A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for such great reviews on the last chapter! So, I just got myself my first beta, rolltidegoironmen! :D I feel so proud! So I hope you all like this chapter! It's a little sadder than all the other chapters. Emma tells Mary Margaret something important and you find out why the dreams stopped. I hope you all enjoy! R&R
Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT!
I've been visiting my mother in my dreams since I was a child? That can't be right.
I can't seem to catch my breath. My thoughts are jumbled; how could that even be possible? I mean, yeah, I remember my nights spent with Snow, but how much does she remember? How much does she know? I told her everything in my dreams, as many times as I visited her. Well, I almost told her everything. I never told her about Kevin or my romance with Neal; I never could. I thought she'd be disappointed.
Mary Margaret seems just as frazzled as I am. Why wouldn't she be? I wonder for a brief moment why this takes me by such a surprise. I've had my son die, fought a dragon, faced a witch, and climbed a beanstalk, yet I'm speechless because my mother knows more about me than I originally assumed she did. It seems like that's my last straw. I'd been communicating with my mom in my dreams for the first eighteen years of my life; I just didn't realize it. Or, more, I realized it; I just chose to forget about it.
"Mary Margaret?" I ask after many tense minutes of silence. I couldn't take it anymore. Her wide eyes meet mine; I spot the panic immediately. "Whoa, what's wrong? You're freaking out more than I am." I say teasingly, though I ask seriously. My eyes widen even more when I take in her features, panic pushing through my veins. Her face is pale and her green eyes are full of unspoken fear.
"I just," she swallows, trying to clear the roughness in her voice, "I'm having all these images rush at me. It's a lot." She says, her voice still hoarse. I notice the slight flicker of her eyes shifting away from mine, letting me spot her lie instantly.
"Liar." I find my voice can't reach any higher than a whisper. Maybe she's not lying, but she's not telling the full truth about what's gotten her so upset.
I take in a shaky breath, preparing myself for whatever it is she's going to say. Now that she remembers, does she still want me? She knows about all the foster homes I've been in. She knows my skepticism about her name: Snow White. She knows all the girls that I hated as a teenager. She knows of my thieving life. She knows I had a partner in crime; she just doesn't know I fell in love with him. She knows all the mistakes I've made. She knows more about my past than even I remember.
"I don't know what yo-" Hearing her voice shake at the denial, I cut her off.
"What are you scared of?" She shakes her head at me as if to tell me nothing was wrong. "Don't lie. I know you're scared of something." She looks at me, her eyes portraying everything. I still hang on to a sliver of hope that she might not remember every dream that we shared. I especially hope she doesn't remember our last two meets. The hope is wasted, I'm sure, but that doesn't stop it from reaching my heart.
"The last dream I had…" She trials off shaking her head. That sliver of hope disappears from my heart instantly. I had yelled at her, telling her that she wasn't my real mother, that she was just a dream. I push the palms of my hands into my eyes, putting immense pressure on them. I shake my head.
"I-I can't-" I breathe, trying to control my shaking voice. I put up that mask, the one I swore I wouldn't use. I lift my head and meet her eyes, and her fear increases. I wonder what she sees, what makes her so scared. "I can't give you any explanation." My voice is emotionless, dead. I don't mean to shut her out, I really don't, but I know I can't tell her about Neal, about the babies. About my baby girl. At that thought, my armor cracks just the slightest, and I know my mom can see the despair flash in my eyes. She shifts closer to me, pulling me into a hug. I try not to let my mask drop, but she's caught me in a moment of weakness.
"Oh my baby." She whispers knowingly. "The nightmare." She doesn't ask because she already knows the answer. I put my head on her shoulder, trying not to let the tears fall. I feel consumed with the despair of the loss of my child. Tears leak out of my eyes as I shake my head.
"It was so real." My voice sounds so weak to my ears, making them want to bleed. The one thing I fear more than anything in the world is weakness, so I made most of my weaknesses evaporate, taking my emotions with them. Some I couldn't hide, no matter how hard I tried, but others left easily. Crying wasn't an option. People take advantage of you when you cry. I sure learned that the hard way; teenage girls make me sick.
"Oh sweetie, it was just a nightmare. You don't have to worry." I look at her, shaking my head. If only it had just been a nightmare. That would make me feel better. Nightmares were so easily shoved aside by me, forgotten almost as soon as I wake up. Nightmares that are memories, those are an entirely different story. I've had my mistakes and memories play back in my head since I was sixteen and took my first drink. Those mistakes that I couldn't take back played in my head at night, constantly reminding me of how many times I'd screwed up. They eventually faded away with time, but the tragic nightmares, the ones that truly haunted me, came whenever they pleased. They didn't stop, no matter how many years went by. Just a week before Henry showed up at my doorstep was the last time I had a nightmare about Kevin's attack. Until I came here.
"If only it was." I feel my lower lips shaking heavily wanting me to sob, to finally mourn the loss of my child. "She was so young." The tears fall steadily now, as I look Mary Margaret in the eye, lifting my face away from her shoulder. I close my eyes, taking several deep breaths before trying to speak again. "Tell me," I say coldly, my mask back in place, "if love really does exist, how could whoever controls life and death let such a young life go?" My voice cracks again; I didn't expect the mask to last me through the question, so I'm thankful that it did. I take another deep breath, my heart pounding at the confusion on Mary Margaret's face. My mothers face. That little girl would be her granddaughter. That thought springs tears into my eyes again, but I desperately try to not let them fall. Not yet. She needs to know, and I know she'll ask sooner rather than later.
"What young life?" She asks softly, but I can see the wariness in her eyes. She knows it's something deep, something that I normally wouldn't share. Not that I'd share any of these stories with her under any different circumstances. I mentally square my shoulders and try to reply quickly before I break into a fit of sobs that I'll most likely be ashamed of once I'm done.
"Your granddaughter." I whisper, my voice sounding completely defeated. My shoulders slump as I let the tears roll freely, not bothering to stop them. I hear Mary Margaret let out a gasp of shock. I let myself be dragged by gravity into her arms, not even caring if she sees my heart for the first time and the darkness that clouds around the supposed white, pure heart with the deep-rooted sadness and brokenness.
Silent sobs shake my body; I've never been a loud crier. I can feel Mary Margaret's cries against me as well, though I know she's holding back. She's trying to be strong for me, but she feels the loss like I do. It was a death in our family, something so young and unsuspecting.
Mary Margaret's arms wind themselves around my body, rubbing circles in my back. She doesn't say anything; there's nothing left to say. It seems that every time I try to pull myself together, I end up falling further and further apart. I cry out, not loudly but loud enough for Mary Margaret to hear.
"Why? I don't understand." I plead through my tears. Why was my child taken from me? What did I do to deserve such devastation? Was I really that bad of a person? I had my kids in jail and one just so happens to die? What a cruel fate.
"I don't know, Emma. I don't know." Her voice is thick with tears. She shakes her head, clearly asking the same questions as I am. Why?
"Was I that bad?" I question quietly, not really wanting the answer. I'm scared that the answer will be yes, though Mary Margaret would never admit it. But I never expected her to grab my cheeks in her hands, wiping away my still flowing tears with her thumbs. Her watery eyes meet mine, and I know what she wants. She wants me to see that she's not lying.
"Emma, my sweet Emma, nobody deserves that. Nobody. I don't care what you think you did that's so terrible, but my baby doesn't deserve the hand that our cruel world has dealt you. You may have messed up a time or two, but no, you weren't that bad. Nobody, not even Cora, deserves that. And you saw how many people she single handedly killed. You, my darling, have done nothing compared to her crimes." The tears that glide down her face show her sadness for me. For once, not only do I not flinch at her hands touching my face, but also I welcome it. I lean the side of my face into her hand.
She continues to brush away my still flowing tears; I try to concentrate on anything other than my child, but my mind continues to wander to her. My tears begin to slow for this isn't the first time I've mourned my loss, just the first time I've had someone here with me, mourning along side me. This is the first time I've given someone the chance to stab me right in the heart, a clear shot with how open I'm being. It's also the first time nobody's jumped at the chance to grab the knife.
I wrap my arms around Mary Margaret, seeking comfort in the one woman that I refused to let comfort me all those years ago. She immediately accepts me, gathering me into her arms and resting her chin on my shoulder. I become consumed in my thoughts, though they don't seem as sad as you might expect. I wonder what it would be like if she was still alive. What would her name be? Would she look like me? Would she be stubborn like when I was giving birth to her?
"I feel like I should be more upset." I say suddenly, not realizing I actually said anything out loud. Mary Margaret looks at me with a sad smile.
"You're probably in shock." She says honestly. What more can I ask of her than her honesty at this point?
"I've had almost eleven years to get over it, and yet, somewhere along the way, I forgot all about her. That doesn't even make sense." I question, trying to keep the tears at bay. "I shouldn't have forgotten." I say, looking to Mary Margaret for answers I know she can't truly provide.
"Shock can last for a while. I will be here every step of the way, though. That much I know." She looks me in the eye, giving me an honest to god look. I try not to let any more tears fall as I try to form the thought that I've been having for a while on my tongue. I open and close my mouth several times, gaping like a fish. Finally, I manage to mutter a few words.
"Could magic…?" I don't have to finish the question for her to know what I'm asking. Could magic tamper with my memory? She looks thoughtful for a second, trying to figure out an answer, no doubt.
"I don't think so. Not unless you wished it, I don't think it could. Anyways, I thought you didn't have magic until magic came to the town?" Thankfully the conversation shifts away from my daughter. I can't bare the heaviness of my heart when I think about her.
Magic can't tamper with your memory unless you wished for it? I didn't wish for it, did I?
I will myself to forget this day ever happened. That I ever even had twins.
Oh my God. I did. I wanted to forget. I hear the breath catch in my throat, but it barely registers. The magic must have had some sort of delay, something that kept it from happening immediately. Some side effect because I had nightmares for years. I remember that much. The haunting reminder of what happened to me, to my baby.
"I did." I say, looking at Mary Margaret with horror. How could I have wished such a terrible thing? I know. I didn't want to remember the pain. I didn't want to remember that something so little could cause such great loss, even when I wasn't going to keep her in the first place. I didn't know her, but I loved her anyways. It was indescribable how I felt at that moment. The moment that I had been waiting for was ruined, and I didn't want my son's birth to be tainted by such a horrible misfortune.
"What? You used magic before you broke the curse?" The disgust that I thought would be there wasn't. The only thing was surprise and, unfortunately, pity. I don't say anything about the evident pity in her voice, though it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
"I-I didn't-I didn't mean to." The whimper of angst that leaves my lips is enough to make me feel utterly useless. And that ignites a fire that rushes though my veins, flowing through my body. I refuse to feel so small, so heavy with sadness. My son needs me, my mom needs me, my friends need me, and my father needs me. And I'm sitting here, crying over the past; I'm doing the one the one thing that I swore never to do. I'm looking back and regretting, and, after Neal, I swore I'd never do that. I'd live my life how I want, regretting nothing.
After Neal, jail, and loosing my child, I swore that nobody would ever break into my heart. That nobody was to be trusted. That I wouldn't stick around in one place for more than two years, if that. And now, I remember why. People rely on you, whether you want them to or not. And I've had nobody to lean on.
That is, until Mary Margaret, but even then she was relying more on me than I was on her. Emotionally at least. Now, Mary Margaret is strong, she doesn't need me to help support her. But I still can't leave. Because, as much as I hate it, I can't live without her. Or Henry. Or anyone in Storybrooke, really. I've finally found some place that I feel at home, something that I never found anywhere else. I never found anyone that would love me to the extent that Mary Margaret promises to, to the extent that Neal claimed he would, to the extent that I've needed all my life.
The fire racing through my veins doesn't calm at this realization. In fact, it feels hotter, burning at my insides uncomfortably. I notice the lack of air surrounding me, and it feels like I'm choking, dying for air, quite literally. My hands instinctively fly to my throat, clawing at the invisible force that won't allow me to breath.
"Emma? What's wrong!?" Mary Margaret's voice is pure panic, as mine would be if I were able to form coherent words. I feel a warm, thick liquid run down my nose, and I know something's wrong. Not like I didn't already know because of the choking effect, but now I'm bleeding. Something that I can't control is wrong.
"EMMA!" Mary Margaret lets out a panicked shriek. Oh, it makes the fire burn hotter, white-hot. It's gone from uncomfortable to flat out painful in just a few seconds.
I try to breathe, try to get some form of oxygen through my system, but the invisible hand tightens on my throat. I feel a warm sensation in my chest, something that feels light and airy. It would be a kind, sweet feeling if I weren't feeling like I was dying. I take one hand off my throat and place it over my heart, right where the warmth is. The fire in my veins doesn't lighten like I was hoping it would, but now I feel a tingling sensation rushing around with the intense heat. It escapes through my fingertips, swirling around my hand.
I throw my head back and pray that Mary Margaret will be there to catch me when I fall. Blood trails from both my nostrils now; I can feel it. I slam my eyes shut, tired of seeing the trees before me. I want to welcome the darkness, tired of being in this pain. I wonder, if only for a moment, why I haven't passed out from the lack of oxygen or from the pain. My head pounds intensely; I try to block out every sound other than my heartbeat. I manage to leave Mary Margaret's panic wonderings behind and the wind that rustles the trees. I block out the sound of little animals rushing to find shelter. But I focus not on my heartbeat, but on the sound of my breathing.
But I wasn't breathing, was I? How? I'm suffocating, aren't I? I hear my heartbeat in the background begin to pick up, racing along lines of hysteria. Nothing makes sense; I'm not aware of how fast my heart has picked up until it's too late.
I flash my eyes open, trying to warn Mary Margaret of what I've figured out, but I can't get a word out. So I attempt to plead with her through my eyes. I did, in fact, get my puppy dog eyes from her. She understands; I know from the stern look she gives me telling me she's not going anywhere. I try to plead with her again, only the force on my throat loosens, and I know it's too late.
I try to direct it elsewhere, maybe at another tree. I don't scream like I thought I would. I only watch as a ball of white magic flies through the air. It explodes like I thought it would, but it disperses like true loves kiss did; it shoots off in multiple directions, not reaching for one certain goal. When it passes though an object, nothing happens but a slight wind. It seems to merely fade away into the darkness of the forest, not destroying anything in its path like the dark magic did. At least, that's what I assume was dark magic. A dark, sickly purple haze could only be described as scary and dangerous.
But this white light amazes me, entrances me. I watch it until it reaches the horizon, falling away from my sight completely. I turn toward Mary Margaret who's looking at me with awe, as I feel the toll magic takes on my body pulling me down into the darkness that I had wanted so badly to come earlier.
I know before I open my eyes that I'm not going to like what I'm about to see. Every time I fall asleep, I manage to wind myself into some nightmare of a memory. So when I open my eyes and see the same forest around me, I feel wary. I stand up to see what happened.
"Oh Emma! I was so worried!" I hear Mary Margaret's voice, and it startles me, making me spin on my heels. Where I stand is at the edge of the oh so familiar clearing. I had let a tiny spring of hope push though me when I saw the forest, but now, I crush it. For there I sit in the middle of the clearing, Mary Margaret, or rather, Snow White by my side smiling at me. I watch the way I don't say anything back. I see the way I shun her, not wanting anything to do with her.
"Emma?" Her smile falters a bit and I see a flash of pain cross her face. The rejection hurts her, I know, but she pushes anyway. Didn't anyone ever tell her to not poke the tiger with a stick? "Emma, is everything okay? I haven't heard from you in a while. It's been almost a year. You've grown so much." She smiles at my still figure. When she still doesn't get a response, her curiosity gets the better of her. "What's wrong?" She asks, more alert this time. The girl's head lifts from its fallen position, and what I see breaks my own heart. The emptiness in my eyes shows the walls that I put up. My eighteen-year-old self has learned the cruelest lesson of them all.
"You lied." She says steadily, waiting for Snow's reaction. Her eyebrows nit in confusion.
"Excuse me? When did I ever lie to you, young one?" She sounds almost humored by the attempt to call her a liar. My eighteen-year-old self looks into her eyes, a hateful smirk spread across her lips.
"You used to tell me that I would bring back happy endings, correct?" I watch Snow's eyes narrow at the hardness in the young woman's voice, but she nods anyway, not sure where she's going with the accusation. "Well, if I can't have a happy ending of my own, how am I supposed to bring back said happy endings? You lied. You said that I was going to save everyone that needs saving, yet I can't even save myself? What kind of cruel rule is that? I can't have a happy ending for myself, yet I have to give everyone else one? I don't want to be the savior. I just want to be happy." I watch the young woman practically spit in the Queen's face. I knew it was my mother, but she still hadn't told me.
"I'm sorry; I don't believe I follow you." Snow has her own guard up now, her voice hard with wariness.
"Okay, let me spell it out for you. Fairytales are bullshit." She says steadily.
"Emma!" Snow scowls. "Language." Her stern voice makes the young woman's lips curl in disgust.
"I can say whatever the hell I want. You're not the boss of me. As much as you'd so much like to believe, you're not my mother." The snarl in her voice just about kills me. How could I have been so cruel to someone so nice to me?
"Emma, please." She says harshly, though I can hear the desperateness in her voice. The young woman hears it, too, attacking it easily.
"What? You actually believe that you're my mother? You're just a dream! You aren't even real! My parents left me; they didn't love me like you like to believe. It's impossible for anyone to love me!" I see the pain in Snow's face, and it practically kills me on the spot.
"I lov-"
"No." The young woman cuts Snow's attempt to comfort her off. "I don't want to listen to my dream mother tell me that she loves me. Key word: DREAM!" I almost have to cover my ears at the high point the scream reaches. "This land, this world, is all a dream. A good dream, I must admit, but a dream nonetheless. It's a dream that taunts me, telling me that I'm actually good enough. It's a dream that I no longer want any part of." The young woman turns from Snow looking exhausted and pained.
I know what's going through my eighteen-year-old mind at this moment. I had kept the mask up for just a few weeks, practicing this performance in jail, knowing that I was going to return soon. But the mask broke for a second; causing me to turn around to avoid Snow's watchful eyes, hoping she wouldn't see how much pain this was putting me in.
"Alright." Snow's broken voice barely reaches my ears.
"Good."
"You do remember what happens when I cut off the connection, correct?" Snow asks, hoping to change to stubborn girls mind.
"Yes. I will forget every dream I've had of you." The coldness in my young voice hurts Snow, I know, but she refuses to let anyone see her true feelings about this.
"Until the time is right." Snow adds quickly.
"Sure. Until the time is right." The young woman says, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
"Okay. Don't forget-"
"Yeah, yeah, close my eyes. I got it." The girl says, wanting to leave or forcing herself to leave; she pays no mind to her hearts true desire.
"I wish I was there with you, in your world, Emma." Snow says quietly, looking at the eighteen year old that she raised. The eighteen year old that she watched take her first step, taught her first word, held her close when she cried. I watch as a single tear rolls down the strong Snow White's cheek. But I can't stay for the rest, for I know that even if I tried, I would get sick if I kept my eyes open.
A/N: Okay, so honestly, what did you guys think? This chapter was a bit harder for me to write because I've never suffered through the loss of a child, so I tried to portray it as I thought it should go. It wasn't to emotional because that's just how Emma is, but I did put a bit of emotion. Also, WHAT WAS UP WITH THAT MAGIC? :) Notice, the first time she used magic it was purple, while this time it was white. OHHH! Yeah, that happened. I hope you all liked it! Leave a review and tell me what you think could be improved. Love y'all!
~ladywolf101