Sorry for the delay.
Oh my goodness though, the response this fic has gotten! THANK YOU SO MUCH! I'm beyond floored and appreciate your feedback so so so so much.
I've had this chapter finished for a couple of days now but FF was being a jerk and not allowing me to edit/upload new works. It is letting me upload new stuff now, but it won't let me edit anything so while this has been read over a few times, I can't edit any mistakes I find in an existing document. I have to upload it separately. UGH. So basically, what I'm saying is, I'll edit it when I can.
Also, this will be the warning for almost every chapter now: minor character death, adult themes throughout, violence, language, implied sexual assault and the overall hardships of war.
Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT.
PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! :)
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
She still dreams of Henry.
Sometimes it's soothing and peaceful and welcome, because he's healthy and breathing and alive.
And after those soft and almost cruel dreams where everything is as it should be, she lays, wide awake, silently staring at the ceiling with an ache in her chest and hot tears running down her cheeks as she thinks about the son she never got the chance to give a home.
Other times he comes to her in nightmares.
He's cold and lifeless and covered in a blood so red, she's sure she'll see the vibrant color even days later when the dream is nothing more than a lingering pang. On those nights she wakes up screaming—her eyes burning and her body shaking.
Because her son is dead. Because her failure is still fresh and raw and painful. Because in those dreams it isn't Pan standing over Henry's fallen and pale body holding the bloodied and dripping dagger…
It's her.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
She develops a routine.
She rises with the sun, punishes her body with an unforgiving workout, moves onto group training; spends the day learning how to survive in both combat and in the wilderness, spends more time improving her skills on her own, before finally making her way back to the manor…fresh bruises and open cuts littering her skin as she hobbles across the sprawling property.
It's a vigorous schedule and her body protests at first, months of wasting away still taking its toll on her. But even so, as she logs in her endlessly long hours, ignoring Mary Margaret's concerned looks and David's attempts at intervention, she pushes herself again and again. Eventually her muscles begin to welcome the abuse—her body quickly adjusting to her new brutal environment.
She can't let up.
She needs to keep busy.
The more occupied her mind the better.
And just as she has developed a system with swords and knives, arrows and spears, she and Evvie have also developed an unspoken routine with the sick and injured.
Surrounded by death and injury, Emma tries to make herself useful. She always shows up after dinner, bringing food from the manor to the healers and the wounded alike. Following the older woman around, she carries her basket of supplies, working silently by her side, patching up the injured and offering what little help she can, all while trying to stomach the bloodshed of war and the havoc that has been wrecked upon the foreign and unstable land at the hand of the queen.
Regina.
And even though the stench of blood and death lingers on her hours after she's left the tents, she can't help but go back every single night, picking up her basket of supplies and silently following Evvie's ever bustling figure around.
It's the least she can do.
And she knows, as she holds the hand of a small, badly injured girl, while biting back the bile that burns in her throat, that it's what Henry would have wanted.
It's what he would have done.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
The air is brisk but the sun beats down, bright and unforgiving, on her back.
Planting her feet onto the ground, Emma braces herself for impact, raising her sword and gritting her teeth as the blow comes down on her hard, nearly knocking her off her feet as she stumbles and attempts to push her attacker back. Narrowing her eyes, she huffs out a breath, the puff of white that leaves her lips swirling up in front of her face as she regains her footing and lifts her weapon once again, this time more prepared and determined to block the blow that lands harshly on her blade.
As the clash of metal against metal rings out, echoing in the early morning air, she smirks softly, adrenaline racing through her veins as she blocks another hit and then another, and another still, patiently waiting for her opponent's moment of weakness. Watching his footwork, eyes flickering from his weapon, to his face and then back again, she sees when he falters and hesitates briefly.
Her opening.
She takes it.
Springing forward, sword raised, eyes flashing, she puts every skill she's learned over the past few weeks to use, coupling it with her own natural gut instinct.
Soon she has him stumbling and tripping across the open field, curses flying from his mouth as his weapon wavers unsteadily in his hand and his eyes go wide with the beginnings of mounting fear.
She doesn't let up.
Their swords meeting, their breathing heavy, she backs him up until finally, finally, his arms give out and his blade falls to the ground. And kicking out a booted foot, landing her heel square in his chest and watching as he falls, the tip of her sword immediately finds its way to the skin of his neck, the knowledge that she's a mere thrust away from doing real damage somewhat darkly exhilarating. Brown eyes, bright and big, looking up at her, his hands grappling on the ground next to him, he tries to back away from the deadly point of her blade, a soft and irritated curse escaping his lips in a tone laced with slight shame and a heavy dose of disbelief.
Who would have thought the bat-shit crazy savior capable of unarming such a tough and ruthless brute?
"Well done."
Breaking her gaze from the man laying on the dirt floor, Emma glances behind her shoulder, watching as Mulan walks toward her, dressed head to toe in complete battle gear, her sword drawn and her eyes cast down on Emma's opponent.
"You're a fast learner." Her teacher murmurs, appreciation woven into her tone, her dark gaze glimmering with the beginnings of soft respect.
Her parents had handpicked the woman to teach Emma the ways of the sword, Emma's prior experience with the warrior and Mulan's abilities with the weapon both factoring into their choice. After weeks of physical and mental hazing—Mulan's technique's both brutal and effective—the two of them have finally developed a tentative and somewhat begrudging acquaintance, something she acknowledges rarely but appreciates no less.
Stepping away from the man, removing her sword from his neck, Emma surveys the group of recruits she has trained off and on with, each of them eying her warily as she wipes her brow and turns to her teacher, the warrior's gaze both wide and expectant as she waits for Emma to make a move.
Her training for the day should have ended over an hour ago.
"Again." She murmurs softly, noting the smirk on Mulan's lips and ignoring the ripple of groans that filter through the crowd.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"I would fucking kill for a decent cup of coffee from Granny's."
Emma nods, barely looking up as Ruby sits down on the bench next to her; the estate is quiet and dark and the hour is late. Staring absently at the knife she's been shifting from hand to hand, going over the different ways to skin a rabbit and gut a fish in her head, she looks over as Ruby shuffles a little at her side, the confident brunette flashing her a quick grin as she catches her eye.
"Cereal." Emma whispers softly, suddenly, a hint of smile tugging at her lips as she meets her stare.
Pausing for a moment before pulling a flask from underneath her red cloak, Ruby raises a brow questioningly, taking a quick swig before offering the liquor to Emma in a wordless gesture.
"I miss Lucky Charms." Emma laughs, the sound a bit foreign and rough; and taking the offered flask and bringing it to her lips, she allows a small, almost wistful sigh before drinking deeply, enjoying the comfortable and companionable silence.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
She bathes as often as she can; right before the evening meal she usually allows herself a few quiet minutes to soak before she jumps into her nightly schedule.
Sinking into the tub, taking note of the old and new scars that decorate her body—barely raised white lines and rough and jagged light pink—Emma washes her skin thoroughly, scrubbing the dirt and grime from her arms and legs, appreciating the dull ache in her limbs, and ignoring the bustle of activity that lays just beyond the ballroom turned community washroom doors; her eyes cast down and away from the other women that are bathing in the tubs next to her, chatting incessantly and doing their best to ignore her as well.
In an encampment filled to the brim with soldiers and civilians, privacy is nearly as rare as warm and clear bath water.
Allowing the scent of lavender to fill her nose, nodding her thanks to a woman as she passes by with a pile of linens, placing a towel next to her tub, she glances up as a set of doors open, her attention directed towards the noise for a moment before she goes to look away, not caring who has entered the room.
A flash of red hair catches her eyes and has her pausing before she can completely go back to her bath.
She's seen that hair before.
Slightly wild, and thoroughly mussed, she remembers it all too clearly; her gaze moving back up and taking in the sight of the curvy figure, her mind drifting back to the day she saw the woman with Hook.
Hook.
Bristling at the realization, unwilling to pinpoint exactly why the thought of him—and what (or whom) he'd been doing that day—causes a storm of turbulent and chaotic emotions to rush through her—anger, respect, hate, longing, and confusion—she rinses the rest of her body quickly, ducking her head under the water once before resurfacing fast, standing hurriedly and reaching for the towel that lays at her side, startled when another hand grabs for it first, her eyes flying up to meet the curious and somewhat calculating hazel stare of the redheaded woman she'd been studying only moments before.
"Princess." the word, one she sometimes hears whispered behind her back, is murmured in a husky and velvety voice; and Emma can only stare as her full lips quirk up into an almost feral smile, her eyes drifting down Emma's wet body and then back up again in a way that, despite her already obvious nudity, makes her feel stripped and exposed…
Vulnerable.
She fucking hates feeling vulnerable.
"Can I help you?"
The woman doesn't say anything for a moment, a gleam of challenge, a light of fire, a glimmer of envy shining in her unblinking stare as she continues to unabashedly stand before Emma's naked figure, her towel just out of reach. "You look well. Stable."
Her tone drips with suggestion, her eyes crinkling a little at the corners, the twitch of her mouth betraying the truth of her words and hinting at Emma's former instability—her manic breakdown something she's fully aware is still talked about in hushed tones around the manor and quite possibly throughout the rest of the unsettled land.
"Do I know you?" Emma's tone is not kind or engaging, but rather clipped and somewhat bored, the question falling slightly flat as she sighs softly, resisting the urge to fold her arms in front of her chest, refusing to show any sign of weakness—a competitive streak she's sure is misplaced suddenly sparking to life inside of her.
The woman, for her part, seems unprovoked by her clear indifference towards her, instead appearing slightly amused by it—lips quirking higher, eyes flashing with something unreadable and just shy of dangerous. "Name's Serena your highness." And it's funny the way she emphasizes the title, her lips curling slightly as the word lingers for just a moment too long. "Though we haven't been properly introduced, I believe we have a mutual friend."
Ignoring the surge of energy that suddenly shoots through her, warming her from the inside out at the direct reference to Hook, Emma matches her smile with a tight one of her own, unwilling to back down from the unspoken challenge and still refusing to cover herself as Serena continues to openly stare, sizing her up, eyebrows raised and towel still firmly in her grasp.
"I think you're mistaken."
"Oh? Captain Jones...Killian."
It's funny, really, to hear the title and name roll so easily off the other woman's tongue…something akin to awe laced with the faintest hint of jealousy spiking a little inside of her as she considers the statement.
"Sorry…Hook's no friend of mine."
"Ahhhh but you're being too modest your majesty."
"Am I?"
Shuffling just a fraction closer, the redhead, Serena, tilts her head to the side, the action causing Emma's gaze to drop a little, past her feline grin, to her busty chest, and down even further to the skinny sword sheathed at her side.
"It's no secret."
Her voice snapping her gaze back up, Emma meets her stare again, arching a brow at her words—a part of her slightly incredulous to the fact that she's still standing in the tub completely uncovered. "What is?
"Killian's loyalty to the cause, to the royal family…to your parents…" she pauses for a moment, eyes flickering up to meet Emma's, defiance and just the faintest hint of anger flashing bright and untamed. "To you."
It affects her.
It shouldn't.
But goddamn…
It does.
The way her husky voice makes the statement in a slightly accusing tone, her words loaded with meaning that Emma's not ready, not willing, to explore…it affects her—her walls shooting up fast, voices in her head whispering in panicked and hushed tones questioning the words and attempting to pick them apart.
Hook loyal to her?
"Even now, he's out there, on the front-lines, risking life and limb, fighting off the evil queen's army at your father's behest."
She pretends not to care.
She doesn't care.
She's aware of the risks he takes.
Everyone is.
He comes and goes, leaving at David's request, running missions and battling Regina's forces, throwing himself in the line of danger at seemingly every chance he gets—whispers of his recklessness, his ruthlessness, his utter loyalty to the throne drift through the encampment, finding their way to the tents, the training fields, the manor…her.
And she pretends, as she goes about her daily business, that she's unaffected.
She pretends, as she's training—swords clashing and arrows flying—that her thoughts don't occasionally drift to him.
She's good at pretending.
"War's a risk for most. Hook is not the only one taking chances." she whispers softly. And ignoring the dark glimmer of emotion that shines in the other woman's stare…emotion she knows is not directed towards her but rather the man in question…she pushes down the sliver of worry threatening to worm its way past her barriers, afraid to let it develop into anything else.
After all war is ugly, and hard and depressing.
It's a fact she can't change.
Something she refuses to linger over.
Suddenly annoyed with the situation, harshly reminding herself she doesn't have an ounce of time or patience to spare; straightening her spine, and narrowing her gaze, she reaches out a steady hand, her lips thinning into a slight frown as she stares at Serena hard, silently daring her to say another word.
She doesn't.
And too tired to continue on with whatever competitive and catty female bullshit games the redhead had intended to play in the first place, curious about the sliver of jealous confusion that's still humming inside of her, she reaches out and grabs the towel from her, wrapping it around her naked and dripping form before stepping out of the tub, eyes focused in front of her as she walks away, heart thumping hard and mind racing fast.
Even now, he's out there, on the front-lines, risking life and limb, fighting off the evil queen's army at your father's behest.
It doesn't matter.
The pirate means nothing to her.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
Hook dies in her dream that night.
There's screaming—it's pained and terrible—and it mixes with the flurry of chaos and madness all around as he drops to his knees, slayed at the hand of a faceless soldier, blood pouring from his mouth; eyes once so clear and blue going completely black as he falls to the ground.
It isn't until she's fully awake, body drenched in sweat and throat raw and burning that she realizes that the screaming had actually been her.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
War is a cruel and ruthless force.
It shows no mercy towards the young or old, men or women.
It's capricious, volatile, and undiscriminating.
Eyes, squinting in the low and soft light provided by a few nearby candles, Emma ignores the flurry of healers around her, instead glancing down at the middle-aged woman in front of her, the rancid smell of infection drifting to her nose as she tries not to let her eyes wander downwards to the twisted and distorted limbs of the suffering patient—broken and mauled by an angry Ogre released on a village that was rumored to be sympathetic and favorable towards Snow and Charming's war efforts.
Wincing, somewhat startled as she finds her hand in a cold but firm grip, she shoots her gaze up, meeting a hazy, broken, and nearly lifeless stare; the hurt reflected back at her making her stomach lurch as a slow-burning anger kindles to life inside of her—reassuring words caught in her throat as she witnesses pure and unforgiving agony.
"Let me die dear. Please. Don't let them save me. I don't want to be alive in a world like this."
The woman's voice is broken, a croaked and raspy plea, and wanting to look away but refusing the urge, Emma places her other hand over their clasped ones, squeezing gently and nodding slowly, hating herself with an intense and disgusted passion for not being able to provide any source of comfort to the pained woman, not strong enough to demand that the nurses and healers heed her request.
Death would be a much kinder fate.
And as a Dr. Whale makes his way over to them, looking aged, and tired, and worse for the wear, the woman's screams ringing out as they finally begin to work on her—needles and potions, bandages and sharpened tools—Emma feels a suffocating tightness in her chest as her anger spikes and continues to burn.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
She dreams of power.
Devastating power.
It thrums through her veins, warming her body and nearly bursting from her fingertips.
She feels formidable, beautiful, and terrifying.
Free.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"What's going on?"
There's a commotion in the great hall; people are gathered in hordes near the food tables—the atmosphere somewhat exuberant and slightly celebratory.
Exhausted from her long and tiring day, Emma steps further into the room. Pushing away a stubborn lock of hair that refuses to stay in its braid, she gratefully sips on a tin of water Neal hands to her as he saddles up to her side, standing a little to close for her liking. Glancing around somewhat curiously, raising a brow as people push past her, she takes another long swig before looking over at him expectantly; waiting for an answer she hears energetic shouts and spirited laughter continue to ring out.
"We've had a victory. Another unit just came back with the entire party intact and a couple of the big guys who work under Regina in tow as prisoners. They should have some vital information if our guys can get them to talk…pretty good news."
It is good news.
And she's about to question Neal just whose unit was so successful, but then the crowd shifts and moves and suddenly she has the perfect view of him…
Hook.
She tries not to keep track of people as they leave the manor, unwilling to see off the men and woman as they go out on their different assignments—heading off Regina's army, scouting the land, or providing some form of defense to the vulnerable towns and villages throughout the kingdom.
It's too hard.
Too terrifying.
Too real.
And thinking back on it, she realizes with a hitch in her throat and slight frown pulling at her lips, that she can't remember the last time she's seen him at the manor—her encounter with the redhead, Serena, suddenly, and somewhat annoyingly, edging to the forefront of her mind…
It's no secret.
Killian's loyalty to the cause, to the royal family…to your parents…
To you.
Jumping a little as the woman's voice echos in her head, she tries to drown out the words with fierce and hissing internal curses, attempting to ignore the sudden drop in her gut and the nearly overwhelming wave of relief that crashes over her again and again at the mere sight of a man she tries, in vain, to never think about. She wants to look away, take a moment to collect and steel herself; but with his abrupt appearance, the distraction of the growing crowd, and her genuine happiness at the kingdom's good luck, she can't help herself from weakening a little, taking a few seconds to openly stare…
He's lost a little weight, his beard is a shade thicker, his hair a little longer.
And his eyes, even from across the room, if possible, seem bluer…
More intense.
And seeing them, vivid and bright, suddenly snap up to meet hers—almost as if he had sensed her attention—a hint of smirk pulling at his lips; he holds her stare, his rough and dark features softening fractionally before she looks away fast. Mumbling something to Neal about spending her dinner in the tents with Anna, she pushes past him and flees.
She doesn't look back.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"Swan."
She merely nods at him, refusing to let her attention waver (too much) from her opponent as he passes her by on the open field; sword in hand, hook gleaming at his side, he lets his eyes linger for a moment too long before heading past her to train a group of new recruits further down the field.
And when she finds herself on her back, her adversary looking down at her with a smug smile on her face, she curses his name under her breath.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
Their good luck doesn't last long.
Regina retaliates against their small victory and the capture of her men.
Unleashing several relentless attacks against their armies and allies…
It's brutal and bloody and the death toll is high.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"They say we're not safe here anymore."
Anna's softly spoken words have Emma's head shooting up, her eyes clearing a little as she focuses on the girl sitting next to her. The young woman's skills have been needed more frequently in the healing tents, her time spent at the manor dwindling to sleep and meals only as she works endlessly to help with the wounded—the injuries filtering in are numerous, gruesome, and more than a little alarming. And while anyone can see that she's working herself to the bone, her fingers calloused, her already slender figure getting smaller by the day, she can't stay away, doesn't want to stay away—it's something Emma understands well, a feeling she's only too familiar with. So she leaves her be, knowing she's not the only one battling demons, throwing herself into the war effort to forget about her own constant despair. But if, by chance, she happens to stumble upon the boy who works in the kitchen's…Tristan...on occasion and mentions a little too eagerly which tent Anna's working in, or she miraculously happens to have an extra dinner roll or a sweet red apple on her whenever she visits the over-worked nurse, well, that's just a slight coincidence and nothing more.
She and Anna aren't the only ones affected by Regina's newest counterattacks and the overcrowding in the healing tents that results…
She's watched, more than once, unease prickling up her spine and a pang in her chest, as Mary Margaret has left the tents, tears streaking down her cheeks—an obvious weight causing her shoulders to slump forward a little, signalling a moment's defeat. She's witnessed David tirelessly and diligently organize parties, sending them out in search of vital plants and magic to help with the tiring and never-ending healing efforts—the lines on his face becoming even more visible, the light in his eyes dim. Gold, Ruby, Neal, Archie, and countless others, they've all been spotted, when not outside the manor walls, doing their part, each and every one of them solemn and grim faced as they see, first hand, the twisted and horrific consequences of a vengeful queen with nothing but grief and madness driving her forward.
Even those used to violence, hardships, and brutality don't remain unaffected.
Just the other day, exhausted and mentally beaten down, whispering a soft goodnight to Evvie as the older woman tried, in vain, to bring down an elderly man's fever, an infection coursing through him from a wound in his shoulder; her eyes drifting and somewhat heavy, had caught sight of Hook, facing away from her, voice low and soft, as he told stories to a group of children, some gathered on the ground in front of him with bandages and patches covering their bodies, some too weak to even attempt to sit up, opting to lay in bed, all listening, in rapt and captivated silence, as he recalled his adventures on the high seas—his hands, both good and hooked, waving around, gesturing wildly as he spoke of ogres, sea-beasts, and mermaids alike.
The way her heart had clenched a little, her belly flipping at the sight, and a stinging prick of something she refused to acknowledge as tears, had caused her to look away quickly, turning from the scene and hurrying out of the tent fast; her mind racing and her pulse ceasing to slow down in pace later that night as she had laid in bed, thinking about the children's awed and momentarily happy faces—the image forever implanted in her brain.
"It's unnerving, wondering if this place is going to hold…"
Anna's shaky voice ripping her from her thoughts, Emma shifts uncomfortably in her chair, drawing her lower lip into her mouth and closing her eyes for a moment as her words sink in, something about Anna's doubts, her shaky faith, not sitting right with her; she needs the girl's quiet optimism, a part of hercraving it. Snapping herself back to focus, she wrings out a bloodied cloth in the small bowl she holds in her lap, handing it back over to the brunette and dimly watching as the younger girl bends over to wipe the bruised and dirty forehead of the young man who lies motionlessly on the cot beneath her.
"The magic, the cloaking spells and protective charms, they say they're wavering."
"I know." Emma murmurs it softly, unsure what else to say, all too aware of the whispered rumors that have been floating around the encampment since Regina's last attacks.
Her wrath knows no bounds, her magic is getting stronger, her army only continuing to grow by the day…
Sitting back and stretching a little, Anna nods at her short statement—she understands that Emma speaks little and is rarely chatty, never faulting her for her direct and sometimes blunt one word answers. Brown hair falling out of her loose bun, soft features drawn and tired, she holds her stare a moment longer before gesturing downwards—eyes glimmering with hints of despair and red from lack of real sleep. Smiling sadly, distractedly, she wipes the soldiers forehead once again. "He was lucky."
Brows arching high, Emma looks down at the beaten man, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth as she takes in the sight of his almost mangled form; luck's the last thing he appears to have. "Lucky?"
"He lives." Her words are soft, barely whispered.
And eyes shooting up to meet misty and dimmed brown, Emma holds Anna's stare again, the stifling smell of medicine and blood turning her stomach and burning her nose, as people—men, women, and children—suffer and die around them. "He saved his younger brother…and helped to fight off the soldiers until our reinforcements arrived. Despite the dark army's brutality, he managed, to somehow survive and keep others safe in the process…he lives."
Suddenly, she can't breathe.
Soft murmured words ringing in her ears, suddenly, she feels light-headed.
It all seems so surreal, wrong, unnatural.
She can't wrap her head around it. She's been living it for months now and she can't wrap her goddamned head around it…
And she knows, as she stiffens in her chair, clasps her hands together, and digs her nails into the skin of her palm, that perhaps it's time to quit hiding behind her training and work in the tents, perhaps it's time to stop cleaning up the aftermath of Regina's grief-filled vengeance, perhaps it's time to experience what's going on outside the manor's walls herself.
Perhaps it's time to push herself a little further.
The sound of a small sigh breaking her from her brief reverie, Emma glances up as Anna gestures for her to hand over a basket full of vials and small containers and in a few minutes the two of them are working silently once again—creams and potions, cloths and water, needles and stitches, cries and curses.
She wishes one of them would say something, the silence too depressing…
Too telling.
"They're saying it's only a matter of time before the manor falls." Anna whispers out suddenly in a rushed and frantic breath, as if she'd been trying to keep the words in, her statement breaking the lingering quiet, her young and kind features twisted into an expression of worry and alarm, her fingers bloodied and trembling slightly as she unscrews the cap of a small blue vial she holds; the despair and fear in her voice clear and painful as she looks down at their injured patient. "Emma…gods…they say we're not safe here anymore." She repeats her earlier statement quietly, lips quivering ever so slightly—the anxiety stamped across her tired and drawn face doing little to hide her obvious inner turmoil.
And turning away from her as she begins to apply the potion to the young soldier's wounds, a grunting whimper escaping his lips as Anna's gentle hands move over him, Emma's eyes scan the tent, the sounds of quiet crying and dull moans drifting to her ears, drowning out the dull roaring and the panicked voices that linger there.
"I know."
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
There are other rumors that swirl around the grounds.
Knowing whispers.
Murmurs filtering through the crowd gathered behind her, she barely pays them any attention as she lifts her bow, draws the arrow, and takes in a deep breath.
Up until a few weeks ago she had never given the weapon she now holds in her hands a second thought.
She certainly has no prior training with it…their journey to Neverland and her crash course lessons with the different weapons they had found aboard the Jolly Roger consisted of a few simple instructions from her mother, father, and Hook, followed by a learn as you go mentality as they had fought off the Lost Boys—the sword usually her weapon of choice.
But still…
They say her skill with the bow is nearly unmatched.
Many state she likely inherited such talent from her mother.
Some wonder if Robin Hood is just that great of a teacher…his legend is well known throughout the land.
While others whisper of the magic that they believe still runs through her veins; the path she was supposed to have taken, her once hopeful destiny, still talked about in hushed and reverent tones…
She is the product of True Love.
The Savior.
Power like that just doesn't disappear.
As Emma pulls back, breathes out once and closes her eyes for a moment before focusing them once again; she allows the world to fade away as she lets go, watching through tunneled vision as the sharpened point of the arrow she shot hits the bulls-eye, point blank, for the third time that day.
The crowd around her claps respectfully; and Robin comes up behind her patting her on the back and whispering words of hearty encouragement, before moving on to his other students.
And Emma, eyes still focused across the field on the dummy she had shot straight through its non-existent heart, shakes away the vaguely familiar feeling of burning and sparking energy—its heat warming her blood, lingering on the tips of her fingers, and pulsing, hot and steady, deep in her gut.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
Jefferson and Leroy are the first people she knows, truly knows, who die in battle.
Daily she surrounds herself with the aftermath of the war.
But it isn't until David returns, bruised and battered, with their bodies in tow, that it hits her. The air whooshing out of her body, she watches from her perch on a nearby hillside as Mary Margaret meets him at the gates, sobbing openly into his arms as they mourn the loss of their friends.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"I hate war."
Sitting by a small pond on the ground, Emma looks up, surprise and remorse hitting her hard as she watches Grace, Jefferson's daughter, make her way over to her; the young girl's eyes haunted and tired, her features pale and pinched. She had heard that after hearing about her father's death she had locked herself away in a room for days, refusing food and drink and any kind of help—a grief Emma knows all too well.
Scooting over as the girl sits down next to her, she swallows over the sudden narrowness of her throat, her eyes flitting back to the water, and barely acknowledging the light snow that has started to fall, coating the ground and chilling the air.
"I really hate war."
And reaching out, still staring at the pond, her eyes burning and her heart threatening to break, as never healed wounds from Henry's death begin to resurface, she places her hand over the girl's and nods slowly before speaking in a voice thick and heavy with emotion.
"Me too."
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
Regina has a list of most wanted.
Posters…they're everywhere—nailed to taverns and trees…passed around farming and fishing villages alike.
Eventually they make their way back to the manor, trickling in with the return of both scouting parties and worn and battle-weary soldiers—filtering through the crowds, they shift from hand to hand with worried whispers and anxious glances.
Sitting, just beyond the tented village that sprawls across the estate's grounds, Emma stares at the dirty and ripped poster she holds tightly in her grip, her eyes carefully roaming over the faded and sketched faces staring back up at her.
It's an interesting pyramid of people that Regina has deemed the most deadly outlaws and criminals of the land…
Hook, Ruby, Gold, Mary Margaret, David…
Her face is at the very top.
A slight frown tugging at her mouth she studies her sketched features—her eyes narrowed and her lips pulled tight—she appears hostile, intimidating…
Dangerous.
The reward is high, the crimes listed against them long; some ring false while others hold hints of half-told truths.
Murder, thievery, treason.
Leaning her head against the rough bark of the tree, Emma closes her eyes, and drops the poster, uncaring where it flutters off to next—whose hands it winds up in. Giving herself a brief moment to rest even as the wind picks up around her, carrying with it a bitter winter chill, she sighs softly, noting the prickling of goosebumps that skitters up her skin as she hugs her body tight, pulling the heavy cloak she wears even closer.
She'll have to remember to bring extra blankets to the healing tents tonight.
And with the random thought, she sighs again, her eyes opening and focusing in on the bustling encampment spread before her—the bark of loose dogs, the high pitched laughter of young children, the dull murmur of mingled conversations.
Sometimes she still feels as if it's all just a dream…
It's gotta be a dream.
The Enchanted Forest, magical and bloody wars, fairytale characters, Snow White and the Evil Queen…
It doesn't feel real…
But even so, she never wakes up.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
She feels rage.
She wants to be on the front-lines, taking her anger and fury out on those who've gathered around Regina.
Sometimes the storm inside of her is so hot, so blinding, that she's afraid it'll consume her completely.
She hates.
She hates Pan for killing Henry.
She hates Gold for not being able to stop him.
She hates Regina for turning his death into something even more ugly.
And she hates herself.
Most of all she hates herself.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
It's raining.
An icy, cold, unrelenting rain.
The grounds are a mud-drenched mess, the trees drooping low with the weight of the constant downpours, the wind whipping and slicing and unforgiving.
Tucked into the back corner of the large and expansive kitchen, kneading the dough in front of her carefully, her eyes cast down, and mind far away and wandering, Emma pounds her fists into the dough again and again in a restless sort of fashion, flour coating the surface of the table and dusting up occasionally, making her nose twitch a little, her hands itching to brush away her frizzing hair. Prior to the storm, she'd been keeping her distance from the kitchens, her training and work in the healing tents taking up nearly all of her time. But with the rain pounding down mercilessly, and with so very little to do indoors, it was only a matter of time before she'd been drawn to the somewhat soothing routine of making bread, the warm and pleasant scents of the wood-burning ovens, the quiet murmurs of the low conversations buzzing around her all familiar, comforting, and easy.
Blowing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes, she looks up at the hustle and bustle in front of her, men and women alike scurrying around to do their part and pull their weight while the grounds remain nearly impassable. The bad weather started a little over a day ago, and hadn't let up since—drawing more people than usual under the manor's roof, forcing some to abandon their huts and tents for the safety of the castle's warm walls and roaring fires. Almost everyone is anxious, scouting parties have been delayed for the time being, fighting outside the walls has ceased, fear and restlessness are beginning to take its toll.
"You've been here all morning."
At the sound of Mary Margaret (and she knows she really should start referring to her as Snow, but the name feels bitter in her mouth, the word still so foreign and unnatural) she looks up; her eyes, which had been so focused on the job before her, squint a little as dark spots waver at the edge of her vision before clearing abruptly, dizziness wrapping around her swiftly before fading fast—a reminder that she'd skipped both breakfast and lunch.
"People are hungry." she answers her mother in a somewhat dull tone, a tight smile ghosting her lips as she watches the dark haired woman nod quickly in agreement, gaze sweeping the kitchen before falling back on her—her eyes tainted a little since the death of Leroy—Grumpy—still open and honest with their fear and worry as she looks at her thoughtfully, somewhat longingly.
"It's been a rough few days." Mary Margaret says it absently in response, her voice somewhat distant and low, her fingers twitching a little, almost as if anxious to reach out and touch her, or perhaps, even more likely, eager to grasp the hilt of a weapon she's not currently carrying.
"It's been a rough few months." There's no sadness in Emma's tone as she quietly corrects her, no grief, or anger, or despair. She keeps her emotions locked up, only allowing her fury to show, her anxiety to grow, and her tears to fall, in the fierceness of her training, the confines of her own room, or the quiet serenity of a midnight stroll. Now, now she's just merely stating the facts—the storm has been unforgiving, a hindrance in their plans, but it's only the newest addition to their unrelenting and always mounting misery.
"You're right. It has."
Suddenly feeling guilty, suddenly and unfairly hating that her friend and confidant, has been replaced by a warrior, a queen…her mother, she closes her eyes for a moment, only absently looking up at the sound of shouts and commotion outside of the kitchen door; the beginnings of a genuine smile unconsciously lifting her lips when she sees a small boy and an even smaller girl running away. A puppy that really looks like nothing more than a mop of brown fur with over-sized paws jumping at their feet as they dash away giggling and shrieking, hands overflowing with candies and fruits most likely stolen off the tabletops as a large and robust looking woman with fraying gray hair, stern features, and an apron hitched high on her waist hollers after them in a grating voice.
It's one of the most endearing sights she's seen in days.
And she can feel the tears abruptly well and burn in her eyes, taking her by surprise as she continues to watch the simple scene, the sound of the children's laughter filling the otherwise bleak halls, the skitter and scratch of the puppy's claws ringing out wildly, and the somewhat good-natured yet disgruntled warnings of the kitchen-hand dying down to raspy and murmured grumbles.
"Emma…" Snow's voice is soft, her tone uncertain, the sound tearing her away from the retreating children; and Emma knows before she even looks up at her, that her gaze is searching her—questioningly, imploringly, nervously.
The tear falls before she can stop it, and ashamed, surprised, and angry she brushes it away with the tip of her shoulder, cursing at herself inwardly for being such an obvious and stupid sap.
"Honey," she stiffens slightly at the endearment, unprepared for it, unreceptiveto it, and seemingly sensing her discomfort, Mary Margaret changes tactics, shuffling closer, taking one step and then another until Emma's terrified and almost certain that she's going to reach out to try to comfort her. "Hey…Emma…I…"
"Please." She interrupts her fast, steeling herself against her brief moment of weakness, of emotion, before Mary Margaret can continue; fingers working the dough more furiously, eyes cast down and away from her mother's. "Please don't tell me you're worried about me. Please don't tell me I'm pushing myself too hard, or that I need a break, or that I should talk to Archie, or Jiminy Crickett, or whatever the hell his name is. Please. I know you're scared, and upset and God you just lost a friend…I know that. I do. Just as I know that I'm unstable, that before…after Henry…" her words waver a little and her voice hitches and almost breaks at the mention of his name, but worried that her mother will pounce on that, all too aware of the looks that are constantly shot in her direction as she's leaving the manor before the sun rises and coming back long after it has set, she barrels on, still avoiding eye contact as she speaks in stuttering, and halting sentences. "Please. I stay busy because if I don't I'll break. I train because I don't know where else to direct my anger. I help in the tents because each and every one of those wounds…I feel like it's a blow I've inflicted personally…it's not them she's trying to hurt…it's us. It's me. So please, I know I'm on edge, I know that I'm tense, and distant…but if you came here to check up on me…please don't tell me to stop…I—I can't stop, when I stop, when I have nothing to do, and it's too quiet…then it hurts, then…"
"Emma." Mary Margaret's voice is strained, almost pleading. And Emma can see, as she glances down at the table in front of them, the way her fingers are digging into the flour covered surface, she can hear the sound of her breathing, slightly heavy and somewhat unsteady filtering to her ears. "Emma…"
It's such a broken sound, her name on Mary Margaret's lips.
And unable to help herself, knowing she actually owes her mother so much more than she's given her lately, realizing that while she may be the fallen savior— some lunatic incapable of handling the death of her son—Mary Margaret—Snow White—still holds the weight of a warring and fragile kingdom on her already burdened shoulders.
When their eyes meet, misty blue clashing with hazy green, the small brunette smiles tremulously, understandingly, before reaching out a hand to grab a covered bowl. "I was just going to say that I miss you. And you don't owe me anything. I know that. And I understand. You've been through so much. We all have. But everyday…everyday I have to watch my friends and family leave, not knowing if they're coming back…every time I ride past those manor walls, leaving you behind…it hurts. I miss my friend and my daughter and…and I know that it's hard and it's still painful and things are uncertain and Regina is…" she trails off, swallowing thickly, her smile wavering around the edges and her fingers curling into themselves nervously. "Everything seems so dark right now, so wrong, and despairing…but I know we are going to get through this…good will prevail…but for now…I just miss my friend…Emma…I…" pausing she shakes her head slowly, lips dipping down into the threat of a frown before tilting back up again, the tears in her eyes betraying the smile pulling at her mouth. "Well that's it I guess…I just miss you." she finishes softly, almost shyly, and rolling up her blouse sleeves and averting her gaze, she sets to work by Emma's side without another word, her quiet strength calming, soothing…
Familiar.
Staring at her profile, her prominent cheekbones and the sharp angle of her jaw and chin, Emma bites down on the inside of her cheek— images of her mother, brushing her hair and braiding it, helping her bathe when she'd been incapable of taking care of herself, her soft warm hands coupled with a gentle and comforting voice, flashing before her eyes. And shuffling slightly closer, the cling and clatter of the kitchen coming back into focus, she begins to knead the dough once again—the beginnings of a lump forming in her throat as she reminds herself she isn't the only one suffering.
"I miss you too."
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
It's still raining.
But the sound of David's laughter, loud, and somewhat boisterous ringing out, and bouncing off the council room turned training quarters' walls lightens the discontent in the air as Emma shuffles backwards, her breathing heavy with enervation, her arms aching from the grueling but somewhat satisfying workout. Lifting her sword, she watches as David lifts his, his own breathing labored as he stares at her with both admiration and pride glimmering in his pale stare.
"Mulan's taught you well."
She smiles at his compliment, enjoying how easy it is to be in his company, the quick break they took to train much needed and much appreciated, the confining walls of the manor continuing to drive everyone stir-crazy. "Thanks."
"But I went easy on you…you are my daughter after all."
Only bristling slightly at the way he easily says the word—daughter—she narrows her eyes into tiny slits, running her tongue over her teeth as she tries to hide the beginnings of a smirk; and feeling her competitive streak warring to life, continuing to take advantage of this brief break from her mundane and numbing routine, she moves closer, taking a step and raising a brow as he lifts his blade in challenge.
"Best out of three?"
Her own chuckle earns a few questioning looks from those training around them, and she knows as her sword clashes with David's and they draw a group of casual on-lookers, that amidst the curious stares, and past the hushed conversations—the sight of the shepherd turned king and savior turned mad-woman a strange thing to behold indeed—is a set of icy blue eyes; the penetrating gaze burning the back of her head and sending a wave of prickling awareness up her spine.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
Finally more good news.
Reports state that Regina is withdrawing her soldiers.
Her armies are falling back.
And while the atmosphere seems a little lighter, she can tell, that many people, including herself are waiting for the fallout.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
The fire crackles, the snap and sizzle quiet and soothing; its roaring flames douse her room in a soft orange, somewhat soothing glow. Glancing down at the array of weapons laying on her bed, she allows her eyes to wander over them slowly—studying their silver gleams and their sharpened points; breathing in deeply as the beginnings of adrenaline edge its way into her veins.
It's time.
Finally.
"So you're really doing it eh?"
His voice makes her blood run cold even as a warm shudder ripples over her body, her stomach flips uncomfortably once and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand upright, before she schools her features into a mask of calm composure, straightening her shoulders as his lilting question hangs in the air.
Hook.
Swallowing, she turns, eyebrows raising, arms crossing over her chest; she takes in the sight of him leaning against the door, like he hasn't a damned care in the world, and silently curses herself for not hearing his approach in the first place.
He always was a sneaky bastard.
And as she watches him, vaguely she wonders how he found out that she's leaving with the departing unit in the morning—word of Regina's lingering forces eying up some of the more defenseless nearby villages crying out for attention. But almost as quickly as the question forms, she hurriedly chases it away with a frustrated roll of her eyes.
He is, after all, David's right-hand-man
A thought that still makes her cringe in confusion.
"Get out."
Unsurprisingly he ignores her, his smirk too familiar, his gaze too searching, and walking further into her room, his eyes drop to her weapons; something wary passing over his features before he brings his attention back to her. "Are you quite certain you're ready for this darling?" his voice, quiet and smooth as silk, drifts over to her in a slightly musical but no less concerned tone; and hearing it, she bristles slightly—ignoring the spark of something that lights within her at the soft and gentle sound.
Hook, she reminds herself silently, his name eliciting images of a ruthless killer, a man worried about himself only, even as a voice whispers in her head in scolding and chastising tones that his villainous ways are in the past, a point proven to her time and time again in Neverland, in the way he has thrown himself, his loyalty, everything he owns, entirely to the cause.
Focusing on his question, pushing away the churning in her gut and the buzzing in her ears, she feels a small frown tug at her lips, irritation burning hot in her veins as she considers not answering him at all.
Because of course she's not ready.
She knows weeks of training—regardless of her surprising skill with a variety of weapons—have barely prepared her for what she'll see past the walls of the manor. The injuries she's witnessed while working with Evvie, the stories she's heard, and the pain she's seen just barely scratching the surface of what lays beyond.
Still, even though she knows she's a rookie, even though she knows she's out of her element, even though she knows everyone looks at her as if she might break down at any goddamn moment…
It hurts.
Their lack of confidence.
Her expected failure.
And she doesn't now why she lets it get to her, her walls attempting to firmly keeping her emotions at bay—a pang of longing, need for acceptance, shooting through her as she tries to convince herself that she's fine.
"I really don't think that's any of your business."
"Out there…it's much different than the warm confines of the manor love."
"You don't think I know that?" she hisses the question out before she can stop herself, anger roaring hot inside of her as she narrows her eyes.
And turning from him, her back stiff, her head feeling slightly fuzzy, she grits her teeth tightly—annoyed by the way he affects her, has always affected her—and attempts to listen to the voices in her head that whisper for her to relax.
His opinion doesn't matter.
He doesn't matter.
"I've a group leaving tomorrow morning as well…you only have to say the word and you can attach yourself to that unit instead."
She snorts softly at his words, glancing over her shoulder as tiny alarm bells ring in her ears. "I'm surprised you haven't just flat out told me to stay at that manor."
His features tighten slightly, a haunted look shadows his eyes and suddenly he averts his stare. "No. But you could come with me."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because having you close by…I can…"
"What? Look out for me…make sure I don't get myself killed?" she cuts him off, her voice terse, her anger spiking again.
"Yes."
Don't.
Closing her eyes, she tries to ignore the spike of heat that jolts inside of her, jarring her, sending her reeling as she attempts to sort through the jumbled and mixed thoughts in her brain…
Don't.
Don't listen.
Don't soften.
Don't break.
"Go Hook…if you're leaving tomorrow as well, I'm sure you have better things to do than annoy me." Her words are biting, her tone cutting, and she insists to herself it means nothing that her thoughts immediately drift to the curvy redhead—fury bubbling up inside of her as she fervently tries to deny it.
Act together Swan.
And as her harsh words hang in the air, she stiffens as he makes no attempt to move. The silence long and drawn out, her spine goes even more rigid as the quiet moment is followed by another and then yet another before, with a soft sigh and the murmurings of something she can't quite decipher, but sound suspiciously close to as you wish, she hears, feels, him turn to leave.
"Be careful out there Swan."
She doesn't answer him, doesn't even look at him; instead, feeling drained and frustrated and somewhat confused she ignores the heaviness in her chest, the shakiness in her limbs, and continues to check her weapons, disregarding the slight trembling of her lips and the pounding of her heart as he leaves her.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
Sleep doesn't come easy for her that night.
She tosses and turns, refusing to allow her earlier conversation with the former pirate turned…king's advisor, soldier, knight?…to replay over and over again in her head, her brain objecting and fighting her the entire time…
But you could come with me.
And why would I do that?
Because having you close by…I can…
What? Look out for me…make sure I don't get myself killed?
Yes.
When sleep finally claims her, she dreams of crashing ocean waves and eyes as blue as Neverland's sky.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"I should go with you."
Glancing up from the pack she'd been loading onto her horse, Emma looks over at Anna, watching as the girl strokes the animal's mane thoughtfully, a somewhat torn expression on her soft features as she raises slightly watery eyes to her.
"What do you mean?"
"I should go…healers are needed out there. They send them out with almost every unit but I have yet to, I've been too scared to… I-I should go with you. Help. Be a part of the effort."
Fear, dull and somewhat numbing slowly spreads through her as she stares at the kindhearted nurse with the gentle hands and the soft and comforting voice, the girl who has become a constant presence in her life, not once shying away from her; a need to protect her, to shelter her from the brutalities that are sure to lay outside the manor's shielded and magically guarded gates rushing through her fast.
"No."
"Emma…"
"Please stay." Her voice cracks a little as she makes the simple request, shaking her head near frantically as she searches the girl's eyes almost pleadingly before looking away, not wanting to make herself seem too vulnerable, afraid it would scare her young friend away. "Please Anna…you're needed here…I couldn't…if you…there's so much here you can do…it's dangerous out there…you've seen what happens…please just promise me you'll stay…I need you to…"
"Emma."
Her voice, low and somewhat frightened, has her shaking herself a little, her eyes snapping back to Anna's as she realizes with a dim sense of wonder that she had moved to stand directly in front of her, her hands gripping the nurse's tight—knuckles straining and going white with the effort. Releasing her abruptly, she backs away fast, apology on the tip of her tongue as she watches Anna's expression cloud a little, before understanding shines in her eyes and she nods.
"Okay."
"You'll stay? I need you to promise me."
"I'll stay Emma. I promise."
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
When Mary Margaret hugs her goodbye, Emma tries not to react as the woman holds her for a few seconds too long, her breathing coming out gasping and hitching as she whispers in her ear for her to be safe, the feel of David placing a soft kiss in her hair, causing her to close her eyes briefly as she allows herself to lean, just a little bit, into their warmth and comfort.
And when she finally pulls back from the long overdue embrace, neither of them say a word as she walks away, face streaked with tears and a tremulous smile wavering on her lips.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
The newest reports offer another slight victory.
They state that Regina's forces have been pushed back, further south, by Snow and Charmings army.
What remains in the immediate area are smaller but no less violent bands of rebellious and dark soldiers.
They aren't a large unit, their goal was never to fight on the front-lines in the first place but rather to deliver what security and help they can to some of the smaller villages on the outskirts of the Enchanted Forest.
There's twenty of them in total, twelve men and eight woman, ranging from teenager to veteran warrior. Mulan, their quiet yet commanding leader, a younger boy, Patrick, who can't be much older than eighteen and looks at her with kind and somewhat fearful brown eyes, Dylan a one-time friend of Lancelot's and expert with the sword and club, Mae their kind and soft spoken medic, as well as a handful of others whose names she tries not to learn.
She's seen enough death, destruction, and despair…
She's lost enough.
Been dealt one too many blows.
Throughout their training, and even now, as they ride away from the manor, she chooses not to learn their names, not to engage in conversation…
Because you can't be overly affected by the loss of someone you don't know.
The reports claim Regina's armies are falling back.
But Emma can't help but feel that despite the positive word, the war is far from ending…
The overture is coming to a close, the key players are in place, and the real show is about to begin…
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"They're cakes."
Glancing up as the brown-eyed boy, Patrick, approaches her, Emma watches him warily, her eyes flickering down to the hand that's extended towards her, holding something wrapped in a dark brown paper.
"My mother made them for our trip before we left, you want one?"
Eyes widening as she takes in the sight of the young soldier, a smile ghosting his lips as she stares at him hard, Emma shakes her head silently, watching when he looks away from her, an embarrassed and red flush creeping up his neck as he walks away.
He's just a child.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"A band of soldiers have been reported just west of here."
Standing next to her horse, breathing in the clear and crisp air, Emma looks up from her canteen as Mulan walks towards her, hand on the hilt of her sword, cloak billowing in the light wind—her features are pale and her eyes are shadowed with obvious and somewhat concerning fatigue.
"We received word from one of our scouts, they're hostile, dangerous…ruthless."
Swallowing, and offering her water to the other woman, Emma's eyes dart to the sky, her fingers itching to draw her sword as she considers Mulan's words—the need for action, the desire to fight only slightly worrying. "How many are there?"
The warrior's smile is tight and doesn't quite reach her eyes as her gaze sweeps over their small group—amateur soldiers and seasoned veterans alike—with a soft somewhat defeated sigh. "Enough."
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
They see the smoke first; dark clouds of black billowing up into the otherwise clear and bright sky, signalling destruction and hinting of imminent death.
The flames aren't visible until they're right on top of the town.
Their small party comes to a stop just outside of what had used to be a tiny farming village. It's a horrific sight. Her gaze scanning the still burning huts and the battered bodies littered across the ground, Emma closes her eyes for a moment before dismounting from her horse—heart lodged firmly in her throat.
They're too late.
The sight is shocking, the silence deafening, the smell sickening.
"Fan out, have your weapons ready…make sure to…to check for…for any remaining survivors."
Mulan's words are simple, a faint note of pain laced within them as she speaks in a firm yet quiet tone. And drawing her sword, forcing herself to move forward, Emma wonders how many times, since the war had started, the young woman's come across such a brutal scene—heart aching and blood pounding in her veins as she considers the silent question. She's seen too many torn and battered bodies when working with Evvie to expect that the number is anything but low.
Separating herself from the rest of the group, disregarding the appraising and pointed look Mulan shoots her way, the warrior's burning and searching gaze threatening to strip her of her carefully constructed emotional defenses, she picks her way through the remains of the village, insisting to herself that she's fine, she prepared herself for this.
She's fine.
Feeling the heat of the still smoldering flames, hearing the crackle and sizzle, she refuses to allow her eyes to linger too long on the burned and bloodied bodies that are strewn across the ground—their frozen faces twisted into horrified expressions of pain and agony.
She pretends she doesn't notice the smaller figures heaped together with the larger ones—tiny hands burned and charred. And she ignores the wave of nausea and the taste of bile that lingers in her throat when for a moment she envisions how frightened and helpless they all must have been.
Moving away from the group, she walks in between two darkened huts, treading slowly. The silver of her sword gleaming, her eyes alert and her ears straining, she struggles to maintain her composure, knowing that a breakdown is exactly what Mulan and the rest of her group are fearing and expecting from her.
She won't give it to her…to any of them.
She won't break…
Even as her eyes force her to see, every gruesome sight forever implanted in her brain; everything gone, destroyed, ruined…
She won't break.
Goddamn it she won't.
She'll fight.
She'll fight for them all.
And at the thought, at the realization of the pain and suffering the innocent and defenseless people of the tiny village went through, coupled with everything she remembers from the manor—the whispered and horrific stories, the steady stream of injuries, the broken families—her hate for Regina intensifies…
She wants revenge.
Coming around a corner, her boots shuffling through the soft soot covered dirt; noting that most of her group is lingering on the other side of the village, Emma scans the grounds thoroughly once again, her fingers trembling slightly around her weapon as her eyes catch sight of a tiny stuffed bear covered in mud.
It's too much.
And goddammit the wall she'd built around herself begins to waver
She had thought it impenetrable, she had told herself she could remain unaffected…
She had been wrong.
So very, very wrong.
Drawn to the bear, feeling some sort of sick pull, she makes a move to pick it up, unsure why she wants to in the first place, only vaguely hearing the hissing voices in her head that are cursing her for her dark and morbid urge. And blinking back a wave of tears, ignoring the harsh whispers, her fingers hovering just above the toy, she reaches down to grab it, her hand stilling as she suddenly hears the faint sounds of stifled moans drifting to her ears.
Whipping around, her braid nearly smacking her in the face with the sharp movement, Emma's eyes scan the area around her frantically, her ears straining desperately as her gaze roams over the smoldering huts, the burned bodies, and the scattered remains of the once small and lively place. It's only after she waits a heartbeat and then another and another still that she hears the moaning again, something akin to a sniffle followed by a panting grunt just barely rising among the silence of her still burning surroundings. Moving quickly, her eyes snapping behind her for a moment, she briefly debates signaling for help, her fingers clenching her sword so tightly her knuckles have gone white. But seeing that no one is in the immediate vicinity, unwilling to wait or look for help, she makes her way towards the sound, an untouched hut coming into view as she slowly shuffles closer.
Survivors?
Hope welling in her chest, tears still stinging at her eyes, she prays to a deity she no longer believes in that she finds someone, anyone, alive amidst the smoking wreckage.
Rounding the corner, the sounds of the moans rising to stuttered cries, ringing in the hazy air, Emma comes to a halt. Words stuck in her throat, eyes wide with horror, she takes in the sight she's stumbled upon as confusion, anger, and despair clash together harshly inside of her.
No.
No, no, no, no.
There's a girl, she's lying on the ground, dirt in her hair, blood splattered across her face, her clothes are almost completely torn away. She's crying, silently now, her left arm bent at and odd angle, her body littered with blood and bruises.
So many bruises.
And for a moment she can't look away.
She can't even move.
Everything inside of her is pulsing, begging for her to jump into action, but for a few brief seconds all she can do is stand, numbly staring in silent horror—the girl too pained to notice her, or quite possibly too exhausted to even care.
Do something!
MOVE!
And then, the girl's head turns, and her eyes widen as she sees Emma; something red hot and flaming coursing through her, she can feel electric and jolting sparks shooting through her body as they make eye contact; and without another thought, without another moment of hesitation, she springs into action, moving towards the girl quickly, her fingers trembling, her legs weak, and her mind in a dark and cruel place as she kneels down beside her in the dried and cold mud.
"Okay." she says it softly, quietly, stopping for a moment to gain her composure. "You're going to be okay." She whispers shakily, her voice croaked and rough as her eyes linger a little too long on the girls torn clothes, her mind drawing up vivid images of the horrors she had most likely faced at the hands of Regina's soldiers.
How many had there been?
One…two…more?
Does it even matter?
"You're going to be okay." She says again, unsure who she's trying to convince as she unclasps her cloak and quickly drapes it over the girl's exposed and dirty form. Glancing behind her, she squints, looking for someone…anyone…from her team, the thick fog of smoke and flame, blocking her vision.
Biting her lip, cursing no one in particular, she shakes her head, the sharp edges of desperation creeping up on her slowly. "Just let me…"
"Leave."
The soft and raspy voice quiets her words and Emma's eyes whip downwards to meet the swollen and damning blue gaze of the girl on the ground.
"I'm—I'm here to help, I'm—"
"I know who you are." Even soft and broken, her tone is dark, her voice hissing as tears run down her dirty face, smudging the mud and blood that's smattered there. "Your picture…it's everywhere…everywhere. The queen's men…they destroy towns…ruin lives…looking for you. They don't care who they hurt, what they do…" she wavers for a moment, scratched fingers clawing at the dirt beneath her. "I had a family…a good life…I had never even…I'm only fifteen…" turning her head, a low and despairing sob tumbling from her cracked lips, the girl, a mere child really, clenches her eyes shut tight, almost as if it pains her to look at her.
And in that moment Emma wants to run.
Wants to hide.
Wants to yell.
Scream.
Cry.
She feels hatred, stronger and more intense than anything she's felt since Henry's death shoot through her fast, her own self-loathing fast on its heels.
Sniffling, the girl purses her lips, and sucking in a deep and shuddering breath, she opens her eyes once again, tossing another accusing and unforgiving glare her way, barely concealed disgust masking her features and twisting them horribly. "I know who you are Emma…you're the reason this has happened…you're the reason the queen won't stop. You're the reason she lost her son. You're the reason for all of this."
Blame.
Anger.
Pain.
So, so much pain.
It nearly rips her a part, clawing at her from the inside out, hot agony warring with her spiking hatred.
And unable to take it any longer, stumbling to her feet, seeing the girl's lips still moving but not hearing her words, Emma turns—her eyes burning, her throat tightening, and a low hum drowning out everything else around her. Walking away, she leaves the girl, lying on the ground, the muffled sound of her words, her damning cries, echoing behind her as she trips and shuffles her way back through the village.
She can't breathe.
She. can't. fucking. breathe.
Seeing the young boy from her team, she makes her way over to him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him towards her, ignoring his shout of fear and shock as she does. Patrick, his name is Patrick, she registers dimly, watching as his eyes widen and his mouth opens to form a slight O of surprise as she sways heavily on her feet, the world tilting and spinning around her.
I know who you are.
I know who you are.
Emma.
Emma.
"Survivor." She whispers, her eyes darting to the ground as it wobbles dangerously under her hazy gaze. "Survivor over there…needs help…needs a woman…privacy…give her privacy. No men. She's hurt badly…oh God, no—no men, send Mulan and a nurse…Mae… and…she's over there." She knows her words are stuttered and halted, and she watches as confusion plays out over the boy's features—his eyes searching her face, color rising to his cheeks as she brings her other hand up to grip him tightly, shaking him harshly—fingers digging into the thick and coarse fabric of his shirt, snapping his attention back into focus. "She needs help! Don't you understand? She's hurt. But she's alive!" And dimly over the roaring thoughts in her head, seeing the way he nods fervently, a slight glimmer of fear shadowing his features, she thinks about the mother he'd mentioned days ago, curious if, before all this, he'd been sheltered, wondering how prepared he is for the atrocities of battle and revenge…
Whether he had been happy before all of this had started.
He seems too boyish and innocent for blood and death and rape and wars.
And almost immediately an image of Henry, his toothy smile and hopeful eyes flashes in her head, causing her to release him abruptly.
I know who you are Emma.
Letting him go with a muffled whimper, she stumbles away from him and heads for the trees, an acidic taste rising in her throat, her stomach churning with disgust and regret. And ignoring the sound of someone calling her name behind her, ignoring the way she can still smell burning flesh—the crackle and sizzle sounding behind her, ignoring the images of the girl battered and beaten lying in the mud, she makes her way to a heavy line of overgrown bushes, swatting branches away from her and stumbling over loose rocks and scattered twigs as she attempts to distance herself from the flames.
You're the reason she lost her son
Bending over suddenly, unable to control herself, unwilling to even try—the burn in her throat too painful, the churn in her gut too sickening—she empties the contents of her stomach with a gut-wrenching violence; eyes burning and heart breaking as everything, the reality of the war—the pain and violence and despair it brings—bombards and rushes her all at once.
You're the reason for all of this.
And with an anguished sob escaping her lips and the seductive promise of revenge against an army, against a grieving mother, against a ruthless queen, flashing in her mind, her legs giving out on her and her fingers fisting into the hard cold dirt of the ground beneath her, she closes her eyes, slumps over, and cries.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
They make camp, on a hillside, just short of the woods, miles outside the burning village.
No one looks at her as they set up their tents against the cold wind.
No one talks to her as they eat dried meats and pass around a flask of warming liquor.
And no one questions her when she stands-up abruptly and leaves the group, silently turning in for the night…accusing whispers in a rasped voice and swollen and broken eyes damning her to hell, haunting her as sleep evades her.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
It's barely dawn.
There are thin rays of glimmering sunlight peeking through the overly puffy gray clouds hanging low in the sky; their golden beams streaking past the leafless trees, just barely lighting the still shadowed woods that lays ahead of them. Birds are just rousing for the morning, calling to each other with squawking and high pitched songs, squirrels dash and move chattering away while the larger forest animals remain hidden as a whipping wind whirls though the air.
"Run Emma! Run!"
Patrick screams the words at her as he runs by her side, tripping and stumbling through the thick line of trees—the smell of winter crisp and brisk invading her nose as her boots crunch, slide, and pound against the hard and cold dirt. After being ambushed by a group of heavily armed soldiers their, party had fled for the cover of the forest—the image of Mae, the soft-spoken healer, being struck though the heart by a carefully aimed and well shot arrow, flashing in her head as she shifts her grip on her bow and chances a look back. There's a blur of figures not far behind them, the echo of shouts and the distant sound of swords clashing causing her to pause. Squinting she shakes her head, peering through the trees, trying her hardest to focus—it looks like they've stopped. She swears she can hear Mulan's voice ringing out, shouting orders, the others halting and turning to make a stand with her.
"Wait! Wait they've stopped. They've stopped! We have to go back! We have to fight!" she yells it, slowing a little as she tries to see past her fogged vision, attempting to place the moving figures as enemy or ally—Regina's army dressed in black battle gear from head to toe.
"No!"
The boy grabs her then, hands digging into her cloak as he pulls her behind a large boulder, low hanging branches scraping across her cheek and causing her to wince as she stumbles after him, too surprised to react at first.
"We need to get out of here."
Resisting the urge to lash out, knowing that he's scared, and confused and way over his head, Emma forces herself to calm down, her roaring and muddled brain hissing for her to just heed his request and flee, even as another, stronger, part of her screams for her to go back, to stay, to fight. "Listen, kid—"
"We can't take them."
She tilts her head to the side, drawing her lip into her mouth as his voice breaks and wavers a little with obvious fear and almost tangible desperation—eyes begging her, body trembling visibly. Shooting him a slightly reassuring smile, one that feels false and forced, she glances around the boulder, trying to slow her breathing, noting how everything seems to have come to a complete standstill. She can make out Mulan and Dylan and a few others as the two sets of warriors face off silently in an arena full of underbrush, fallen leaves, and trees. And then, almost in the blink of an eye, it resumes again, and she watches as both sides charge, angry curses flying as they engage in brutal hand to hand combat—spears and swords, daggers and spiked clubs.
"I'm going back."
"Emma we have to run!"
Pulling her arrow out she raises her bow, a wave of sympathy rushing through her as she takes in the sight of Patrick's still trembling form. "Listen, you do whatever you want, I'm staying… people…our people…are fighting back there, I saw Mulan…"
Peering around the boulder with her, he stares at the fighting group, closing his eyes for a moment before looking back at her with frantic and watery brown eyes. "Don't you get it! It's suicide! They're giving us a shot. Our best chance. She stopped them so that we could get away. So that you could get away…it's what we're supposed to do. You have to live. It's what we've been ordered to do…protect you!"
"No…" trailing off Emma shakes her head, not wanting to believe his words, unwilling to accept the fact that they would sacrifice themselves so that she could flee. "No…why-why would they…"
"You are the princess! I know you don't act like it, I know you don't think of yourself as one…but you are! And I know I'm only a kid to you, but the evil queen wants you…she wants you alive. And you saw what they did to that girl in the village!" His words waver, his tone low, and voice cracking. "If…if they get you…just because they can't kill you doesn't mean…you saw what they did…we have to go! I have to protect you. I swore I would!"
"Hey Patrick." Ignoring the flood of images his words force upon her, the sparking realization that there's more going on than she's aware of, she whispers his name softly, paying no attention to the way her body is shaking and her ears are ringing; instead she moves closer, stopping only when he backs away—the always constant voice inside her head screaming at her to move, begging her to either hurry the hell up and heed his warning or get her ass moving and fight "Hey it's okay, listen—"
It happens in slow motion.
A whistling noise.
A sickening thud.
And she's cut off before she can finish.
Words dying in her throat, Emma can only stare dumbly at Patrick as he flinches suddenly, his face contorting oddly, a look of confusion, evident even in the dim light, crossing his young features before he looks down slowly, her eyes following the movement and growing large as she sees a small dagger impaled deep in his chest.
"Oh God!" She moves to catch him as he falls, but he stumbles back and away from her, his arms flailing out, a gurgling cough bubbling up from his throat as he turns his pained gaze behind her, a dark figure approaching them both.
"Run." he whispers it, his voice weak, as his fingers drift over his chest, dancing across the knife, a whimper escaping his already pale lips, a tear running down his dirty cheek.
Henry.
Oh God Henry.
"No." Her throat feels raw, her entire body numb, her mind cruelly taunting her with images of another enchanted land, of another boy stabbed mercilessly in the chest.
No. No. No. No!
And watching as he drops to his knees, seemingly unable to hold himself up any longer, Emma shouts out an anguished curse, her eyes misting over and vision going out slightly as she makes a move towards him—everything around her, the soldiers, the fighting, the entire world, fading out and going away for a moment as a choked sob escapes her lips.
Please no.
It isn't until she sees a blur and a flash of movement, hears the rustling of leaves and the cracking of twigs, that she remembers who she is, where they are, and what is happening…
They're under attack.
She needs to fight.
Quickly raising her bow, pulling the arrow back tight, she spins and lets it go without thinking, watching as is it flies through the air, hitting the approaching soldier right between the eyes, the surprised look on his face fading as he drops on the spot.
It's a sickening thrill.
And without another thought, whispering her apologies to Patrick and promising herself that she'll come back for him, she runs towards the chaos, arrows flying and eyes focused as she throws up her walls and clears her mind, reveling in the rush of blazing heat that burns through her veins each time she hits her target, every time she gets to watch another soldier fall.
She wants blood.
And with the thought resonating throughout her, she goes to grab another arrow, cursing when she realizes she's out. Her hand immediately reaching for her sword, she pauses for a moment when she sees a man coming towards her slowly, a predatory smile dusting his ugly features as he shifts his own weapon from hand to hand—fighting, fierce and intense, still taking place on the outskirts of the woods.
"Looks like I've found myself a pretty little prize."
Clenching her jaw, and narrowing her gaze she shifts her attention back to him, and lifting her blade she tries to remember, past the flashing images of Patrick's nearly lifeless form and over the whirling hum in her ears, everything she's learned, all the ways she's trained and hazed herself, preparing for a moment like this.
Moving closer, boots shuffling through the dried leaves so that they are only a few feet apart, his eyes, the color dark and dull and almost completely emotionless, rake over her once—the slow perusal doing nothing to soothe her anger. "How's about you drop that blade there. No need to hurt yourself, a sword is different form those little arrows you were shooting before. Come and be a good girl and I'll go easy on you." His smile is slow and sickening, "I'll even tell everyone after me to not rough ya up too bad…such a pretty face after all." Taking another step he lifts his sword, the metal glinting threateningly as tilts his head to the side, sizing her up once more. "Then again, I don't think it's your face the boys will be interested in…although a few of em are partial to blondes."
All at once her brain shuts down on her, just for a moment, swollen eyes, dirty blonde hair, and a battered face staring up at her, a burning village, ruined homes, and piles of bodies.
"You sick son of bitch." she breathes it, her words barely above a whisper as she shakes herself from her momentary lapse; and then she's moving, screaming, yelling, howling, cursing him to hell and back as she rushes him fast, their swords clashing terribly, the feeling of metal hitting metal shooting up her arm as he immediately reacts, lifting his weapon and fighting back.
"You like it rough girlie?"
"Shut your goddamned mouth. I'm going to kill you, I'm going to fucking murder you and…"
He charges her before she can finish and she just barely jumps out of the way to avoid a clean swipe to her side, his laughter at her surprised glare and angry grunt only fueling her desire to to hurt, maim…
Kill.
Darkness edging her vision, a rush of energy pushing her forward, she collects herself again, hammering blow after blow down on his blade, letting her anger drive her on as she forces him back, watching as his eyes widen a little, noting the way his feet shuffle over loose rocks, tripping across overgrown roots and fallen branches as she quickly gains the upper hand.
She wants blood.
It isn't long before, much to his obvious surprise, his blade falls to the ground, an unforgiving punch followed by a kick to his chest and she's standing over him, her sword resting under his chin and pressing into his skin, nicking him just enough for a thin red line to trickle down his neck. Bending down suddenly, straddling him quickly, she presses it further into him, her face mere inches from his, the smell of his breath, sour and putrid, filtering across her face. And it's only as his dull eyes go from smug to fearful that she finds herself pausing, her anger ebbing away to terror as she comes back to herself, swallowing thickly, hand faltering on her weapon as she looks down at him, eyes blinking rapidly, heart racing fast.
"Isn't as easy as you thought it would be…harder than shootin' at people from a safe distance isn't it?" He speaks to her in a rasped tone, hissing the words out, spit shooting out and hanging on his lips as his voice takes on an almost mocking note. "Have you ever looked someone in the eye before you killed him girlie? Have you ever felt the slide of a blade as it ripped through skin and muscle?" He only laughs as she digs the sword a little deeper, words cutting off and body shifting ever so slightly, before he glares at her again. "Do it!"
She hesitates.
And it isn't until she feels a searing pain at her side that she realizes her crucial mistake.
She lost the upper-hand.
Gasping, looking down to see a dagger lodged in her gut, she shakes her head, unwilling to believe the sight, a voice in her head pleading with her to do something, even as she cries out, wincing in pain as the soldier bucks beneath her before headbutting her hard throwing her off of him and sending shock-waves of hurt skittering throughout her body as the knife inside of her shifts. And writhing on the ground she watches through half-opened eyes as he stumbles to his feet a satisfied and dark smile lifting his lips as he takes a step closer to her, everything inside of her tensing as she realizes that this is it.
It she's lucky she'll lose consciousness soon.
If she's lucky he'll only kill her.
Oh God, she's not ready.
He stops.
Eyes shifting over her, focusing somewhere far behind her, she watches through fading vision as his face falls slightly, fear and rage crossing his ugly features as he looks down at her once more before taking a step back. And casting one last look her way, he turns around…
And runs.
The world goes gray, fading out as the sound of pounding feet and shouting voices, the touch of warm hands on her face, and the feel of numbing pain in her side, lulls her to sleep.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"If you let her bloody die I will end each and every one of you!"
There's a stitch and burn in her side, her throat feels dry, and the pounding in her head is almost unbearable.
Keeping her eyes closed she tries not to move, unsure if she even can; her body feels as if its on fire, her limbs heavy and weak.
There's someone next to her, prodding and touching her and she wants to scream and yell for them to stop because it hurts.
Everything fucking hurts.
And with a soft sob, and a gasping breath, she listens, over the pounding in her skull and the dizziness in her brain, to the lilting and broken voice, as it continues to shout and curse; the sound even though angry and pained, comforting her as she slips away.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"Wake up darling."
She knows the voice.
She wants to do as it says.
She sleeps.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
Opening her eyes, Emma blinks once, looking around the unfamiliar and dark room; squinting at the figure standing over her, her eyes fluttering closed again before opening once more.
"Emma?"
Focusing her gaze, she waits for her vision to clear a little more, a wave of relief slamming into her hard as she recognizes Mulan, arm in a sling, bandage above her left eye, stepping up to her bed.
"Where-?" She shakes her head, trying to swallow over the dryness in her throat, watching as Mulan nods quickly, understandingly, and hurries to a small table; picking up the jug of water that rests there she pours her a cup. Reaching out unsteady and slightly weak hands Emma accepts it gratefully, paying no attention as she drinks heavily, cool water dribbling down her chin and spilling onto her chest as she does. "Where are we?"
"Safe-house. How are you feeling?"
"Like shit."
Mulan smiles at that, a tight grin that doesn't quite meet her eyes, moving closer she gestures to her somewhat vaguely. "The healer had a rough time with you. Finally stitched you up, used a couple of spells on the wound, said you should make a full recovery with a little time, care and patience."
Nodding, Emma takes another sip, her thoughts drifting to her intertwined moments of wakefulness and unconsciousness. "Um Hook? I…when I was out of it…I thought I heard…"
"His group found us…found you…I came across them as they were clearing the trees…"
Mulan's answer is short and clipped, a shade of pained emotion darkening her features as she averts her gaze; and feeling a tingling of anxiety prickling inside of her, Emma stares at her patiently, struggling for another sip of water and ignoring the ache in her side as she she shifts her position ever so slightly, her mind wandering to Patrick, Mae, and the rest of their small group. "Everyone else?"
Mulan's silence has her closing her eyes again.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
The healers try to force her to take something for pain and sleep and when she fights them on it, refusing to let herself slink back into the drug-induced state of mind that had claimed her after Henry, Mulan intervenes.
"If you want to get better, get back out there, then you have to cooperate with the people who are trying to help you." She speaks to her in a firm but gentle tone—expression hardened with determination, eyes glimmering with her mutual desire to to jump back into the fray.
Exhausted, Emma relents.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
When she wakes again she swears she sees Hook, sitting by her bedside, eyes red and expression drained, her hand is in a warm and tight grip and she feels a sense of gratefulness that he's there, by her side, thumb brushing the back of her hand lightly, voice warm and soothing murmuring words to her softly.
She can't help but wonder if she's dreaming.
Regardless, she doesn't want him to leave.
The next time she wakes up she's alone.
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
"The manor has fallen."
Hook.
Sitting up in bed, she looks up as he enters her room, watching as he moves to the foot of the bed with slow and stinted movements; the sight of him bringing a jolt of curious relief crashing through her even as she notes with a twinge of alarm the long, somewhat deep bloodied cut that mars his bearded face, her eyes widening a little as her sleep-deprived brain finally considers his words.
"What?"
"The manor…it's fallen. Regina's forces broke through two nights ago."
Straightening slightly, the twitch in her side barely registering as steady and mounting panic begins to build up inside of her—Mary Margaret, David, Ruby, Anna, Evvie, Grace—she looks him in the eye—clear and steady blue staring back at her unblinkingly, his lips pursed and expression impassive. "What are you saying?"
"She overthrew it. She infiltrated the walls. It's gone. Everything's gone."
~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~~~K&E~~
Whew!
So I know we didn't see a lot of Hook and Emma interaction (not the kind I know many of you were hoping for) but as I was writing, my focus shifted a bit. I didn't want to rush Emma into war, I didn't want to speed things along unnecessarily, but at the end of it all I wanted the manor to be out of the picture, so we can really get to the nitty gritty stuff.
Oh was that stuff up there nitty gritty?
Huh.
Anyway, I know that it has been forever since the last update but the chapters are long (16,000 words +) so it's kinda like two updates in one right? Hope you enjoyed this bit, the next chapter will definitely have more Hook and Emma scenes, as they are now together, the war has turned (again), and there's no headquarters so to speak.
P.S.- I know a lot of you have complained a little about how Emma has closed herself off and her ddepressing attitude and I'm sorry if you don't like it. While ultimately there will be a love story involved, I have no plans to write her as warm and fuzzy anytime soon (ever). I'm sorry.
Please review!
