He had told her once that darkness is a funny thing. That it creeps up in you. And she had held him close, looked into his eyes, and promised that no one gets to decide who I am.
She is who she chooses to be.
And then everything had gone to hell. Lies and broken trust. Memories and mistakes dredged up. Old wounds ripped open again; stinging, raw, and bloody.
Forgiveness just in time to watch it all fall apart again. The tables turned, light and dark and good and evil.
She had watched him die, sacrifice himself – for her, for Henry, for everyone – so they could set things right. And in the end they had.
And god, the relief at seeing him again – but those three little words, she had bitten them back – too afraid – and he had just looked at her with patient understanding written in the depths of his eyes and on the tug of his lips as he smiled for her.
Everything had been perfect.
Until it wasn't.
She should know by now; the calm never lasts.
Darkness unleashed, no longer tethered, a swirling vortex of destruction, the nameless dagger in her grasp.
In that moment she'd thought back to her promise – no one gets to decide who I am – and she had wanted to laugh. She had wanted to cry.
She is who she chooses to be.
And what other choice did she have?
So she'd spoken those three impossible words – I and love and you – and then she'd pushed him away, giving herself over to the darkness.
But he had found her again – of course he had – he's nothing if not determined after all.
Centuries spent hell bent on destroying the dark one. Now he's in love with the dark one. It's a cruel, humourless joke.
Neither of them were prepared for it, and even now, as the darkness wages war within her and she takes one last look at him, one last look at the light, she's still nowhere near ready.
They've gotten her this far – her odd little approximation of a family – but this? This she has to do alone.
She remembers saying once that no one saves me but me. It's bitter irony. She wonders if her words will ever stop coming back to haunt her.
Armed with the dagger bearing her name (the only thing that can control her, the only thing that can kill her, and also, apparently, the only thing that can save her), she marches forward into the darkened forest, tattered dress dragging along the swampy ground.
He had said once that darkness is tempting, that it always is, and then he had told her to resist it.
Back then she hadn't thought two simple words would be so hard to follow.
He had repeated the same words again, just minutes earlier, his eyes damp as he pulled the necklace over his head, transferring it almost hesitantly to her neck.
In an instant her fingers had come up to grasp the charms, his hand closing over hers a second later; warm and strong, resting over her heart, an anchor, an echo, a ghost of memories she's been desperately trying to cling to.
"I want you to wear these, Emma," he'd said. "Wear them and remember your path. You are light, love. You are good. Even now I can see it in you. You're brighter than this darkness, and you will conquer it."
She takes the last step and stops at the entrance of the shadowed cave. Reaching for the charms, she tightens her fingers around them once more, metal biting into her flesh as she closes her eyes and pictures his face.
"I love you, Emma Swan," he'd said. "And I'll be waiting right here."
She is who she chooses to be.
And today she chooses to banish the darkness.