way?"

The woman's voice had again taken on a hysterical sound. "He's a child who ran away to Boston, of all god-forsaken places. If he has any idea what's good for him he'll know his address. You have my number if he doesn't." With that, the line went dead.

Emma pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a moment before turning her attention back to Henry. "Your mom's pretty intense, kid."

"She's not my mom," Henry insisted, jaw again stubbornly jutting out again. His insistence on this fact made Emma wonder if his home life left something to be desired or if he just was the sort of little shit of a kid that made parents crazy. His rattling on about fairy tales seemed to indicate the latter, so Emma tried not to judge his mother too harshly. She seemed intense, if guarded.

Perfectly reasonable for a mother whose son had run away nearly two hundred miles to a major metropolitan area. Yes, Emma nodded as she grabbed her wallet and keys out of the basket where she usually kept them. Perfectly reasonable indeed.

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"Snow White and Prince James, well, Prince Charming, if you read the stories," Henry was explaining as Emma pulled off I-295 in Brunswick and headed towards Route One. "They had a child, and on the day she was born the Evil Queen cast a powerful curse over everyone. Snow White and Prince Charming saved their child by putting her in a magic wardrobe-"

"And sending her to Narnia?" Emma wanted to know. She had no idea how far up the coast Storybrooke was, but Route One was at least well-known enough to her that she was able to navigate it pretty easily. The town itself was up past South Bristol, about sixty miles from there. She bit her lip, as it was growing on one o'clock in the morning already. She did not want to be late to meet Henry's mother.

She wasn't buying the kid's story in the slightest, but at least he seemed reasonably good-natured about her casual disbelief.

"No! Narnia is a different world from this one and the one that Snow White and the others are from," Henry's tone was impatient, and Emma couldn't help but turn to look at him. His arms were folded and he was scowling.

He looked just like her.

"Okay, so this fairy tale land is separate from all other fairytale lands, but they're all there?" Emma felt like it was a reasonable question.

Henry made an affirmative noise. "Snow White gave you away so that you could save everyone in this world," he explained. "The Evil Queen's curse cannot survive the sword Prince Charming threw into her heart iand/i the one person who is foretold to break the curse all at once!"

Sword. Emma perked up at the mention of a sword, probably because of the dream. Swords were a constant symbol in her life, and she was sure that if she'd been born in a time when they were commonly in use that she would have been quite proficient with them. If she'd had a better childhood, maybe she would have begged a foster parent to let her take up kendo or fencing.

Henry's voice filled the car as Emma drove. The miles fell away behind them as they drove through wind and rain, north into the coastal forests of Maine. The road had become more and more narrow as they got off Route One and headed down a smaller side road that was unmarked. Henry had pointed out the turn off where the bus stop was, and soon Emma's old Volkswagen was rumbling its way past a sign reading 'Welcome to Storybrooke.'

The town itself was quiet and sleepy-seeming. Even during the day, Emma reasoned, it wouldn't be that busy. They drove by a school and a grocery store, and then a series of smaller shops and restaurants, finally drawing level with a lone streetlight flashing between orange and red.

Once, when Emma was sixteen and just learning how to drive, she'd rolled through a blinking yellow light and had ended up with a seventy dollar ticket and a reputation for running lights. Not wanting to take that chance, she slowed to a crawl, downshifting back to first gear. "Which way," she asked Henry.

For a moment, it looked like Henry wasn't going to tell her. He was biting at his lower lip and scowling angrily. The car sat idle at the intersection for a long moment before Henry jutted his chin off in the direction of a more residential looking street. Emma smiled, and continued on.

The house that they ended up parked in front of was a large colonial looking piece of work. It was easily the biggest on the block and certainly the most dominating of the street. "Is your mom the mayor or something?" Emma asked Henry as he reluctantly gathered his things.

Henry looked fearful for a moment, but then nodded once jerkily.

Great.

Emma shook her head and ran her hand tiredly through her hair. It was too late for this shit and she was not in the mood to make a first impression either. Playing nice when she was dog-tired was going to be hard enough as it is, but add to that the fact that she was apparently the kid's birth mother and that he obviously didn't get along that great with his actual mom... Well, she'd be lucky not to be run out of town.

"Henry?" A woman's voice called from the doorway. Emma straightened from the driver's side of the car, turning her key in the lock quickly and squinting at the disheveled-looking woman who had come sprinting down the front walkway to scoop the kid up in her arms. "Henry!" Her hands were on his cheeks on his neck, in his hair, smoothing down his bangs and pulling him in tight to a hug he stubbornly refused to return.

Emma bit her lip and scowled: ungrateful kid didn't know how good he had it.

"Thank you for bringing him back," Mrs. Mills said, straightening and handing Henry off to a uniformed man with a gun and a badge strapped to his belt. He must have been the town sheriff - smart of her to have him here when Emma was due to arrive. One could really never be too careful. She stepped forward and held out her hand. "Regina Mills."

She had no ring on her finger, and that gave Emma pause. Most of the adoption agencies that she had spoken with said that they preferred to adopt children out to full families with two parents rather than individuals. No ring meant that she was wrong in calling the woman missus mentally as well. She winced at that. It was stupid to assume such things.

"Emma Swan," Emma responded in kind, her hand reached out to grasp the woman's. There was something there, in the brief moment that their hands touched; a feeling of recognition that shook Emma to her core. Unlike with Henry, where it was a resemblance that had clued Emma in to the fact that there was a connection, this was a purely visceral reaction. It settled in at the pit of her stomach almost instantly and set Emma ill at ease. "Henry says that I'm his birth mother."

"What?" Regina Mills scowled and withdrew her hand. Wrapping her arms around herself, she glared in Emma's direction and added, "The adoption was closed."

"I know," Emma replied, "I wanted it that way. I have no idea how he found me or if I really am his biological mother. Regardless, how the hell did he get all the way to Boston without you noticing, Ms. Mills?"

"I believe I can answer that," The sheriff had returned. His hand was resting on his gun, and the strap holding it into place was undone. Emma didn't want any trouble so she inclined her head towards him. "Henry bought the ticket from a school computer yesterday and left this morning as he always does for school. He simply did not get on the bus and by the time the school called to notify Ms. Mills that her son had not arrived he was already halfway to Portland."

Regina Mills gave a long-suffering sigh. "Enough. Graham, I'll see you tomorrow. Ms. Swan, would you like to come in for a few moments? I just pressed one of my first cider batches of the season – it's the best in the county."

Emma raised her eyebrows at that claim, but inclined her head judiciously. She had to play it safe with this woman, at least for now. She seemed perfectly harmless, but that feeling that had settled at the base of Emma's stomach was still there. "Got anything stronger? It's been a crazy night."

"So it has, dear." Ms. Mills agreed, turning and leading Emma into her house. "So it has."

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Did you know, did you know?

When Snow White and Prince James' baby was born, the Evil Queen enacted a curse so terrible it required the most ultimate of sacrifices. As the baby was brought into this world, the queen nursed a wound left to fester for nearly a year. She embraced the pain of the princes' sword that had cut through her heart on his wedding day. She'd taken the weapon inside herself, a constant reminder of who she had once been and who her true enemies were.

On the day of the birth of Snow White's child, the queen stole ahead of the curse that she'd created to look upon the child. There was little time, and the effort to magically move herself and the curse were taking its toll. The child slept, freshly washed, as her mother and father recovered from the ordeal of birthing a child under such stress.

The corner of queen's lip curled upwards, and she reached down, intent to end the child's life before it could truly begin. It would make her curse all the sweeter, she reasoned. Magic could do many things, but it could not bring back the dead. It would be perfect, to see Snow White so lost and so alone, without the child she had tried so desperately to save.

Something gave the queen pause then: the sensation of the sword in her heart pulling forth once more. The sword had stood in place for nearly a year, keeping steady the dull ache of revenge. It was a weapon far more formidable than the curse that sped towards this castle even now; infused with a magic so ancient that even the great witches and wizards of the day scarce understood it.

The pull in her chest and her moment of hesitation opened the Evil Queen's eyes to another possibility. The child was special, and in a fit of benevolence not characteristic of her wicked ways, the queen pressed her thumb to the child's forehead. "You will always have my favor," she whispered, her breathing even more labored than before.

For a queen to bestow favor to one so young is a grave risk indeed. Should the child die before they come to majority, the favor would be lost, and with it any chance of a soul's redemption. To bestow favor means to command loyalty, but it does not mean subservience. The queen thought that in taking such a thing and giving it to this child, she would force the child – should it survive – to forever be her servant.

Instead the Evil Queen lay the very ground work of her own undoing. For, you see, only one with favor can draw the sword from the queen's heart to defend her against those who would wish to oppose her.

Have you heard? Have you heard?


Okay, if any of you guys are familiar with my other vaguely-au-mostly-canon stories, you'll know that I tend to play fast and really loose with canon. This means that even stuff that did happen in the show is up to some mild interpretation. I want to say a huge thank you to Lucas, who went through and helped me with all my run-on sentences and semi-colon abuses. Also he told me that writing a story with shades of Utena mixed with some of my own rather convoluted headcanon regarding this how was a good plan, so thanks, man.

Next: Mary Margaret and The Castle