Long time no see! sorry for being gone so very long, this story fell by the wayside as life got crazy and busy for me. I'm sure most people have forgotten this story, but for those of you who drop me the occasional review assuring me you're still there, this is for you. Second last chapter, lets finish this long, long haul.

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"Lay your head where my heart used to be

Hold the earth above me

Lay it down in the green grass

Remember when you loved me

Come closer don't be shy

Stand beneath a red sky

Moon is over the rise-"

Emma swallowed, cutting her song off. Her saliva was thick, throat raw and achy, wishing someone would come by soon and give her even a small sip more of water. She'd been singing the only two songs she knew on repeat for the last two days, or maybe it had been more… or less? She sighed, her back pressed to the wall, legs folded under her on the cold dusty floor as she hung her head. She wasn't sure, a long time anyways.
She had never been in a room that had been deliberately designed to be uncomfortable. Not the "wow, this chair sucks" or "too cold/hot/damp/dry" or even "no furniture here, fuck you" kind of uncomfortable. It was the kind of uncomfortable that put you on edge, a room that seemed specifically designed to put you off balance.
There wasn't enough light, in a way that her eyes just couldn't seem to adjust to no matter how much she tried. The shadows were just this side of too thick to make anything out clearly, but just enough light that her eyes could play tricks on her as time passed; phantom shapes and darting figures that weren't really there. An aged and warped mirror hung on the wall that twisted everything in ways that occasionally made you afraid to look at it because you might see something in it that also wasn't there… or was it? And yet because the room was so small, you couldn't help but look; feel it there almost, drawing the eye unwillingly. There were no windows, she wasn't sure if it was day or night, you had to count that out by the meals that came, but those were irregular and not reliable at the moment. Her stomach growled a complaint at the thought. There was a bucket in the corner and a thin board on two logs with a blanket on it. It was a small room, bordering claustrophobic. She had lost count of how many steps she had paced in this room. But the worst part of this uncomfortable room was how quiet it was. It was an unnatural quiet, everything seemed to just... absorb sound. It was so quiet that she could hear the blood rushing in her ears, deafening her, and as the silence seemed to thicken with each passing hour the sound of her lungs expanding and contracting and her heart beating like a hammer as blood rushed through her viens fuelled a thick, ever expanding sense of dread in her chest.

So she swallowed again, tongue feeling thick as she continued the song to fill her ears and keep the silence at bay.

"Clear the thistles and brambles

Whistle 'Didn't he ramble'

Now there's a bubble of me

And it's floating in thee,"

She was being punished but she'd expected nothing less she thought, looking down at the braided leather wrapped around her wrist and feeling how it thrummed with some magic meant to tamp down her own. Yet as time seemed to stretch and stretch and stretch she felt like it was more than punishment, it was a lesson in cruelty without pain. They wanted her to really regret what she'd done, to admit and repent in earnest. No, not they, Harris wanted that. Emma knew the festival was soon at least, they'd let her out of this quiet hell for that at least, but she was growing… admittedly nervous. What if they brought her back here after and just… left her here? She looked at the leather bracelets and figured someone would have to come change them out, the enchantment could only hold her for so long, but other than that…
Harris had promised he'd lock her up, that if she was good in a few years he'd let her out for a walk, what if this was going to be home for her? Emma squeezed her eyes shut and sang a little louder, trying to drive the thoughts away.

"Stand in the shade of me

Things are now made of me

The weather vane will say

It smells like rain today,"

Regret. Yes logically she should regret this choice. It probably didn't have to be this hard, it could have been easier and better. Not by a lot but… maybe just a little more bearable. And she'd thrown it away on a man she was reasonably sure didn't really love her. Emma wasn't a total fool after all, how could he? He barely knew her. Perhaps he really did like her, fancied her even; nothing grand enough to justify the sacrifice really. He'd made a good show of it, good enough for her anyways. The truth was she was just… starving. Starving for even a little bit of affection or a scrap of kindness and she begrudgingly acknowledged that about herself, whilst only glancing at the possibility he didn't care about her at all; had possibly been playing her like a tavern piano. Knowing that, she should regret it.
But then she remembered silver coins, shared drinks, and laying in someone's arms. His breath tickling her neck as the rhythm of his breathing passing the night, feeling wanted, feeling free… yeah, Emma Swan didn't regret shit. A few pretty memories, a couple of moments of feeling wanted were worth a lot to her. She was so fucking pathetic.

"God took the stars and he tossed 'em

Can't tell the birds from the blossoms

He'll make a tree from me

Don't say goodbye to me-"

Emma's throat seemed to close suddenly, too tight for another note to pass her lips for a long moment. A feeling started building in her chest and she tried to push it down, taking a shaky breath she tried again.

"Can't tell the birds from the blossoms

He'll make a tree from me

Don't say goodbye to me-"

She clapped a hand over her mouth as the last line came out sounding horribly like a sob. A traitorous tear spilled down her cheek, and then another, and then another. Emma's shoulders shook silently as her sorrow poured out of her. She'd fallen in love, she really was a fucking idiot. Emma grit her teeth after another gasping sob escaped her lips, violently scouring the tears from her cheek with her sleeve. She banged the back of her head against the wall behind her twice, each one sounding with a dull thud that made her teeth rattle in her head to make herself stop.

"Stop it," she hissed at herself, "you don't get to cry about him being gone." Because it was stupid, and there were already plenty of reasons to cry. She shouldn't be sad he was gone, he was free and alive at least. "Better off than me," she muttered to the empty room, a small smile on her lips, "Oh how the knight in shining armor has fallen."
Already talking to herself; that was a great sign she thought, her wry smile growing. A few moments of silence passed, pressing in on her like it was going to bury her, suffocate her and she nearly started to cry again as the sound of her heartbeat crashed through her ears like a wave beating mercilessly against the surf.
Emma squeezed her eyes shut with a deep breath.

"Don't say goodbye to me

Describe the sky to me

Lay down on the green grass

Remember when you lov-"

The sound of the door opening was legitimately so startling and loud to her she choked on the last line of the song and started to cough. The light blinded her momentarily before the door closed again. It took a second for her eyes to readjust to her dim surroundings but when they did, she saw Harris there. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, patiently waiting for her to realize it was him.

"The caged bird sings such a sad song, does she miss her pirate already?" he asked when he saw the recognition on her face. That was exactly how she was feeling, and having Harris point it out to her with mock sympathy dripping like a saccharine poison from his lips would have normally angered her, sent her into a practiced tight silence. Well it did anger her, but the need to play the games she'd played before were gone. Her forced meekness no longer had a purpose except to beg her jailer for mercy and perhaps small pleasures – and Emma Swan didn't fucking beg. So when the urge to spit at him arose, she didn't bother curbing it this time, making a vulgar noise in the back of her throat before hacking up a thick glob of spit. It landed on his shoe almost audibly, and she watched his eyes flick down to note it before bouncing back to narrow on her.
She didn't break her gaze from his, because fuck him if he thought mastering her was going to be easy. His expression turned smug, which caught her off guard as he shook his head.

"There it is, the Furie born in you finally coming out," he said. "All the others had the same look, Defiant; incredibly, annoyingly defiant. Of course that usually worked against them, made things easier, because none of them could play the game, never smart enough to know when to curb that temper, when to play a part. But you," He moved across the room, sitting across from her on the board and blanket that served as her bed. "You did. You know at first I thought it would be fun, you know, cat and mouse, tripping you up, watching you fall. For a little bit it was even, but you just kept managing to stay upright. Turns out the chess of it gets old pretty quickly for me," he shrugged, "What can I say? I'm not about the chase or the game, I'm in this to bag a prize."

Emma felt lost, like she'd missed something or forgotten some conversation they'd had. He talked as if he'd known other Furie born before her. "What are you talking about?" she asked slowly.

His smile widened and he held out his arms as if to gesture at the cage he now kept her in. "The game is won at last. It's not a surprise, I always win." His smiled dropped a bit, "I suppose there was once… when I didn't." Harris got a faraway look in his eye, as if recalling some hauntingly disappointing events long past. "Well… I made do."

"What do you want, Harris?"

He seemed to bring himself back to the present moment, remembering why he was here. "I suppose I want you to understand."

"That you're an insufferable piece of shit – I understand that better than most," Emma replied, feeling a perverse sort of pleasure in being able to just hurl the vulgarities she'd only allowed herself to think loudly in his direction for so long. Maybe there was a certain freedom in being doomed. She didn't fail to notice her snide words were having no effect on Harris however, and that worried her. Harris never suffered disrespect unless he had something nasty in store to hit back with.

"Ah yes, the insults now, all the others did that too. Like snarling animals trapped in a corner with nowhere to go, they didn't understand at first either."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The other Furie born of course, try to keep up," he answered, as if she were being intentionally thick.

"You couldn't have met other Furie born." She rolled her eyes for emphasis on how tiresome and idiotic that lie was.

"No?"

"Pretty sure the last one was thirty years before we were born." Everyone knew that, they kept a record, and people never failed to refer to those before her and their deeds of violence in arguments against her.

"Keylilah," He said, "She had the blackest hair I had ever seen, a stark contrast to you – I never did figure out how a Furie born was being bared by a completely different woman with no blood relation – but perhaps one day down the road I'll figure it out."

"If you could just get to the punchline of whatever you're building up to I have four walls that require my urgent attention," she told him, trying to sound disinterested if only to shake his smugness.

"Do you remember me growing up?"

The question caught her off guard she'll admit, but she tried to act as if it hadn't. "Of course I do, I've known you my whole life. Unfortunately."

"Did we go to school together?" he asked

"We…" Emma paused. "Of course we did, yes."

"Tell me a specific memory you have of me from when we were both kids, or literally from any other age but this one," He pressed. Emma found herself… unable to answer, because she couldn't think of one. There was a feeling, almost an assurance in her mind that of course he had been there but… she couldn't recall even one real interaction with him as a child. Her memories of him seemed to only begin at adulthood but that… made no sense!
"Who are my parents?"

Everyone knew everyone here, it was a fairly small town, of course she knew… only she didn't. Emma began to examine these gaps of knowledge in her mind and the more she did the wider they got, and the more alarmed she began to feel. "How did the last comet born die?" he asked, his voice striking the same tone as the hammer when the last nail was being driven into a coffin – final, and ominous.

The silence was her only answer, her only memory of any story that focused on anything other than the terrible Furie curse was some comet born swooping in to save the town from it. Emma stared at him wide eyed and shaken. Who… who the hell was this man?

"You see Emma, there has only ever been one comet born in this town, and he discovered something fascinating when he married the first Furie born. Not the one he wanted but no less a blessing it turns out. She withered after some time, but him?" He looked to the mirror on the wall, as if speaking to himself. "His life went on, aging so much slower than those around him. His lands were fat, and he prospered to an… abnormal degree." His voice was so very calm and matter of fact, almost good humored as he continued. "And as the decline of that prosperity began and his aging began to speed up, another Furie born girl came to be. He remembered his first wife and the way she spoke of stars when she wasn't acting like a hissing wildcat. It took some study, some learning of magic – of which by the way he had learned and gained a lot of over the years - but he figured out how to read the signals of the Furie star. And he knew what he had to do. I knew what I had to do." There was a terrible glint in his eyes as he finally looked back to her, watching the disbelief and horror dawn on her face.
"After all that, with the magic he now had and knew how to put to good use, all that he needed was a good story; getting a good legend and the superstitions ingrained. I can't really manipulate the already ingrained traditions or I'd have done away with this goddamn festival bullshit ages ago."

"You're lying." It was too crazy, too twisted to possibly be true, he was just fucking with her he had to be.

"The absolute best thing about this story is that for the first time, I'm not."
He was grinning from ear to ear, a dark shadow in those beady eyes of his. "People began to notice how very slowly I was aging, but by then I had enough magic to make people forget the odd things about me, how to make them assume a normal upbringing with me. I've changed my name a few times just to give it a little more credibility to outsiders but as you can see, it's working marvelously." He stood then and stepped forward, in the small room it left him towering over her.
"I suppose what I want you to understand is that I've been winning this game for longer than you've been alive, and I'm going to keep winning. Sure your pirate got away, and yes the fact you used my own stories against me to justify that small victory was infuriating. But the war was lost long ago. So snarl, rage and spit, but just know – the extent of your failure to win in any meaningful way?" he shook his head almost sadly, "beyond your comprehension."

With that he stepped away, turned around and moved to the door; leaving Emma to try to grapple with what she'd just learned. The sheer weight that was sinking into her gut and holding her there on the ground, in this town, made her feel as if she'd never stand again. "And when you start to doubt that, just try to recall literally any specific memory of us as kids." He threw the words over his shoulder, a challenge he clearly didn't think she had a chance of winning.

He was right.

"…You're lying," she almost whispered to his back, it was too fucking awful to be true. And if it was… who would believe her?

"The festival is tonight, I'll have someone come get you ready. We can finally finish this last step, latest wife of mine." He stopped before he opened the door and turned back to look at her. "Which reminds me, my real name is Nathaniel – I figure a wife and husband should know these things about each other." And with that he left, locking the door behind him and leaving her drowning in silence, having dealt a blow that no flurry of fists could ever hope to measure up against.

Everything after that was a dull blur, a couple women coming in and being escorted by them plus two guards to another more brightly lit room. They went about helping her dress for the festival, sitting her down and doing her hair as she passively, almost mechanically assisted them. At first she felt hollow. There had been thirty-seven Furie born in the history of this town including her, and they'd all been doomed by an insidious set of lies designed to set them up for failure. Designed to cow them in the worst way and she was just the latest one to march to the chopping block. It felt like there was no hope, there had never been hope. She briefly, almost distantly, thought about how she'd forced herself into such a demure role in her life to keep some freedom, some control of her life and how it had meant nothing, how much power Harris really had over this town and how insurmountable it actually was. But what she really kept circling back to, over and over was that number.

Thirty-seven…

The old dressmaker and her daughter tightened a few strings on her dress so that the white fabric, pretty but not extravagant, hugged her middle and pushed her cleavage higher, swishing simply but elegantly around her ankles. They washed her face and dabbed ceremonial ointments on her neck and shoulders so she smelled like cloves and cinnamon. A flame was starting to burn at the very pit of her being.

Thirty-seven…

Pins bit into the back of her scalp to pull her hair up and away from her shoulders, the dress maker's daughter had skilled fingers, weaving and tying the blond curls into an intricate pattern against her head and framing her face.

Thirty-seven…

Emma looked at her reflection in the mirror as the pair of women neared completion of preparing her for the festival. She looked pretty, ceremonial, she looked like a handful of the other girls who were excited to pick the man whom they wished to make their husbands. The flame grew, consuming her from the inside out and feasting its hungry raging embers on her heart.

Thirty-seven…

"You will make a beautiful festival bride yourself one day," The dress maker told her daughter when she saw how she looked at Emma, as if imagining longingly and jealously of herself in the dress. Emma hated her, she hated them both, she hated the whole town in that moment. Harris thought his gloating would break her, that his revelation would be him crushing her under his boot, his reveling in his victory would drive home her hopeless situation.

He'd crushed something alright, she though as her reflection stared back at her with a calm that should have scared the two women and the two guards who watched them work. That should have scared this whole goddamn town.
Because she couldn't win, and so this wasn't about winning anymore. What Harris, what Nathaniel, had really crushed was any real reason to fall in line quietly.

There wasn't going to be a thirty-eighth. The record was going to stop at thirty-fucking-seven – so help her god.

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The song is green grass by tom waits, if anyone is wondering, I recommend the ukelele version I listened too to write this by BBA! Much luv!