Author's Note: As this is a season seven re-write, I write this to ask you all a question as readers: what would you like to see in season seven? Which characters would you like to see more of, who would you like introduced, which storylines should be picked back and re-addressed? I have a direction in which I would like this story to go, but as this is a creative re-write for OUAT fans, your input is extremely essential! So if you leave a review, be sure to let me know what sort of things you would like to see (or not). What kind of scenes (e.g. any specific Swan/Hook scenes, new characters, etc.) or stuff of that sort.
I hope you all enjoy!
Disclaimer: I clearly do not own any part of this franchise, it belongs to the lovely writers.
Chapter One: A Vial Past
The Enchanted Forest
In the time of King Leopold's reign...
All was silent. The flicker from the line of torches cast eerie shadows on the stone walls that danced and played with one another like silent children. The metal bars gleamed in the firelight, catching the light with specks of grime and rust, and nothing moved. It was a picturesque dungeon, as everything else was in the castle, only far more silent and peaceful.
Then the hands grasped the bars tightly, white-rimmed knuckles caked with days old blood, brown and peeling. A face followed, a pale pointed chin hidden below thick brows and ringlets of dirty blonde hair that normally appeared golden, but was now dirty and matted. Teeth gleamed in the ochre light, but it wasn't a smile, no. A grinding of teeth and an expression of dark hatred twisted the lips upwards.
"Let me out, you bastards!" came the voice, raspy but with a laced tone of sweet syrup, as if she beckoned all who listened with a promise of honey, but delivered a draught of bitter medicine instead. "I swear I will find a way to get out if you don't release me, and when I do, you'll wish you had let me out in the first place."
The threat was met with a stony silence; even the echoes from her voice faded soon after she ceased to talk. She kicked the bars with a growl, then marched back to her cot, sheets twisted and balled together without thought or care. The girl dropped onto the poor excuse for a bed, then slid her hand underneath her pillow, taking care to glance about her for guards before she did so.
Assured of her discretion, the slender hand emerged in a fist, hand tightly grasping what she found to be so precious. Her hair fell forward across her shoulders as she leaned forward, and her wool cloak was brought forth around her as she bent over the object, eyes riveted on her prize.
Gleaming from the concave of her palms lay a glass bottle, corked tightly, but nearly overflowing with a dark green liquid. "You're all I need, my lovely," she whispered into her arms, a grin alighting her shadowed features. "Nothing else."
A bang at the bars jerked her head up, and she shoved the object into the folds of her dress, eyes already snapping with a cold, blue fire. "Ah, a visitor. I'd invite you in, but I'm afraid the accommodations are rather lacking," she spat sweetly, all the while managing to slip the vial underneath her mattress without attention.
The man at the bars wrapped his fingers around them, and gritted out a rather rehearsed reply. "Where is it, you thief?"
Standing up and swaying rather slowly over to the bars, she licked her lips and left them open in a perfect 'O'. "Thief? Whatever have I stolen from you?"
"Don't play games, I want it back." His eyes narrowed, and he passed a hand over his greying beard. "In exchange for your freedom."
She raised her eyebrows and leaned forward teasingly. "I don't have it, your majesty. And frankly, I'm rather appalled at the condition you offer your guests when invited. Don't you know there are royalty visiting, King Leopold?"
He reeled back when she came forward, but maintained his solid expression nonetheless. "You are not royalty."
The blonde girl smirked, and lifted her chin, brown eyes widening in mock hurt. "But, I could be."
"If you weren't a thief."
A crass chuckle erupted from her lips and she threw her head back wildly. "Ah, I have known many more nobles to be the stealing sort, not the commoners. Now," her face darkened and she leaned forward once more, inward heat still a bonfire. "I demand to be released. I did not steal whatever it is you are accusing me of taking."
King Leopold took another step backwards and nodded to the guards flanking his side. "Then you continue to lie to me. I hate to leave you here, but it seems you must become fond of your prison a little longer."
"No!" she shouted, shaking the bars vigorously. "Let me out!"
The king turned away from the girl and began walking down the passageway, boots falling heavily upon the dirt floor. "I cannot do that, dear girl."
The blonde haired woman sucked in her cheeks than spat onto the floor after him. "I have a name," she seethed.
"A lady who steals is all the same, Goldilocks," he stated flatly, the last words merely an echo carried from the walls to her prison.
She stepped back from the bars and looked towards the hidden bottle underneath her hay filled mattress. "Oh, I think you'll find we're never the same," Goldilocks murmured.
And all was silent once more.
Storybrooke
Five months after the last battle...
She wasn't sure what woke her, but when her eyes slid open, the first thing she noticed was her hand. "No."
"Bloody hell." Fingers clutched hers automatically, rough and large. "I thought those were supposed to be over."
She stared down at the offending hand, shaking uncontrollably as she struggled to fight a sense of rising panic. "Me, too."
A light turned on, ridding the room of a scene filled with dark moonlight and shadowed whispers. Now her hand trembled noticeably, the soft light from a lamp coloring it yellow and sickly looking.
Emma clutched her wrist tight as if to stop the movements. Tighter.
"Love." Killian took her hand again, gently, but still holding it between the surface of his palm and the bed-cover. The whir of an ancient air conditioner hummed and crackled in the corner, the only sound amidst the rustling of sheets and his murmured concerns. "Don't panic."
"I'm not panicking," she refuted sharply, holding her breath as she anxiously awaited the arrival of a blurry vision to come along with the shaking. But none came.
Killian reluctantly removed his fingers, but only to pick up the alarm clock and blink at it blearily. "Bloody hell, it's only two o'clock." He returned his grasp, tentatively massaging her wrist as if afraid to increase the tremors by even holding it. "I hate to ask—"
"There aren't any visions," she confirmed, brow wrinkling in confusion.
He noticed her hesitation. "That's good, isn't it?"
Emma clenched her fingers into a fist. "Yes," she whispered, sleepy eyes still worried and shocked.
"But? What is it, love?"
She slowly peeled her gaze from the tremoring hand. "What's going on?"
"Aye, that's the question." His tone was meant to be light—hearted, but the words were laced with a heavy dose of concern. She inhaled sharply and was about to reply, when a dark wave assuaged her gaze.
"No." They both sat up straighter as Emma jerked up, eyes flashing fire and hand rocketing from his grip.
"Emma?"
Her eyes swung shut, and she fought for control as dark figures shuffled into her vision; the vague outline of craggly mountains taking shape behind them. The wind howled as rain began to pour, and the sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath filled her ears with a painful shriek. One of the figures, auburn hair tumbling over his forehead in tight curls, swung the weapon at her chest and she jerked backwards just in time. The other, hair inky black and smile blindingly white, took a jab at the man by her side. She couldn't tell who the man was, only that he couldn't dodge what she had; he collapsed to the muddy earth, hand clenched over the wound in his chest. Crimson blood trickled down his pale fingers.
As she stared, her own hands shook so forcefully that she dropped the bow she didn't know she had been holding and felt her bones shake. Emma heard a crack, then felt her limbs crumble into dust, joining the earth below in colors of grey and brown.
But her hands had stopped trembling.
"Emma!"
Green eyes flew open, and she automatically swung her legs over the side of the bed, stalking to the bathroom door. The floor swayed underneath her like she was on the Jolly Roger, but she managed the trek anyway. Killian bolted after her, muttering curses and 'bloody hells' under his breath as he flipped the bed-covers aside and stumbled down the hallway.
Emma switched on the light, knees suddenly weak as she slumped onto the rim of the tub, blonde waves swinging down across her shoulders. Her hands had stopped trembling—just like the vision—but the rest of her shook, and she inwardly scolded herself for doing so.
Killian appeared in the doorway, brown hair tousled and unkempt and eyes wild with an emotion she couldn't quite place. Concern? Fear? No, it was something more than that.
"Emma," he faltered, then regained his role as comforter and knelt before her on the icy tiles. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." Her voice echoed and bounced off the walls in her head, but they sounded firm enough, so she gave it no further thought.
Killian stole a glance at her hands to ensure their stillness, then returned his attention to her face. "Are you sure? Did you—" a muscle in his jaw clenched. "Have a vision?"
Emma brought herself from the shaky fortress of her mind enough to nod her head, then retreat behind the crumbling walls. Unperturbed by her retreat, Killian grasped her hands tightly, sure he could draw forth her admittance. "Do you want to talk about it, love?"
"No." Her voice was too small, she decided. Emma lifted her head: no more running and retreating, that was the deal. "Not...yet."
"Alright, then." He drew her to him, and kissed the top of her head. "It could be nothing," he added into her hair.
She swallowed. "Of course."
Killian drew back, hand still firmly encircled about her arm, and an accusatory glint in his eyes. "You don't believe that."
"I do."
They exchanged looks; a mutual agreement that the first didn't agree and the other was reluctant to admit so—but no words were spoken. The sink brought forth the occasional plink of a water drop, but it was a few more anxious, silent moments before Killian cleared his throat and rose from the cramped, stooped position he had been in. His face was rigid and full of uncertainty, but he forced a thin smile and ventured, "Aye, well, back to bed, then?"
"Yeah, just a minute," she answered tightly, a brief moment of eye contact to be enough for him to leave. Her glassy eyes met his, but truly they were still tracing the scene that held gleaming swords, leering auburns, and blood that oozed from a fatal wound between pale fingers.
Killian saw this, but he left slowly all the same; she watched him, observing the ripples in his jaw and the tightness of his shoulders. He meant well, of course he did. And clearly he wanted to do anything but leave her there with her thoughts—
But how was she to go back with him, to sleep after that? It wasn't just the vision—those had come before in the night—no, it was that they had come again. There should not have been more hand tremors or inward visions of death and destruction; not after the final battle.
Yet, here they were, not five months after their wedding, trouble had found them. But Killian could be right: it may be nothing. A bad dream instead of a vision, stressful hand tremors instead of a savior's curse.
But then again...
Emma stood up from the tub, no longer one weary from awakened sleep, but one tired of relentless battles, both emotional or otherwise. Back to bed, then, she decided, when the clock above the toilet caught her attention and ticked an audible two-thirty. Stumbling across the floor and down a darkened hallway, she moved numbly, and upon reaching her bedroom she was immediately thrust underneath the olive-green sheets protectively by Killian. A soft click from the lamp enveloped her in a blue-black darkness that swam deftly between the milky streams of moonlight, and an arm wrapped about her like nothing had taken place in the last half-hour.
But then again, Emma mused, everything foggy and sleepy, but still clear enough that she couldn't fall asleep. We never could catch a break.
Eventually slipping her hand from the warm cocoon of body heat and heavy blankets, she raised her hand upwards; as if to touch the white rays that shone through her window. In the moonlight, her hand was pale and worn, but unmoving and still.
So were her visions fortunately, for no more were to come. But neither did sleep.
It was chamomile, again.
Emma's hands automatically wrapped themselves around the hot porcelain, then bounded back to her lap when they realized it was too hot to touch. There they remained, twisted into a fist, but immobile.
"There's honey in there."
"Thanks mom." She sent her a thin smile, warm, but too tired to be anything more.
Mary Margaret slid into the other wooden chair, her own mug of tea clasped between two sweater enveloped hands. "You sure you're getting enough sleep? You look tired," she stated, running a sharp, mother's gaze down the length of her daughter's weary face, taking note of dark circles and lines.
"I'm fine, mom. Just a little tired today, but it's nothing coffee won't fix," Emma reassured, resisting the urge in her fingers to run a hand down the the length of her forehead. It was bad enough to have Killian worried, she didn't want the rest of her family to suffer the same fate. Not until she knew it could be anything more than stress. And it really couldn't be.
She couldn't tell if her mom bought it or not, but in typical Snow White fashion, she smiled candidly and took a sip of her tea. The steam rose to cover her nose and mouth, and Emma wondered if maybe she drank just to hide a disapproving expression.
"So," her mother began when the mug had reached the table's coaster again. "I was thinking."
She raised an eyebrow, while her lips quirked up suspiciously. "M-hmm."
Mary Margaret's nose crinkled at the expression, but she leaned forward and beamed excitedly. "You know how Henry is finally learning to drive?"
"Ugh, don't remind me." Emma clamped onto the mug again, taking a sip gingerly. "Kid's too eager for having just turned fifteen. Which makes me wonder," the other brow lifted. "Why are you excited for that?"
Her mother shook her head, and slumped back in her seat. "Oh, I'm really not. But, David seems all too keen on it, surprisingly, considering the incident of a year and a half ago."
"Right, almost forgot about that."
"I haven't. I was there, fortunately, might I add." She smiled, and glanced out the window briefly. From here you could make out the edge of the bright red barn in the left corner, and the white fence that accompanied the long driveway up to the house, but not much else. "Anyway, since David is completely on board for teaching Henry to drive, I thought you and I could spend a little more time together when they're off doing their thing for a couple of hours. Of course, we wouldn't have to go anywhere because of Neal, or I could get Belle to watch him."
Emma's brow wrinkled, and another sip of tea made its way down her throat. "Of course I love to spend time with you, mom, but you act like I never see you."
She grimaced. "Well..."
"Mom, I see you every weekend for dinner, and at least twice a week when we bump into one another at 'Granny's'. Not to mention the lovely morning visits or the random afternoon ones." She leaned forward, her head cocking slightly to the right. "What's really going on? I wish you'd just be honest."
"Oh, Emma," Mary Margaret sighed, reaching forward to clasp her hand and give it a fond squeeze. "Doesn't something just seem...off?" At her daughter's worried flash in her eyes, she shook her head and pressed her lips together. "No, not today, or with us—it's everything. It's been five months since your savior battle, and nothing has happened. It's too—quiet."
Emma laughed lightly, and sent her an amused smile. "Mom, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. I would think you of all people would appreciate that."
"Oh, I do. It's wonderful." A loving glance was sent towards the stroller in the corner, holding a sleeping Neal who flickered an eyelash and settled further into the cushion that supported his chubby cheeks. "Everything's perfect. But, it makes me wonder—"
"What could go wrong," Emma finished, a reticent sigh escaping her lips. "I can't say I haven't thought the same thing, but why not? After all we've been through." A pang of guilt shot into her heart like a piercing arrow, and she took a hasty swallow of chamomile to hide it. No use in fanning the flames; she didn't need to know about the vision. Or dream.
Mary Margaret beamed, round cheeks flushed with a pleased glow. "I'm so proud of you, Emma. You've completely turned your life around. Look at you, assuring me that we deserve peace and can have it too." A warm hand found its way onto her face, and Emma leaned into it. "You've changed your destiny when it was so surely written; you had hope and didn't falter—you had love and you didn't push it away."
The fingers left her cheek and resettled on the rustic wooden table that held a jumble of student's essays, a dish of strawberries, and a few red pens and markers. "You know, it's the people like you and Killian and Regina that really inspire me, Emma." Her mother looked as if she were about to tear up with emotion, and frankly, she felt about to follow, though it was more guilt based than anything. "You've changed, but you had to make that decision and work on it. All of you did. And now everyone's got their happy endings, even you. You did what you came for, and not only did you succeed, but you gained so many beautiful things along with it."
Emma swallowed thickly. "Thank you, mom." Her response seemed too crude and short to match up to her mother's eloquent pride, but she couldn't think of any other way to express her thoughts. And then a thought crossed her brain, and though her first instinct was to throw up a wall to hide it, her lips let it pass. "I can't help but think," she glanced up, and sent her a flat smile. "Is it enough, you know?"
Her mother cocked her head, a strand of straight black hair sliding into her eyes. "What do you mean, Emma?"
"Not that I'm not happy. Of course I am, how could I not be? It just feels as if I've completed every obligation and there's nothing left for me to do here. As if I'm a person stuck down in the Underworld again, but I've finished all my business and have nothing left to do."
"Except live," Mary Margaret completed firmly. "You live, Emma, and you make the best of it. You've had a rough life, and the last four years you've had to rush from one bad event to the next; trying to fix it all. I could understand how you would feel like you're missing something, but all you have to do is figure out what you need to search for instead." The last part was whispered, almost hopefully and wistfully.
She nodded, and downed the last of her tea. The dregs at the bottom were bitter, but the aftertaste sung of honey, and she set down the mug thoughtfully. "You're right, mom. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now," her mother smirked, if Snow White could truly smirk without it holding some trace of friendliness. She supposed it was the Mary Margaret part of her. "I still think you and I are overdue for a ladies' night out. We could invite Regina, again."
"Sure, mom." Emma fiddled with the ring on her finger thoughtfully. "You better include Zelena and Belle on that list, too, though."
She laughed. "You're probably right. All right, it's settled then. I'll let you know once I've organized all the details."
"Sounds great, mom."