In the Shadow of the Toll Bridge

by Nikstlitslepmur

AU: Something DID jog the memory of our favorite prince that night...but it wasn't the windmill. What would have happened if David Nolan had remembered his REAL life instead of his fake one that fateful night in Gold's shop? What would have happened if David and Mary Margaret had awoken long before anyone else and been left to deal with the monumental task of breaking the curse?

36. Questions Answered

DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.

This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…

In the shadow of the toll bridge

***Ok, so I usually don't do notes BEFORE the chapter, but I wanted to warn you, this chapter is PACKED and LONG and makes reference to a LOT of unanswered questions throughout the entire story (hence the title). I considered publishing it in two parts, actually, but found that there wasn't really a good place to cut it without leaving too many things hanging. As it is there are enough "cliffy" moments already, so I wanted to give you as much as I had (especially since my winter break is ending Sunday and this is likely my last update at least for a little while).

I will also just add, that while some things that happen here will undoubtedly make you uneasy, I ask that you trust in the characters you've come to love, and my own love for them as well. Ok, that's the only hint I'm giving. Have fun and good luck!***

Questions Answered

The snow started falling late that morning, just minutes before the clock tower struck noon. In a town that usually rejoiced at the first snow fall and whose children's eyes twinkled at thoughts of warm cocoa and snow days, the snow today fell almost as an afterthought, like it was apologizing for its tardiness, knowing it might have been much more welcome yesterday during the tree lighting. As it was, Matt Clancy didn't even give it a second thought as he rushed through the sliding doors of Storybrooke General and headed back out into the cold. That the thick, white flakes swirling heavily around him did not for a second deter the paramedic as he headed to the center of town to find out what he could about Emma Swan. After leaving his partner and Nurse Charles probably more confused than he'd intended, Matt didn't even notice the mysterious figure heading in as he walked out. He was, after all, just as determined, it seemed…as she.

Circe recognized the town's "hunky" fireman almost as soon as he'd barreled by her, and though a part of her mission today was certainly to ensure that his was a fate marred by their counter attack, the ex-goddess was in no hurry to catch the man himself. King Philip had never interested her – far too cocky and not terribly strong. No, she had her champion already. And soon he would come to her of his own accord. In the meantime, her task today would be far more enjoyable – charged with taking something much more valuable than a life. And really, what better place to be assigned than that which had foolishly allowed her beloved to slip through its fingers? Circe had no problem accepting this post from Regina for the siege. After all – these were the incompetent, lowly beings who had let him get away…and they deserved to pay.

…

Emma, Shane and Graham followed Gold to the storage area behind the counter, lit by four glaring florescent lights that cast strange shadows over the room. The walls were lined with shelves, much less fancy than those out front which displayed the items for sale. In the center of the small room stood a wooden table on which was laid a curious looking map. The map looked to be drawn on ancient parchment and depicted three rather large, amorphous land masses, each marked with a strange collection of icons resembling coats of arms. "Your kingdom, my dear," Gold gallantly swept his arm over the map, "or rather yours and," he glanced over at Shane, "several others."

But Shane was not paying attention. He had not yet seen the table or most of the room, in fact, for his eyes had fallen upon a small cloth case laying on top of a rather elaborate dollhouse. Both were tucked in the corner just inside the storage room – the dollhouse because it wouldn't have fit anywhere else, the cloth case looking mostly to have been tossed there as an afterthought. "What is this?" Shane asked thickly.

All turned and watched as he lifted it gingerly from the dollhouse roof, handling it as one might handle a child, and brought it around to show Gold. The pawn broker's eyes brightened, but he didn't reply. Shane's mind instead filled with whispers, strange voices he knew hadn't originated from those gathered. He glanced around, looking up at the tall shelves and other items as he strained to listen, to make out the quiet echoes that seemed to emanate from the crooks and crannies of the room… "Still dropping your shoulder I see"…"Don't want you to outlive your usefulness"…

"Shane?" Emma cast him a worried glance, but he seemed still adrift.

"Today's lesson is…a little different"…"New weapons?"…"Not exactly"

"Shane, what is it?" Graham tried. Gold remained silent.

"Why…didn't you tell me?" a woman's voice, one so achingly familiar, asked in a faded whisper…"You never asked"…

"Shane!" Emma stood before him now, grabbing hold of his shoulders and giving him a shake.

Shane's eyes finally refocused and he gave Gold a wary glance. "What is this?" he asked again, hoarsely.

Gold nodded to the case the boy was now clutching to his breast. "Why don't you open it and find out, lad."

The thief's hands trembled at its leather buckles, practically moving on their own. He felt instantly, inexplicably attached to the case, as if the Holy Grail itself had just fallen in his lap. On the other hand, he grew acutely aware that all eyes were on him now, and he wasn't keen on being the center of attention in this peculiar company. Besides, seeing Graham keel over like that, seeing such genuine pain and agony invoked by a seemingly invisible adversary had convinced him to pay attention. He'd seen a lot of strange shit down in West End and he wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to see someone explain it all. "I'll uh…" he cleared his throat, now seeing the map in the center. "I'll wait, thanks," he mumbled, tucking the case protectively under his arm.

Gold gave him a slight bow and returned to the table. "Do you have any idea what you're lookin' at, dearie?"

"You just told me," Emma muttered, "a map of the…our kingdoms."

Gold nodded. "Or more accurately, a map of our realms."

"All three?" asked Graham prompting Emma to shoot him a look.

Gold nodded again. "All three. As they were just before the curse struck. "And this…" he gave his hand another wave, and a bird's eye view of Storybrooke shimmered into view.

"Whoa!" Emma jumped back as the holographic-looking image took shape. "How are you doing that?" she snapped.

"Why, I have you to thank for it, Miss Swan," Gold tsked, guiding the 3D overlay of Storybrooke over the map of the realms. "The more happy endings you restore, the more parlor tricks I can do."

Graham crossed his arms over his chest with a grunt. "Perfect."

"As you can see, Storybrooke is quite smaller than the realms of the old world. It's part of the reason everyone is so miserable here," he explained as Emma, Graham and even Shane watched the entire town of Storybrooke almost fit inside just one of the three land masses. "Regina crammed everyone in here so tightly, people barely have room to breathe."

"Yeah but this doesn't include the whole forest, or Jefferson's mansion," Emma leaned over, pointing to where the edges of Gold's Storybrooke projection abruptly cut off everything she knew lay beyond the toll bridge.

"Quite right, dearie," Gold said with a grin. "That's because not all of the woods are affected by the curse to the same degree. There's no way Regina's full reach could extend that far while maintaining the control she has."

"I knew it," Graham muttered under his breath as Emma turned to him. "That's why I can't remember where exactly they took me. Wherever the Zimmers are, and Henry too probably, isn't inside the curse."

"Wrong, sheriff," countered the imp, "it's inside the curse all right. It has to be. Regina has no control otherwise. The place you're speaking of will be simply beyond the main barrier."

"The barrier?"

"The wall of pure magic where the curse is strongest. Anything beyond that and folks start to get…confused," he said with a chilling little giggle. "Unless they leave the land altogether…and then they're lost for good."

Whatever warmth was left inside Emma's winter parka retreated from her completely as she shivered at the thought of what could have happened had Ashley Boyd crossed this…barrier a few weeks ago. Or anyone else for that matter. Gold meanwhile pressed on. "Storybrooke exists within this—" he scoffed in disgust— "unruly world but it is not part of this world. It's separate. Encased in a sort of…bubble. It's why you and Henry are the only souls who have successfully traveled through the barrier and beyond, and managed to retain your sanity. You're the only ones who belong to both worlds."

"Then how were my parents able to get to Jefferson's mansion if it's beyond this main barrier?" countered the savior, leaning the heels of her palms against the table, causing the projection of Storybrooke to fluctuate and then dissolve from view.

"Jefferson has just enough magic left over from Wonderland to function beyond the wall," Gold replied with a dismissive wave, as if this particular point was so inconsequential, they'd be better off discussing sports or the weather. "Somehow he extended that extra protection toyour parents so he could show you what you needed to see." The pawn broker sighed and rolled his eyes. "Poor devil probably isn't even aware of it. Pity you couldn't help him with his little girl."

Emma swallowed hard again, ignoring Gold's biting dig…A real world. One of many…Jefferson's voice filled her head. There are infinite more, and they touch one another, pressing up in a long line of lands, each just as real as the last. All have their own rules. Some have magic, some don't. And some need magic. Like this one. And that's where you come in…

"All right, well," she stammered, clearing her head and digging her nails into the edge of the table. "What's all that have to do with these…" she waved a finger toward the original map of the…realms was it?

"So glad you asked," Gold propped up his cane against the table then rubbed his hands together over the parchment. "To get through the barrier, and eventually to get back to our world, you'll need to build up more magic. Lots more magic. And in order to do that, you must honor your destiny. You must break. This. Curse."

Emma looked to Graham, who seemed equally perplexed. "Isn't that what we've," she gulped, "been doing?"

Gold tipped his head sideways. "No my dear. Not really."

"But there's lots of people out there breaking the curse," Emma argued. "People I don't have anything to do with, even. Happy endings being restored all on their own and—"

"There are lots of people ripping into the curse, yes. Pulling at its seams. Unraveling the spell thread by thread and creating fissures in its fabric, certainly. That's what has the poor queen so spooked," he added with that eerie little giggle. One that Emma was sure more suited his fairy tale alter ego than the sly shopkeeper before her. "But that doesn't mean it's broken my dear. Only you can do that. Do you really think it possible for absolutely every citizen of Storybrooke to achieve his happy ending?" Emma's eyes bugged out. "Do you think everyone here even has a happy ending to restore?"

"No but—"

"No of course not," Gold glanced back to his table, shook his head and muttered. "Luckily for you, your parents are friends with those who matter most, so we're not too far behind."

Emma shook her head. "What does that mean? And who's we?" she challenged, shifting her weight over her other hip. "Why are you even telling me all of this?"

"Well I can't very well bargain with you for it can I?" he grinned, the gold fillings in his teeth glinting under the strange lighting of the room. "Your daddy made sure of that."

"I know, but deal or not, you don't do anything for free. What's your stake in all this? What happens to you if I break the curse?"

"Well…I go home of course," Gold grinned, "Same as the rest of you."

"Bullshit," came Shane's voice from his shadowy corner. Graham and Emma spun around to where the thief stood rather stoically, his arms still folded over the case he'd retrieved. "Look, I dunno shit about curses or magic or whatever other crazy-ass tales you guys are spinning here, but I do know this asshole," and he thumbed his hand toward Gold.

"Really boy?" replied the dealmaker, and for the first time all afternoon, Emma spotted a tiny bead of sweat break across his brow. "Because I don't believe you or I are all that well acquainted here."

"Maybe not," said Shane as he stepped slowly up to the table. "But I've kept my eyes open in West End." He glanced at Emma. "You don't have to look real close to know who calls all the shots around here. Whatever he wants outta this, you can bet it's more than just 'going home'…whatever the hell that means."

"Quiet, Shane," mumbled Graham, glaring at the kid and his case.

But Emma wasn't so sure. Whether he meant to or not, Shane had just tipped enough of Gold's hand. Maybe not perceptibly. Not by Graham anyway. But Aladdin was on to something, and Emma intended to exploit it.

"No, he's right Graham," Emma turned back to Gold. "Hell, even reading Henry's book'll tell you that. No matter what happens to anyone else, you always have some hidden motive lurking in the background don't you? Some added benefit that no one ever knows until it's too late, right?"

Gold's eyes narrowed. "Well, fortunately for me, you're not exactly in a position to be wheedling it out of me, are you, Princess?" he shot back.

"I don't know about that," she folded her arms together. "You seem awfully invested with whether or not I fulfill my destiny. The destiny you gave me, might I add when you created the curse in the first place."

"And since our two goals happen to coincide, I should think you might want to count your blessings and stick to the task at hand," Gold said, temper rising, pointing impatiently back to the map.

But Emma could tell she'd rocked his boat. She was getting close to something. She could feel it, and she pounded her fist into the table, sliding the parchment towards him. "Tell me why 'Stiltskin." His jaw clenched upon hearing his real name. "Why did you do so much, hurt so many people to create a curse that banished everyone here only to turn around and work twice as hard to help me break it?"

Gold was glaring now, his eyes practically blazing as she treaded too close to his own private agenda. But there was something else in his eyes. And Emma saw only a glimpse before it vanished, but it was a look she knew well – one she saw every time she looked in a mirror: regret. "I needed…to find something." Gold said after a prolonged silence. "Something…that's no longer here."

She held his gaze for a long while, a sort of stalemate between them, but at last she backed down. She wasn't about to press her luck. After all, he did have a point. She had very little leverage here since her brilliant vision-plan had tanked. In the meantime, if he was willing to divulge more secrets of Storybrooke at no further cost to her friends, she wasn't about to push him any further.

"Now," Gold cleared his throat. "Once upon a time," he teased, "our world was divided into three realms, ruled by a plethora of gods and goddesses, most of whom wanted to create a safe haven where mortals could live in harmony," he added with a scoff. "They were powerful beings, most of them quite arrogant, and each capable of manipulating the elements, tapping into the very essence of magic in order to provide for us inferior humans."

Emma's throat dried up and she swallowed hard, feeling a bit like she'd just been plunged into some deleted scene from Lord of the Rings. "Ok? So?"

"So those three realms eventually came to be ruled by six kingdoms." Gold gestured to each on the map as he named them: "New Gaia (where you were born), Seven Gales, Ebonshire, Braemar, Agrabah—" he glanced over at Shane with a smirk, "and Atlantica, or as the landfolk dubbed it – Lochmere: named after Sultan Rushdi and King Hubert released the Merfolk from the Snow Queen and united those of the land and sea."

"Merfolk?" Emma gasped in disbelief, a certain animated red-head coming to mind.

"Yes indeed, Miss Swan. As in, the Little Mermaid."

"Your point, Gold?" demanded Graham, stomping his foot impatiently.

"I'm getting there, Sheriff," the imp cackled, "wouldn't want to leave anything out."

"He's right," said Emma. "How's this help us find Henry?"

But Gold threw his head back in exasperation, slamming the tip of his cane against the floor. "It doesn't help you find Henry."

"I'm just asking—"

"The wrong questions, Emma," Gold cut her off. "You still don't get it. You help Henry when you help your kingdom, all the kingdoms. When you free them from the curse. And you do that by restoring the balance of magic in all…three…realms," he said, pointing to each section of the map on every word.

Emma's mouth hung open as she tried to soak everything in, but breaking the curse suddenly sounded a lot more complicated – like some god-awful graduate-level logic equation…and she sucked at math.

"You see, when humanity grew to a point where there were far too many mortals using and abusing their magic—"

"Mortals like you?" Emma spat, unable to resist making the connection.

"Uh ha ha, I'm no mortal, dearie," Gold let out another laugh that made her shiver. "The gods and goddesses of each realm decided to move on," he said, his voice turning slightly resentful, "leaving the guardianship of their magic to the royal families of these kingdoms, hand-selected of course. As long as each kingdom protected its realm, the balance between those who used good magic…and those who used dark would be maintained."

Emma reached forward, brushing her hand across each coat of arms, lingering on the symbol for New Gaia. "My parents are…a-are guardians of magic?"

"Well," Gold shrugged as he took up his cane once again and hobbled over to her side of the table. "Your mum is anyway. Though I'm not sure she was even aware of it yet. In fact," he peered again at the map, "I believe only King Philip would have known of his guardianship. Apparently good ol' Helios only appears to relate the tale on the eve of a guardian's coronation. The secret isn't even entrusted between father and son."

Helios, thought Emma, thinking back to Belle's story in the book…Ancient texts hailed him as a god, and indeed his powers were thought to be god-like…He was part of a forgotten age, an age of sorcery and wizardry long lost to them. As mankind prospered and flourished throughout the three realms, the days when men and women wielded magic of such magnitude had faded into legend… Holy shit, thought Emma. It really was all right in the book!

"So how did you learn all this stuff if you'renot a guardian?" Emma asked the only thing she could think to ask at the moment.

Gold merely tsked. "I've been around…a while Miss Swan. And…I have my ways."

Emma blew out a sigh, glancing at a thoroughly worn out Graham, and then leaned her elbows against the table to massage her temples. "So…restore the happy endings of each guardian and…that will break the curse?"

"Well," Gold cleared his throat as he moved toward the front of his shop and lifted the fabric covering. "That's a start." The group followed him out to the main part of the store as he continued. "Of course that only gets us halfway. Once all the guardians are awake, there's still the…other matter."

The other matter?! Emma thought as she emerged from the cloth curtain first. "And what's that?" she asked, almost annoyed.

"What exactly they're guarding," Gold spun around with an exaggerated thunk of his cane. "Wishing wells."

This time it was Shane who openly guffawed. "Wishing wells? You've got to be kidding me!"

"'Fraid not lad."

"Come on, this is ridic—"

But this time it was Graham who chimed in before Gold could explain. "Every realm has a wishing well, Emma," he cut Shane off, then turned to his deputy, for this was a story he had heard. Every school child from his world was at some point told the story of three wishing wells left behind by the gods. "It's true. Each is supposed to be a source of pure magic. One can return something lost, one can heal what is hurt, and the last one can—"

"Can open a door," Gold finished for him, emphasizing this last point rather critically.

"Open a door?" Emma scoffed, resisting the urge to role her eyes. "Subtle."

"Indeed," Gold beamed at her, pleased to see her finally catching on. "Now, the one that can return something lost has already risen," Gold went on, "since young Thomas and your Mother are both awake. But three of the other four remaining guardians have yet to emerge. And it is only after all six are restored to their original identities that each well will be unearthed – " he stared pointedly at Emma – "and reactivated."

"Right," Emma sighed. "And how exactly do I do that?"

But it was on this point, Gold became abruptly silent.

"Oh come on Gold," Emma slapped her open palm on the glass counter. "You're gonna stop there?"

"I think I've given you enough help today, dearie."

"But—"

"After all, a hero can't be given all the answers. I think even your boy would agree."

Emma opened her mouth again to argue, but Shane abruptly cut in front of her at the counter, taking advantage of, at long last, a break in this outrageous conversation, and slapped the cloth case down between them. "I wanna buy this," he said bluntly.

Gold glanced down at the worn satchel and grinned. "Without even opening it?"

"Call it a hunch all right? How much?"

Emma and Graham looked on as the two completed a modest sale. Then the younger spun on his heel, shot Emma a sharp glance, and stalked out of the store.

"I would go after him if I were you," Gold gestured toward the shop door now swinging shut. Graham took off instantly, and Emma turned too, but Gold held her back. "Oh one more thing, my dear," he said, his voice almost syrupy sweet.

Emma clenched her fists. "What?" she asked, and she turned back to find him holding something out to her. She jumped in surprise. It was a skeleton key, pulled seemingly from out of nowhere. "What's this?" she asked as he motioned for her to take it.

"A gesture of good faith," he crooned as she felt its heavy weight drop into her palm. "When you start to doubt my motives, I suggest you pay a visit to the Storybrooke Library. I believe you'll find something you've been looking for…something for which, you might say, I've developed a bit of a soft spot."

And with that, the imp retreated to his back room, leaving Emma alone. Completely alone. Standing in the middle of a pawn shop with an iron key in her hand; before her, a quest so daunting, the whole world seemed to screech to a halt…and she could barely breathe.

…

At noon on the nose, just as Mick had predicted, Henry heard heavy footfalls approaching his chamber door. "Careful, now," whispered the clever mouse in his head as Henry tucked a thin yellow sheet up to his chin, turned his back to the doorway and squeezed his eyes shut. The footfalls stopped, he heard the jingling of keys in the lock, and the door flew open.

"Oy! Get up ya little runt!" came a gravely, pirate-like voice. And indeed, as Henry faked a bit of grogginess and slowly shifted over on the bed, his eyes fell upon an angry old fellow, standing in his doorway with a stick for his leg…and a hook for his hand.

"S-sorry Cap'n," Henry mumbled, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"I've been instructed ta not let you starve, so git your little arse downstairs for lunch 'for your muther raises hell!"

Henry gulped and nodded obediently as the old pirate grumbled down the hallway, letting the door creak back into place, not quite closing against the frame. In a flash, Henry threw off the sheet, sped over to the corner of his room and tugged on the woolen blanket thrown over a small…moving mound. "Don't worry 'bout a thing, Pinoke!" he whispered as he lifted a corner of the heavy blanket. "I'll be back soon!"

From beneath the blanket peeked a small, wooden hand, stick-like digits closing around the corner seam and lifting it away. Mick scurried up to Henry's arm as Pinocchio emerged, looking as bewildered and confused as any painted wooden face could be made to look! "Wh-what if he comes back? Figures out I'm in here?" hissed the frightened puppet. How long had it been since the fairy dust had worn off and he'd crumpled to the floor? The new boy's touch had restored some movement, and for that he was grateful. But he was still not entirely trusting of this Henry fellow who seemed to have no real clue how dangerous this place really was.

Henry meanwhile, was bursting with excitement, the thrill of Operation Cobra back in his veins as he patted Pinocchio's shoulder, his hand knocking hollowly against the marionette's arm. "Don't worry about that. Tell 'im Mick!" he strained his neck and tried to look at the mouse now perched on his shoulder.

"I can't, Pal. Remember?" Mick replied, amused. "Only you can understand me."

"Oh, right," Henry slapped his palm to his forehead and rolled his eyes. "Mick and some of his critter friends moved you here in secret once they realized you were…well—" he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to be delicate.

"Dead?" Pinocchio huffed, glancing down at his hideous, dusty limbs of cedar, clunking them together as he deftly folded his arms.

"Not dead, just…lifeless," Henry wrinkled his nose. "Anyways, no one knows you're in here. They've been lookin' for ya for years!" he grinned, glancing at Mick as if to ask whether he'd gotten it all right. Mick gave him an approving nod.

"All right well," Pinocchio tugged the blanket back up over his head, wearing it like an old beggar woman's hood. "Be careful, Henry. This place is…well, i-it's not what it seems."

"I will," Henry replied and tucked him back under the blanket, pushed himself off the floor, and swept the dust from his knees. "You ready?" he looked to Mick as he pulled open the breast pocket of his plaid over-shirt and Mick hopped promptly inside. "Ready!"

Henry tip-toed back to the door and closed his hand around the iron knob when he heard a rustling of wood and wool from the corner. "Hey Henry!" hissed the not-yet-real-boy.

The young prince turned, pulling the door shut once more. "What?" he hissed back.

The puppet seemed to gulp as he peeped his head back out and chanced one last question. "H-have you…really seen my father?"

Henry smiled, flashing forward in his mind. He couldn't wait to reunite 'Marco' with his son and finally awaken Geppetto! "Yes, Pinoke. In fact, I've met 'im. And you'll see 'im soon!"

After checking both ways in the dank corridor of his prison, Henry stepped out into the hallway and closed his door behind him. On the other side, he at last got a glimpse of the lock that had kept him trapped all night and into the morning. But apparently the place was secure enough that Hook didn't seem troubled by the fact that he'd left Henry on his own to find his way down to lunch. "This way," called the mouse who'd leapt out of Henry's pocket and was now leading the way down the corridor. Henry followed him, creeping along the hallway, aware of every creak as his sneakers made as they fell upon the moldy floor. "Come on, Hook doesn't take kindly to slow-pokes!" warned Mick, and Henry picked up the pace, though still trying to mentally map his surroundings. The corridor was long and dim, with windows so high up on the wall, they might as well have been cracks in the ceiling. Wooden frames housed paintings that hung rather crookedly along the walls, though Henry didn't recognize any of the images. Several of the portraits seemed to be of a young, rather rugged-looking man, standing stalwart-like upon the mast of a ship, but Henry's young eyes didn't quite have the foresight to recognize a very young, handsome not yet crippled version of Captain Hook staring back at him. After all, Peter Pan wasn't in his storybook. He knew the name from legend only.

Before long, Henry came to the top of a winding staircase, and it was here that he started to hear voices – high-pitched voices portending lots of activity below. Mick pattered up the banister and scurried to the black railing, his black beady eyes looking between the young one and the landing below. Henry gave the mouse a detective-like glance. "The Lost Boys?"

Mick gave him a nod. "The Lost Boys."

Henry tore down the steps, running so fast he nearly tripped as he reached the bottom. The voices were getting closer and in addition, he could hear the clanging of dishes and the clinking together of silverware. It sounded, actually, like some sort of party, and Henry barely noticed the ominous-looking fireplace and strangely lit chandelier overhead as he scurried through the home's front parlor into the communal dining room…and gaped.

Boys of all ages, from toddlers to pre-teens, were clambering over each other, hanging from light fixtures, swinging on ropes that were strewn from weird places. They were yelling, whooping, making strange Indian noises with O-shaped mouths as they sword-fought each other with forks. "G'day mate!" cried one as he lassoed a support beam and sailed down in front of him, taking what looked to be a sailor's cap from his head and plopping it down on Henry's. The boy gave him a rowdy salute and flew off again, clocking other boys on their noggins as he passed.

"Hey Nibs!" sounded a call from the other end of the great room. "Think fast!" Henry jerked his head to the side as one boy palmed an empty bowl and threw it at his target. The other boy, presumably Nibs, pounded his fists into the table and launched himself up from the bench.

"You're dead-meat, Ace!" he cried and the two started up a rousing game of tag in which several other boys joined before they all collapsed on top of each other, laughing.

Henry's first thought, as he watched the commotion, was how in the world Captain Hook had ever been able to keep these rabble-rousers under control. There had to be about twenty boys here! And not a one of them seemed likely to be easily tamed.

"Hook stopped trying to control the noise years ago," explained Mick as if he could read his mind (and indeed, Henry wondered if he had). "But don't let this fool you," the mouse's tone turned somber in his head, as he climbed back into Henry's pocket, "this won't last."

Henry was about to ask what his little guide meant when two identical twins clambered past him from upstairs, running straight into the dining room to join in the fun, almost as if they were racing to make up for lost time. "Dukey! Binky! There you are, ya little worms!" said the boy who had given Henry the sailor cap. "Raisin' hell for old Hooky?"

"Yeah sure, Rufio," said one of the twins.

"Flattened 'im right to the wall, I did!" laughed the other with entirely too much sarcasm for so young a person.

Rufio, Dukey, Nibs, Ace. Henry scrunched up his face in concentration, trying to shove all the names into his memory. Watching the absolute bedlam continue to ensue, he felt the urge to jump in and introduce himself, when a hand grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around.

"Henry?!" cried a new boy, one he hadn't seen when he walked in.

Henry's jaw dropped and his eyes sprang from their sockets. "Nicolas?!" he gasped. He almost couldn't believe his eyes. Nicolas Zimmer!? But then a taller girl (the only girl as far as Henry could tell) came up behind him, a girl with long, tightly wound braids descending from pigtails on either side of her head. "And Ava!" he squealed for joy. There was no doubt about it now. The Zimmer twins. Alive and well.

"Henry!" said the girl, who came instantly to his other side, clamped a rather strong hand down on his shoulder, and dragged him into the corner of the hall. "What are you doing here?!" she hissed. Henry was about to respond when a smaller boy ran behind her, yanking on one of her pigtails. Ava's head jerked back and she growled in frustration, but she was too quick for the poor kid. She spun around, stuck out a worn tennis-shoe and tripped him, sending him sprawling across the floor. A handful of nearby boys turned to see him crash into the table and started hooting and laughing.

"Serves you right, Prentiss! For messin' with Gretel!"

Henry's eyes grew even wider. "G-gretel?!" he exclaimed, looking between the siblings. "Y-you remember?"

Gretel looked to her brother warily, and Hansel nodded as if to say, Of course you can trust him you half-wit! She turned back. "Yes Henry, we remember. We started remembering as soon as we got here."

"Where's here?" Henry asked, suddenly aware of the fact that Mick hadn't ever informed him of their exact location.

"Not exactly sure," said Hansel, "but keep your head low if you know what's good for you."

"Whadya mean?" Henry asked, reminded of Mick's warning just minutes ago. But Gretel didn't have time to answer, for at that moment, the double doors of the dining room crashed into its walls, and in the archway stood the tall, menacing, J.S. Hook.

The whole hall fell silent, and boys froze mid arm-wrestle or tussle as the captain stomped inside. "Sit down ya little bastards!" he shouted, reminding Henry of an old teacher he'd once had: Mrs. Hannigan, who always spoke to Storybrooke first-graders like she was some sort of over-worked orphanage mistress in desperate need of a vacation. The comparison struck Henry as quite humorous and he choked back a giggle.

Unfortunately, the laugh drew the captain's attention to their corner. His head snapped around and, upon realizing the noise had come from Henry Mills, Hook's eyes narrowed to dark slits, and he raised his hook, slowly approaching them. Gretel and Hansel stood on either side of Henry, pressing him back against the wall, and he felt Gretel's hand close tightly around his wrist. Hook grinned a devilish half-smile as he towered over them and was about to speak when a boy jumped up on a table behind them.

"Looky looky, fat old Hooky!" cried the boy called Rufio and the rest of the children repeated the chant in a rousing chorus.

Hook whirled around. "I've had just about enough of you!" he pointed his hook at the lad who looked to be one of the oldest boys there, a good two or three years older than Henry.

"You?" said the boy Nibs, making a big show of pinching his nose. "How ya think we feel?"

The boys cheered and laughed again, applauding the dig, and Henry was tempted to laugh too, but then he caught Gretel's gaze. She was glaring down at him, her eyes a mixture of sympathy and disapproval. "Pay attention," she muttered. "Nibs just saved your butt."

And no sooner had she said it than Hook flung his arms out to his sides and both Rufio and Nibs were sent hurling across the room, crashing into opposite ends of the hall and collapsing against the floor. "Now sit!" he commanded. "And eat!"

The boys fell silent once more as Rufio and Nibs groggily picked themselves up off the floor, nursing bruises and rubbing their heads, sitting obediently on either end of the table. A loud shuffling of stools, benches, tin plates and forks followed as the boys hurried to the center of the room, filled up their tins full of grub, and retreated to the table without a fuss. Gretel led a bewildered Henry to the far end of the room as Hansel went up to grab them some food. They plopped down quietly next to a moaning Rufio and watched as Hook eyed them carefully, then left the room.

"Thanks, Rufio," muttered Gretel, once Hook was out of earshot.

"No problem, Wendy Lady," Rufio muttered, giving Henry a wink before he plucked the sailor hat off the prince's head and returned it to his own.

"Uck! Stop calling me that!" she hissed, smacking him on the arm. Rufio shrugged and turned his attention to his gruel.

"Y-yeah um," Henry's eyebrows darted down. "Um, thanks," he added. "Wh-what just happened?"

Gretel sighed, spotted Hansel balancing three plates of grub and searching for them, and motioned him over to their seats.

"That, my friend, is what happens when you challenge Captain Hook," said a boy sitting across from them.

Henry looked up, recognizing the boy called Ace. "Yeah but…he like," he glanced sideways at Rufio. "He threw you against a wall, without even touching you!" He wasn't sure, but he didn't know any version of Peter Panin which Hook was…was…telekinetic!

"Yeah," laughed a smaller boy, elbowing Ace in the side. "Pretty cool huh?"

"Will you knock it off, Pockets?!" Gretel hissed. "There's nothing cool about it."

"Relax, Lederhosen!" snapped Pockets. "Kid's gotta learn sometime."

"Hey, don't call her Lederhosen, ya nimrod," said Rufio, smiling over at Gretel.

"Everyone shut up, all right?" said Ace. "Look," he pointed at the new kid, "it's Henry isn't it?" Henry nodded. "Lemme give you the low down here, all right? That there," he jabbed his thumb toward where Hook had disappeared, "is one J.S. Hook, former captain of the Jolly Roger and current nanny to us Lost Boys." Some of the boys within earshot chuckled. "We likes to rough him up at mealtimes and give him a good romp and a ruckus every now and then, but don't be mistakin' his handicaps for weakness, matey. That captain's picked up a few new tricks since the days when me mates and I swash-buckled him up on the seas of Neverland and fed 'im to a crocodile—"

"Ace," said a voice coming up behind him. Henry looked up just as Nibs smacked Ace upside the head. "Quit talkin' like you're a pirate and eat yer food."

Henry's mouth hung open like a codfish and he looked to Gretel for help. He wasn't exactly sure, but after Ace's – er – explanation, he felt a bit in need of a translator. "Hook's got powers here, Henry. Real ones," she explained. "We're too far out of reach for the curse to mask our memories, but that means other magic here is stronger." Henry gulped.

"So the queen charmed Hook's hook into a sort of…magic wand," finished Hansel, shuddering a bit as if he himself had felt the direct effects of it at some point.

Henry looked to each of them, and then finally down at Mick, who had remained a silent but attentive eyewitness to the whole ordeal from the comfort of Henry's pocket. All were nodding, confirming the sad truth that ran as an undercurrent beneath this seemingly jolly bunch of boys (and girl). They were indeed prisoners and had no real illusions of escape. "Well-w-well," Henry stammered, panting, grasping for something that, surely, they'd missed. After all, with this group of awesome rascals, it seemed anything was possible! "W-what about uh—" he wrinkled his nose, trying to concentrate. There had to be some part of this whole place that didn't add up, something— he had it! "What about Peter?!" he cried, jabbing a finger triumphantly in the air like a sword.

But the epiphany didn't have quite the effect he was anticipating, for all eyes abruptly turned on him, and not a sound was left in the hall. Sheepishly, Henry lowered his hand, glancing around, feeling incredibly stupid, though he lamely felt the need to clarify, "You know uh…P-peter…Pan?"

It was Rufio who spoke first, feeling oddly sorry for the boy despite him having uttered the one thing that should have upset him the most. "Yeah, kid," he said, extricating himself from the bench and coming up behind him. "We know Peter Pan." He looked down at Gretel who regarded them both sadly.

"You better show 'im," she said, though she too got up from the table and the two of them led Henry to the other big set of doors at the far end of the hall. They walked in silence, down a few more dank corridors, before coming to a shoddy looking hatch, half off its hinges at the end of a hallway. They paused, standing before it, and Henry looked up at both kids before glancing down at Mick. What's going on?! he focused his thoughts tightly in his mind, hoping Mick would get his message.

"Peter's here, Henry," Mick replied with a mournful twitch of his whiskers. "He's just beyond that door."

"What'd they do to him?" he asked, this time out loud. And it startled him that it was Rufio who answered.

"The worst thing they could've, Henry." He sighed, pulling open the splintered hatch and revealing a rusty set of bars behind it. The room beyond the bars looked pitch black, and for a few moments, Henry couldn't see anything. Then at last his eyes refocused and he peered into the cell, clutching the bars in his shaking, clammy hands. There was someone inside, a man. He was tall, huge in fact, with shaggy brown hair hanging over his face, his arms chained in heavy iron links against the wall. His shirt was torn and tattered, a mottled shade of green, looking far too small as its seams stretched and split across his torso. Slowly the man lifted his tired gaze to Henry's – a lifeless, forgotten look in his eyes. Henry gasped at the man's sunken expression as Rufio confirmed what the boy now knew. "They made 'im grow up."

…

Belle shook the snow from her sneakers as she trudged up her front stoop, anxious to get inside and make sure that her father was A – ok, and B – strong enough to move. She'd felt sick to her stomach since leaving Adam in the caverns, his active imagination no doubt running wild trying to guess what terrible thing she still had yet to tell him. Of course, no horror he could dream up would even come close to the awful truth. Since the moment she'd awoken in the hospital, she'd tried over and over again to justify her actions: 'Jack Hunter' was, technically, in small degrees nicer than Gaston? She'd caved in a moment of weakness following her father's declining health? She didn't even know Adam existed? But as hard as she'd tried, she couldn't excuse herself. And that guilt had now driven a wedge between them. She shuddered to think of how he might react – that stone-faced expression followed by waves of jealous rage. Oh why hadn't she just sent Jack away that night?

Sighing, she turned the key to her little house and opened the door, steeling herself against what would undoubtedly be a most trying day. First things first, she chanted in her head. Get father to safety. Then deal with…the beast. "Papa?" she called softly as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. There was an odd chill in the air, as if someone had turned the heat down, and she wondered if Maurice had grown too warm under all those blankets. "Papa, I'm home!" she said as she shrugged off her jacket, tossed it on the couch and headed down the hallway. "How do you feel—" she said…and then froze in the doorway.

"Hullo Belle," came a deep, sinister voice in the corner.

Belle opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. There lay her father, sleeping peacefully in his bed…and by his side, hip perched on the window sill, stood a tall dark man, holding a knife. A man she used to call 'Jack.' A man…now very much awake.

"G-gaston," she whispered, fearful that if her father woke now, he'd be in even more danger. "H-how are you…why are you—"

"Awake?" Gaston snickered as he flipped the knife over itself and caught it once more by the handle. "A little gift from an old friend. You don't change much, do you Belle?" he tsked, slinking towards her, looking more evil, more menacing than he ever had in their old world.

"W-what do you want?" she hissed, standing her ground in the doorway, though already knowing resistance to be futile. The jet black hair hanging sloppily over his brow, half covering his face, did nothing to reduce the impression that she was staring the devil himself in the eye.

"You always do come back for this old loon, dontcha?" he chuckled again, and her pulse quickened upon every heavy thunk of his boots.

"What. Do you want?" she asked again, glancing quickly between her father and the brute. Gaston stopped in front of her, staring her down. His broad shoulders squared before her and she could smell the alcohol on his breath. But this was not the sloppy, unruly, clumsy drunk she'd known as 'Jack.' No, Gaston was in complete control, and though he was nowhere near as tall as Adam, she was frightfully aware of how surely he still towered over her, how completely he owned her right now. For he was absolutely right: she always would come back for her papa.

"Oh, I want what I've always wanted, Belle," Gaston leaned forward, slipping his arm around her waist as he leaned in to whisper, "and this time…you're gonna give it to me."

Fear washed over her, but she didn't let it show. No, she wouldn't give him that satisfaction. A knife at her throat was better than a knife at her father's. And without a word, Belle returned to the couch, slipped on her coat…and allowed Gaston to lead her out into the storm.

…

Emma sprinted out of the shop, tucking the skeleton key in the pocket of her parka as she rushed to catch up with Graham and Shane. The now heavily falling snow didn't even register as she scanned the square. To her surprise, however, she found them both near a bench just a few stores down from Gold's. Catching her breath and trying hard to get a firm grip on anything imparted to her in the last twelve hours, she zipped her coat up to her collar, tugged her hood up over her head and stalked over to them. Graham's back was to her. He was standing beside Shane, one leg propped up on the bench, but turned when he heard her feet crunching in the newly fallen snow.

"Hey, are you sure you're all right?" she asked as soon as he was within earshot. The image of him writhing on the floor of Gold's shop was one she couldn't soon enough sponge from her mind.

"I'm fine," he pointed anxiously at Shane. "He's a different story."

Emma looked down at Shane whose earlier macho-man act had clearly evaporated. Before sat a young man, almost boy-like, staring at the cloth case on his lap, now half covered in snow.

"Shane?" she said quietly.

"He still hasn't opened it," Graham muttered, pulling his own collar more tightly around his throat. "I tried to get him to at least get inside to Granny's, but this is as far as he got."

Emma glanced between both of them, and opened her mouth to reply, but Shane suddenly interrupted. "You believe in all that stuff in there? All that talk about realms and curses and spells?" His question shocked Graham, for the lad truly hadn't said a word since he'd run out of Gold's.

Emma looked nervously at Graham. Was the question even for her? She took a chance and answered it. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah I do."

Shane jerked his head to the side, glaring up at her. "You really think that shit's real?"

Emma sighed, stepping past Graham and taking yet another chance in plopping down next to him on the cold green bench. "I know it's real," she muttered, "I'm sure of it." Folding her hands together, she leaned forward and rested her forearms on her knees. "Just as sure as I was that you didn't attack Sean. Just as sure as I was that you saved him."

At the mention of Sean, Shane looked away; it seemed almost like he was embarrassed by the memory – like any good Samaritan who truly didn't want credit for his deed. Emma shifted on the bench, tucking her left leg up onto the seat and sitting sideways to face him. "Just as sure you were…when you knew you had to buy that case."

Shane's gaze shot up again and narrowed in her direction, first at Emma herself, then up at Graham. Emma looked up too and Graham nodded in approval. She turned back. "Open it, Shane. It's gotta lead to something."

With all he'd seen and heard over his years of working West End's underground, one would think Shane Pilfer a perfect candidate for believing in the supernatural. But Emma had a feeling that separating from Jasmine – or rather 'Jade' – had destroyed his faith in a lot of things. Still, he'd listened through that entire encounter with Gold and hadn't once run out to alert the Looney bin. And instinct had prompted this rather odd purchase sitting in his lap.

"Open it, Shane," came Graham's Irish endorsement from behind her.

Shane shook his head, still half-convinced he was nuts, but his cold fingers started working the buckles on either side of the case regardless. "I must be outta my mind," he muttered, but he kept working, until finally the last buckle came loose. He took a deep breath, hands trembling (and not from the cold). He lifted the lid and blinked. "What the hell?" he whispered.

Emma strained her neck to get a better view which Shane gladly tilted sideways to show her. Looped into the cloth casing were two similarly shaped wooden instruments. Clarinets? Emma thought at first. No. They seemed more like those beginner flutes kids all had to learn to play in the third grade. What were they called? Recorders? She looked down at Shane. "Any…" she cleared the frog in her throat. "Any idea?"

"Not a goddamn clue," said Shane, almost in disgust as he shook the flap back around the old-fashioned flutes and looked ready to toss them into the snow.

"No wait," said Emma, thrusting her arm out to stop him. Her hand closed around his wrist…and then Shane started to wheeze.

"What the—"

"I um…I think that's good enough to fool 'em, don't you?"

"Shane?"

"I'll bring these along tonight…just in case."

"Graham, help me!" Emma cried, and she stood up as they flanked him, both of them trying to keep him from convulsing off the bench.

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing! I—"

But Shane cried out, shoving the case to the side and clutching at his hair. "What's happening?" he rasped…

"Aladdin" whispered the voice of his wife…No, the voice of his…princess.

"You need to leave before I do something really stupid"…

And Shane, gripping tightly to Emma's arm, reeled back against the bench, gasping for air. For the memories…the memories came roaring back.

…

After an exhausting morning of driving all over town, alerting as many people as she and James could think of who might be targets, Snow led a rather unimpressive pair of allies down to the caves. First she'd stopped at Ella's house and informed them of everything. But Christopher had run out to the store and wasn't expected back for at least an hour, not to mention the fact that they had just gotten Thomas situated at the manor when Snow arrived. She left with little more than a promise from her dear friend, assuring Snow that the entire family of Seven Gales would head down together, as soon as they were able.

Snow then checked in with Frederick who had indeed contacted Archie and Marco on his way home from school, but Marco had insisted on responding to a reported break down with Michael Tillman's old tow truck, and since (Snow was distressed to learn) Leroy had never returned from last night's escapade, Marco was the only one who could help.

Her talk with Granny and Red hadn't fared well at all, though in truth Snow hadn't expected to gain much ground with them since neither were even close to understanding each other, let alone some crazy talk about a curse. She'd left the bed and breakfast fairly certain they both thought she was nuts, since she'd had to speak half in metaphors and euphemisms anyway.

And then there was her husband, who had already promised to retrieve Abigail from the bank as soon as he'd raided the 'Nolan' household for supplies. So as morning faded into afternoon, and the winter storm outside kept blowing, it was only Frederick and Archie that she led down into the caverns, hoping, praying that she would discover more allies when she arrived.

"You're sure he was going straight to the bank?" Frederick asked for about the umpteenth time as they descended the cobbled steps.

"Yes," she replied, hastily. She understood of course that Frederick would have preferred to pick up his own wife, but the bank was on the other side of town and much closer to the Nolan residence than the elementary school. "It's one of only two stops," she added. "They might even beat us down there."

This reply seemed to satisfy the young knight as he and Doc Hopper followed her deeper into darkness, trusting (though with some degree of trepidation) that the rather monstrous white lion escorting them wouldn't turn in a few seconds to rip out their throats. They reached the heavy latch without incident though and the mountain lion turned rather lazily and slunk away. Snow took a deep breath, felt along the door for the handle and pushed her way inside.

Immediately, the air around her turned warm and the cottage filled with music as she stood in the doorway, gaping in shock at the scene before her. Archie and Frederick actually could barely see as she seemed frozen to her old front stoop. For dancing on benches and stomping their feet to the familiar sounds of Bashful's organ playing, were Snow White's seven dwarves!

"Hey!" cried Grumpy, seeing her first. "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey!" he lifted his arms wide in the air, and the song gradually fizzled out of tune, then stopped altogether. "She beat us to it gents!" he cried and pointed toward the door. Finally the other six turned around and, after a beat, erupted in joyous hollering and applause that brought even Prince Adam forth from his retreat behind the house.

"Grumpy? Happy? Doc—" she cried, tears streaming down her face as Dopey and Sleepy lifted her in the air, letting the door fall open enough for Archie and Frederick to finally squeeze their way inside. "Sneezy! And Dopey!" she laughed, her eyes falling on each one as she was carried to the center of the room and placed reverently in the center, each one bursting with news and stories and love and happiness. Amidst the chaos, Snow managed to catch Adam's eye, and even he smiled warmly as he observed the cheerful gathering, no doubt longing for a similar reunion of his own with Lumiere, Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts.

They were bustling around her, each clambering to be the one to bring her some ale or offer her their chair, and Snow realized all over again that her crazy optimistic husband was more right than he knew. For here she was already…surrounded by family.

…

"While I'd like to look down at the earth from above, I would miss all the places and people I love, so although I might like it, I'll be coming home soon…cuz I don't want to live on the moon." It would have been thought quite an odd little lullaby in their old world, but the soft, lilting ditty she'd heard on Sesame Street had been a childhood favorite of 'Ashley Boyd's' and had been stuck in Ella's head for weeks now. It was also the one song guaranteed to put Alexandra to sleep. "No I don't," she finished sweetly, "want to live…on the moon."

Thomas listened, almost as entranced as Alexandra, as Ella finished the last verse just barely above a whisper, then eased their now sleeping daughter into her playpen and tucked her favorite Winnie the Pooh blanket up around her neck. The simple act of seeing his Ella putting Alex to sleep felt nothing short of a miracle given the events of the past few weeks, and Thomas was not about to miss a single moment. In fact, he was staring at her so intensely, she felt his gaze prickling her neck and turned, a bit startled by his expression. "What?" she asked, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear.

He shrugged and shook his head, nodding her over. "I'd almost forgotten how beautifully you sing," he said, swallowing hard as she approached.

Ella rolled her eyes. "Oh please," she chuckled, "I can hold a tune I suppose but I'm no Ariel—"

"You're perfect," Thomas cut her off as she reached the sofa, wrapped his good arm around her waist and pulled her down beside him. Still paralyzed from the waist down, the prince had been confined to his father's front room sofa all morning. He supposed he should feel grateful that Christopher was able to convince Dr. Whale that they could manage his paralysis at home just as well given how much he'd improved in all other areas. Still, Thomas had had to content himself with a lot of 'watching' and not a lot of 'doing' all day, and it was more than a little irritating to feel so isolated from the family despite having everyone finally, blessedly under one roof. "Besides," he added, with another squeeze of her waist. "You didn't sing a whole lot as 'Ashley'."

Ella scoffed at the mere mention of her meek Storybrooke counterpart. "I didn't do anything well as 'Ashley'," she mumbled, sliding her palms up his chest as she leaned into him.

Thomas could have argued, but he met her half way and kissed her instead, caressing his good hand up from her hip to tunnel into her golden hair, letting it sift through his fingers as he cradled her nape. "God, you feel good," he murmured against her lips, and her heart skipped a beat as she caught his hand in hers and nuzzled her cheek against his palm.

"I missed you so much," she whispered, settling her other hand over his heart.

He chuckled as he laced his fingers through hers and kissed her hand. "Ella, it's only been a couple of days—"

"You know what I mean," she shook her head.

Thomas sighed and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. "I do."

"I mean I know that we've been…you know," she pulled back from him, a troubling crease in her brow. "But in some ways I feel like I haven't seen you since…since—"

"Since the night we caught 'Stiltskin?" Thomas finished for her, giving her hand an extra squeeze.

She nodded and shuddered, that horrible night forever etched in her memory. "Gods, I thought I would never see you again," she said, instinctively clutching the folds of his shirt a little tighter.

Thomas tilted her chin up and kissed away a tear threatening to spill down her cheek, then continued to pepper feather-light kisses down her cheek to the corners of her mouth, back up to her temples, eyes, forehead, and then finally claiming her lips once more in a kiss clearly meant to prove to her that he was indeed, quite real. She whimpered in that sweet way of hers that set him on fire, and he mentally cursed the fact that his right arm was, for the moment, his only working limb.

"Ella," he said after a while, not wanting the euphoric embrace to end but knowing that reality must intrude. "We really need to talk about the queen."

At the very mention of it, he could feel her shoulders tense as she pulled away. "And we will," she said sternly. "As soon as your father gets back."

He frowned. "I still say you and Alex need to go now. Father and I will—"

"I'm not going to debate this again," Ella withdrew from his lap and stalked across the room to the baby bag she had been packing before Alexandra woke up fussing.

"Ella—" he reached out to her in protest. But she cut him off.

"Thomas I told you," she said, shaking her head violently as she folded a few onesies and shoved them into the tote. "I just got this family back together, and I am not about to split it up again."

"And I'm not about to let this be the reason you and Alex are in danger," he argued, gesturing down at his crippled state. Snow had stopped by a few hours ago to inform them both of the queen's confrontation with Emma. The prospect of having everyone crammed into the dwarves' little cottage was certainly less than ideal, but better than any other alternative at the moment. Thomas begged her to take Alex and leave with Snow right then, but the stubborn blonde had refused. Instead she'd assured Snow they would all leave as soon as Christopher returned from the store…together.

"Thomas?" she challenged him, standing resolutely with her hands on her hips. And though he was frustrated, he certainly couldn't begrudge the return of her spunky resolve. "If I have to drag you down there myself, I'm not leaving here without you."

The prince sighed. This is where the argument had ended last time, and he certainly didn't want to spend his first day with the two of them both finally awake in a perpetual squabble. But a part of him was terrified that any minute now, someone would come waltzing through the door. Someone, in no way and ally, who was hell-bent on making their reunion the shortest-lived happy ending imaginable. "Look," he tried again from his couch, watching her as she bustled about the room the way she always did when she was agitated. "I can't even imagine how we're supposed to maneuver that clunky thing—" he pointed the wheelchair sitting by the front door that the hospital had lent them— "through the enchanted forest and down who knows how many flights of cobblestone steps to the cottage, and I'm not exactly crazy about the idea of being a sitting duck once I'm down there either."

"You're not going to be in that thing forever—" she waved him off as she retrieved a basket of clean laundry from the front hall and started furiously folding up Alex's clothes.

His voice turned solemn. "We don't know that—"

"And it's not like we're at risk of some sort of mass invasion here—"

"We don't know that either. Ella please. I know that you want us to be together. And I promise you that we will be, but—"

"Don't!" she whirled around, jabbing a roll of socks toward him which might have struck him as funny had not the expression on her face been so deadly serious. "No more promises, Thomas. Not for me."

His mouth hung open, eyebrows darting down in confusion, "What?"

"I mean it. Not again," she dropped the laundry and rushed over to him, kneeling up on the floor beside the sofa. Instinctively, he reached for her, but she caught his hand in hers first. "The last time you made a vow in my honor? You ended up in Limbo." Thomas tilted his head to one side, his brow creased in woeful understanding, but she wouldn't let him interrupt. "Limbo, Thomas. Because you swore you'd protect me and the baby. And now you're trying to do the same thing."

"Ella, this isn't—"

"I won't go through that. Not again," she gave his hand a tight squeeze, half pleading, half commanding him to heed her. "Now I'm going to finish packing up Alex's things, we're going to wait for your father to come home, and then the three of us together will figure out a way to get us all to safety. You got it?" She gazed steadily into his gray eyes, daring him to object.

Thomas's better judgment nagged the back of his brain, but the voice was drowned out by the desperation in her plea. Insisting that he and Christopher would be right behind her was a far cry from swearing to pay the price of Rumpelstiltskin's contract. But in her eyes, he could see the two were inexorably linked. At this point, he had a better chance of convincing Adam to take up knitting than he had of getting Ella to leave without him. "Yes ma'am," he said, at last relenting.

Ella sighed in relief, about to lean in and reward his surrender with a kiss, when Thomas's phone buzzed along the end table. She glanced down, saw that it was Christopher, and handed it to her husband. "It's your father."

Thomas flipped it open. "Hey Pop," he said, throwing her a sideways glance as he reached up to stroke her cheek. "Yeah we were just wondering where you were."

Ella smiled and withdrew from the couch, about to return to her laundry when her prince's tone abruptly changed. "It what?" she heard him ask and she turned back around. "Well how did that happen?" he glanced up at her, clearly on alert, and Ella felt her stomach drop. "Well did you call Geppe – uh, Marco?" Ella started. Marco? "Yeah. Yeah ok. All right, you be careful, Pop," Thomas frowned, nodding into the phone. "Nothing just…be careful. We'll uh—" he glanced up at his wife. "We'll tell you when you get here," he said, and hung up.

"What happened?"

"Dad was about halfway home when his car stalled."

Ella's eyes widened. "Stalled?"

"Yeah, he said it just choked in the middle of the road. He's still waiting on Marco to show up with a tow. Apparently 'Leroy' isn't back from…from last night." Thomas looked down at his phone, and a terrible feeling came over him. His father owned a BMW. A classic, efficient machine that 'Mitchell Herman' tended to religiously. The car wouldn't…just…stall.

"Well, at least he's all right," Ella offered, relieved to hear it was just car trouble, though the look on her husband's face betrayed an obvious worry that it was something more. Honestly, he could be so paranoid sometimes.

"Ella," Thomas glanced over at the playpen, his throat suddenly constricting, "you really need to go."

"What? Thomas—" she started up again. It was as if their previous conversation hadn't happened!

"Go. Get Alex upstairs," Thomas insisted, using his one arm to prop himself up as high as he could go, glancing worriedly out the front window.

"Sweetheart, it's just a stalled car—"

"Ella—"

But before he could finish, the doorbell rang. They both froze, Ella panting heavily as her husband's panic rubbed off on her. "M-maybe it's Snow again."

"Take Alex upstairs—" he started, but he couldn't finish, for as he suspected, the ringing bell had been a mockery of formality. As if it were made of cardboard, the door of his father's Mifflin street mansion flung open into the hall, sending a decorative, marble display table crashing to the foyer floor. Ella shrieked and Thomas gasped as Rodmilla Tremaine walked icily into their home…flanked by her own daughters.

"Well if it isn't Cinderelly and her faithful prince," sneered Marguerite Tremaine as her sister Drizella snickered behind her.

Ella gaped in horror as she stared desperately across the room to where her daughter was sleeping. Thomas's terror-filled gaze juddered between them, fearing the same thing his wife did as he tried uselessly to move his legs. There was no time to wonder how or why Rodmilla Tremaine knew Ella was awake, or why her stepsisters were suddenly in-the-loop. Ella and Thomas were aware of only one thing: from where they all stood, baby Alexandra was closer to Tremaine than either of her parents.

"Hello dear," came Rodmilla's grating, alto voice as she stared between prince and princess. She turned a snake-like glare on the playpen where lay their still sleeping baby. "How lovely to see you all again." And with a soft click, she reached back and closed the wobbling front door.

…

Jasmine stood in the center of the mat, eyes closed, breathing deeply through her nose and out her mouth. Her weapons, two rattan sticks, she held down at her sides, her hands clenched tightly around the handles as reserves of energy pulsed down her arms, into her wrists and rested in her hands. She continued to breathe, working toward a state of total equilibrium as she strove to master the one faculty that still eluded her – patience.

It was going to be a very trying day. Prince Achmed's entourage was already en route, and her father had informed her this morning that he had a very "good feeling about this one!" By now, Jasmine understood this translated into: "I expect you to be his constant companion in the hopes that this one you will marry!" Already, Rushdi had loaded his daughter's schedule with the varied and pointless engagements she had come to expect from this curious new practice of speed-courting the sultan seemed intent on making fashionable. And then of course, there was the trepidation over tonight's dinner. After almost two months of training to defend her throne, the last thing she needed was to put herself in danger of exposing the extent of her lessons to her father's uppermost circles, men in fact who would be most likely to challenge her rule. Thus, her early arrival this morning to the arena. If anything, the physical workout provided her the only means by which she could work out the stress of being her father's daughter.

Typically, they began work at the crack of dawn, starting at an early enough hour when the Agrabah heat was at its mildest compared to the midday scorch. But Jasmine had arrived today before the sun had even peaked over the horizon, restless, anxious to release the energy so inexorably pent up in her soul. With so much on her mind, it seemed almost inconceivable that she be able to reach any sort of peaceful center from which to begin. But as she stood beneath the dome, breathing deeply, she managed to clear her head of all extraneous concerns, cleared all the talk of kings and weddings, of princes and feasts, of rumors and ice princesses, of her father's illness, of everything until there was one, calming, solid image left in her mind…Aladdin.

"Hyah!" she cried, leaping gracefully into an attack position, chopping the rattan sticks through the air as she twisted, turned, ducked, flipped and parried. Flawlessly, she executed each position, feeling the peace and the calm work through her body despite the sharp and violent motions. Eskrima – a curious discipline, one Aladdin had not learned in Sherwood Forest. In fact, its origin remained a mystery to her, but it had become her personal favorite in recent days. Its main function of course was combat, but it was a style of precision, of persistence…of passion. The more she moved, the quicker the pace, the sharper the pose until the maneuvers became so fluid she felt as if she were dancing.

"Still dropping your shoulder I see," a voice cut into her subconscious and flung her back into reality as she abruptly and rather awkwardly stumbled out of the synchronized movements and turned. Aladdin was leaning against one of the tower's large columns, arms crossed, bag habitually slung across his chest.

"Just…making sure you have something to critique," she countered, hands at her hips. "Don't want you to outlive your usefulness."

He smirked on approach, sweeping a few strands of wavy black hair off his face. "I see…you're testing me now, is that it?"

She smiled. "Something like that. Did your evening wear arrive last night?"

Aladdin walked right by her, but she didn't miss the roll of his eyes as he moved to the long, wide, cushioned bench at the far end of the room and set his bag down in front of him. "Oh yes, I can't I wait to show Prince Achmed how well I look in all that…purple."

Jasmine chewed her bottom lip as she moved to join him. "I'm sorry, it's just this one night – just the official welcome—"

"And there's no way I'm wearing the hat," he added, shifting his bag around and opening the satchel flap.

She opened her mouth to argue, but then thought the better of it. She supposed the least she could do was compromise on the turban. "Fair enough," she nodded and then gestured to the floor. "Shall we begin?"

"Yes," he said, though he made no move to rise from the bench. Instead he pulled a small cloth case out of his bag, looked up at her and then patted the seat in front of him. "But today's lesson is…a little different."

Jasmine's brow creased, but she nevertheless sat down in front of him, tucking one leg under the other. "Are we…starting a new discipline?"

He grinned. "Sort of."

She looked at the case as he carefully undid its buckles. "New weapons?"

"Not exactly."

"What kind of lesson is this?"

He glanced up at her as he lifted the soft flap of the case. "I call it—" he turned it around for her to see "—plausible deniability."

The princess looked down and instantly scoffed as she beheld two beautifully crafted wooden flutes, each held in place on the cloth by two leather loops stitched into the casing. "Aladdin—"she rolled her eyes.

"Ah! No arguments. I'm the 'professor', remember?" he set the case down and slowly removed one flute from its holster.

"I told you we won't be asked to perform—"

"You don't know that."

"I'll speak to my father about it directly. I'll tell him ahead of time—"

"And with your father's illness, what's the likelihood that he'll remember your request?" he countered, pushing the flute into her hands before she had time to argue.

"I know, but—"

"And even if he does, that doesn't guarantee others won't ask, especially Prince-I-want-a-bride-and-am-too-lazy-to-find-one-myself Achmed."

Jasmine laughed outright as she clutched the flute instinctively to her chest. She didn't quite know why, but it pleased her that Aladdin seemed to have already developed an acute bitterness toward Prince Achmed. Yes…it pleased her very much indeed.

Aladdin, briefly entranced by the beauty of her all-too-infrequent laugh, waited for her chuckling to subside and then leveled a more subdued gaze. "Trust me," he said, lifting the second flute from its loops and tossing the empty case on the floor. "This will be far easier than convincing a party of snooty royals that you can't play anything after two months of music lessons. Safer for both of us too."

She watched as he held the flute expertly out in front of him, delicately covering a combination of holes with his fingers before catching her eye. "You…actually know how to play the flute?"

He grinned and sat up a little straighter on the bench, a faux show of conceit. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Princess."

He placed the flute to his lips, curled his tongue up underneath the reed and blew; a lovely note resonated from the instrument, filling the entire space of the tower as Aladdin adjusted the pressure and air going through the flute. It was just one note – not even a melody – and yet Jasmine watched and listened in amazement as he altered the tone, pitch and volume of the sound before finally letting it fade into the air like a whispering breeze, his control over the note evidence of great skill and training to even her amateur ear. "Why…didn't you tell me?" she asked in barely a whisper.

Aladdin grinned wider. "You never asked."

For the next few hours, Aladdin taught her the proper positioning of hands and placement of fingerings for a series of relatively simple melodies. He had procured for her a special flute that did not require a reed and therefore needed not the degree of skill to produce sound that his own flute demanded. She could simply blow softly against the wood and follow the positioning to master the simple tune. During the lesson, Jasmine was relatively quiet but extremely attentive as he slowly and patiently transformed her into a novice musician. He played, she followed, and not once did she grow impatient or frustrated as she had so often in their combat training. Listening to visiting symphonies and court musicians had always seemed such obligatory bores to the princess, but playing music – she discovered – offered a certain serenity of spirit and equilibrium she hadn't quite been able to reach this morning, even in the silence of the empty arena.

On the other side of the bench, Aladdin's reaction to the lesson was quite the opposite. Instead of achieving the quiet calm of his pupil, the thief felt his pulse quickening with every note. For some time now, he'd felt that Princess Jasmine's beauty was beyond compare, but watching her as she closed her eyes, mingling his hands with her own as he schooled her in the different positions and then seeing the hint of a smile in her cheeks as she heard herself play them successfully was leaving him quite unhinged. How can he possibly have spent two months with this woman rolling, tumbling, sweating, dueling and pinning her to the ground without incident only to come closer to the edge of temptation than ever before after teaching her a childhood lullaby?

Toward the end of the lesson, after Jasmine had successfully played the song three times through without assistance, Aladdin at last revealed that she had been learning a counter-melody to a song he used to play as a boy. "The actual song is a bit more difficult with higher notes that span two octaves. What you've just learned is the harmony." Jasmine nodded as she repositioned her fingers for the first note. "I'm going to play the harder melody," he explained. "When I nod to you, see if you can play what you've learned – a bit quieter though…sort of…underneath me – and stick to the notes that you know while I play the verse."

"All right," she said, adopting an expression of intense focus and discipline that might have made him laugh if it wasn't so damned enchanting. Aladdin began the song and then nodded for her to start. The first few times they tried it, Jasmine failed to remain on her part. The complexity of playing one note while hearing another was something she couldn't quite grasp at first. It felt as if his notes were fighting with hers, and she kept trying to win the battle. But the third time through, she found sense in the tune, and could hear how the notes were supposed to work together. When he nodded, she began to play, and the sweet little tune became a beautiful duet, simple and child-like yet haunting and melancholy to the point where Jasmine's eyes brimmed with tears. The two melodies converted the small tower into a concert hall, and they were starring attractions. When at last her part ended, she drew a deep breath and listened while he finished out the song and then lifted his gaze to hers.

Still seated on the bench across from each other, neither breathed a word, as if each knew that speaking would utterly destroy this private little world they'd just created. His eyes bore into hers, smoldering, on the brink, as if a simple brush of the arm would be all it would take to send him over the edge. She knew it too. She could feel it – magnetically. In his eyes she could see reflections of a future she suddenly, desperately wanted. Goddess, it would be so easy to give in.

But her heart, so full of what could no longer be dismissed as mere infatuation or idle fancy, also brimmed with fear. A princess and a street rat – the scandal could ruin everything. Her love for her people, her destiny to rule and heal the problems plaguing her kingdom – how could she risk that fate?

Knowing her as he did, and seeing the doubt creep into her expression, Aladdin plucked the flute from her hands and forced himself to look away. "I um," he cleared his throat as he bent to retrieve the cloth casing, "I think that's good enough to fool 'em, don't you?" His tone was light, but it was a colossal effort for him to withdraw from their bench and move toward the railing where he'd tossed his bag. "I'll bring these along tonight…just in case."

"O-okay," she whispered, still sitting.

Aladdin gripped the edge of the railing, his knuckles white as he kept his back to her, not trusting himself yet to turn around. "You…you better get going. I'm sure you want to change before Achmed arrives."

Jasmine at last rose from the bench. "Aladdin," she started toward him, not really sure what she wanted to say, but knowing also that she didn't want to leave him.

"Don't—" he pleaded, feeling her drawing near. She stopped. "Please just…" he trailed off, shaking his head. This was torture. Couldn't she tell what this was doing to him? To them? He flashed back to their first meeting. I don't believe in true love, she'd said. I'm not built that way…She was wrong. Dead wrong. She had to know that by now. Why couldn't she see that?"You need to leave before I do something really stupid," he rasped.

Jasmine swallowed hard. Stupid. Yes. That was exactly the word. Stupid that she was still standing here. Stupid that she hadn't yet retreated. Stupid to think, to even consider that maybe…that maybe they could…No, she thought, abruptly turning from him and heading for the exit. Keep walking, she ordered herself. Do as he asks. Leave. Leave now. It was better this way, wasn't it? She couldn't afford the distraction. She couldn't afford more secrets. If anyone ever found out...

But the further she walked, the more hollow and irrelevant the little voice in her head became. She was tired of that voice, tired of denial, of ignoring what had so obviously developed between them. With every step she made toward the door, her body screamed for her to stop, begged her to stay, until at last, frozen beneath the archway, the tiny voice disappeared completely…and she turned back to face him. "What about…rule number three?" she called out to him, in a voice far stronger than the one she'd been using.

"What?" he whirled around.

"Rule number three?" she repeated, drawing closer now. His eyes were blazing, and he gripped the railing behind him so hard she thought it might snap in two. She halted in the center of the arena with a helpless shrug. "Don't run…if you know you can win."

Aladdin advanced on her so fast he practically flew across the room and, without hesitation, gripped her by the shoulders. "Don't do that," he said in a fierce whisper, his fingers digging so hard into her flesh it might have been painful had she not wanted him so badly. "Don't say that if you don't mean it," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Because if you don't mean it, Jasmine, I swear I'll—"

"I mean it," she gulped, running her gaze over the hard bronze skin shadowed by his vest. She placed her hands on his abdomen, as she had done so many times before to try and flip him off of her or gain a tactical advantage. But today she trembled as her palms slid gently up his chest, boldly dipping beneath his vest, and came to settle around his neck. "I mean it," she said again in a hoarse whisper before she lifted her gaze to his. "You win."

Aladdin came undone. Tightening his grip, he flattened her to his chest and slanted his mouth over hers, parting her lips almost immediately and silencing her gasp as he dipped his tongue inside. Jasmine rocked backwards from the electric shock of such sensual ferocity, but she did not pull away as he tasted her, explored her mouth, drank hungrily from her lips, while wrapping one arm firmly around her waist to keep her upright. Indeed, he'd quite knocked the wind out of her, but the princess soon responded in full, snaking her fingers back around his neck and then up through his hair, pulling his head down to deepen the kiss further. She licked into his mouth with the same erotic thrill of domination that drove him, earning a deep and heady groan that rumbled from his throat. This was how it should be, she realized as he urged her backward and together they stumbled clumsily across the mat. He backed her up against one of the marble pillars of the arena and let out an impatient grunt as he pinned her against the column, all the while never breaking the kiss. This was how it must be between them – ever the competition, this explosion of passion that so closely resembled the thrill of battle. The two were intricately linked in Jasmine's mind now as Aladdin slid his palms down her bare arms and trapped her wrists tightly to the marble, feeling not unlike a round of sparring when one had the other pinned to the floor. Instinctively, she flexed her arms and pushed against his grip, twisting their hands and wrists together as she lifted them over her head and laced her fingers with his. He followed her lead, pressing their clasped hands to the column behind her, and Jasmine shuddered at the carnal delight of having her arms stretched and restrained against the cool marble. Finally, he drew his mouth from hers, murmuring her name against her glistening skin, and a soft cry escaped her as he rained a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck.

He paused at the base of her throat, where her neck met collarbone, and nipped at the sweet flesh with his teeth. Jasmine gasped and threw her head to one side, further baring her neck to his ministrations. "Sweet Hera," she groaned. Her eyes slid shut as his mouth closed more fully over the sensitive spot and he suckled tenderly at the skin he'd just bruised. Never in her life had she experienced such raw, unadulterated pleasure. Even with the countless princes and noblemen paraded by her door, only a handful of them had ever been allowed more than a peck on the hand, and even fewer a full kiss on the lips. But to this man? To this thief? She wanted to bare her body and soul. Shamelessly, she slid her hands out from beneath his grip against the pillar and grazed the tips of her fingers down the insides of his arms, smoothing over his broad shoulders and then sliding back up to the hairline at his neck. He sucked in a breath, shivering at her caress, and she relished in the knowledge that her touch could inspire the same enthusiastic response as his own. Boldly, she tunneled her fingers through his wild, black hair, pressing him to her, encouraging his glorious attentions as he kissed and laved his way across her shoulders to the hollow of her throat and then suckled the tender skin just above the neckline of her camisole. She moaned and sighed as Aladdin continued to worship her with his touch, but it wasn't until she felt him move even lower that her eyes flew open, and she gasped and looked down. His daring shocked her but she again made no effort to stop or push him away as he peppered kisses along the thin silk stretched over her breast. He paused just as he reached one painfully tightened peak, and then closed his mouth over her breast, gently sucking the tiny bud through the gossamer fabric. Base, unbearable pleasure swept through her, and Jasmine cried out his name, kneading her fingers through his hair as if she might pull him away. And yet it felt too good, too right to deny herself this new sensation. Instead she held him there, encouraging him to continue as he pressed his body even closer, trapping her more firmly against the pillar.

Trap. Capture. Surrender. Words he'd used to show her to fight, he now used to claim her heart. And yet it was a victory for her as well, for as surely as he claimed her, so too did she savor the knowledge that he was (and always had been)…hers. This intoxicating revelation stirred in her veins and compelled the princess to turn the tides of this battle and ramp up the heat. Tightening her grip in his crazy black mane, she hauled his face back up and fused her lips to his. His impassioned moan, which seconds ago might have turned her weak-in-the-knees, prompted her instead to draw one slippered foot along his ankle, up his calf and then curl her leg around his outer thigh.

Aladdin gasped and drew back, already fearing that he'd pushed her too far, too fast. In fact, he'd been consciously working to silence that nagging voice in his head which had thus far done a superb job of reminding him of what an utterly undeserving ass he was. But when he lifted his heated gaze to her own, her eyes brimming with the same heady desire, the same unbridled need, the street rat could have more easily stoppered the Canyon Falls of Lochmere than reigned in his passions. Palming the base of her thigh in one hand and wrapping his other arm firmly around her middle, he hoisted her up, urging her to wrap both legs around his waist. Then he braced her back against the column, using the solid marble to hold her in place as she hooked her feet together behind his back.

All at once, time seemed to halt, and an almost quiet reverence settled between them as he gazed up at her. "Jasmine," he rasped, his eyes sweeping over her beautiful form. "If we go any further," he paused and lifted one hand to brush the pad of his thumb across her cheek. "I-I won't be able to stop."

She gazed down at him and felt something like a tightly wound coil springing loose in her belly. What he spoke was neither threat nor warning. He offered, simply, a way out. One last chance to escape. Even now, as she sat willingly, scandalously astride him, even now when she could feel how fervently he wanted her, he was ready to let her go, to let her off the hook. "I don't want you to stop," she whispered and covered his hand with her own. "I don't ever want you to stop." Trembling in his embrace, with a virginal sweetness in her gaze that nearly broke him, Jasmine laced her fingers through his and then guided his hand to the strap at her shoulder, easing the already loose, silky garment down her arm.

Aladdin cast any remaining shred of good sense to the winds and sealed his mouth over hers, slipping his arm back around her waist. He lifted her away from the column, carrying her almost child-like to their velvet-covered bench where they hurriedly divested each other of all encumbering garments. "Gods, you're beautiful," he whispered after removing her camisole, dipping his head to kiss her again. She trembled in his arms, possessed by the sudden urge to feel his own skin pressed against hers as she fought for dominance of the kiss. She smoothed her hands up his bare chest, excited again by the response it stirred in him, and he groaned into her mouth as she continued her exploration. Her hands trailed delicately along the rough, hard ridges of his chest and abdomen, then grazed almost lazily down his sides, her light caress driving him wild above her until he could stand it no longer. Bracing both arms on either side of her head, he settled himself over her, and their urgent panting ceased and they lay poised on the very edge of consummation.

He gazed into her eyes, loving her with every fiber of his being, and traced the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. "Are you sure?" he breathed, heart pounding so hard she could feel it beating against her own chest.

"I'm sure," she murmured against his cheek.

"I love you," his voice broke, and in one swift thrust, he entered her, possessing her as fully and completely as she had possessed his soul…

Aladdin was fairly certain that what he'd experienced just outside Gold's shop was not in fact a Seer's vision. Emma Swan didn't seem to have witnessed anything herself. Her touch merely restored the memories inside, allowing his brain to fill in the blanks of what had begun upon seeing his old case. Plus, as far as he knew, only the Seer herself ever actually saw anything if it was a vision, and Aladdin had seen it all. At least…he certainly hoped that was the case as echoes of that fateful morning in the palace tower thrummed through him, playing over in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. The first of many times he'd made love to Jasmine in that tower wasn't exactly a memory to which he wanted Storybrooke's savior to have an all access backstage pass.

Still, he was grateful to Emma and Graham for dragging him along to their little 'freak-show' with Gold. That's what 'Shane' would have called it anyway (and Aladdin had grown quite attached to the little delinquent). The visit had led to his awakening. Finally, an end to all the confusion, life in the criminal underground, the crazy notion he'd had of always being watched.

Now, as he rushed through the snow towards the east docks, the case of flutes slung securely over his shoulder and the prized lamp tucked inside his coat, bumping up against his breadbasket, he had a definite sense that his awakening came just in the nick of time. The HFC, where 'Jade' worked, was just around the next block, and though he hadn't run into a lick of trouble all the way, he had a feeling she was in grave danger.

Genie hadn't ever spent much time discussing gods and other realms and magic in their land. Frankly, it was a bit beneath the big blue guy's radar. But if everything Gold had told them this morning was true, then Jasmine had to be one of these six guardians of magic. He sure as hell hadn't come from any royal blood line, poised to inherit such an important stewardship. But Gold did identify Agrabah as one of the six chosen kingdoms…and Jasmine? Well, accepting a role of protector over the magical well-being of her kingdom and by extension her entire realm? Yup, that was right up Jasmine's alley. He couldn't think of a more qualified royal actually as he thought back to the defining moment of her final ascension challenge. Armed with those two rattan sticks, Jasmine had successfully flattened Razoul to the ground and the entire kingdom actually erupted in cheers…for her. Yeah. Jasmine was definitely a guardian.

For this reason, Aladdin was determined to reach her as soon as possible. Assuring Emma and Graham that he was very much awake, and promising any help he could give once he was sure his princess was safe, he'd taken off toward the Storybrooke Health and Fitness Center, praying his gut instincts were wrong.

Amidst a snow fall that was picking up intensity by the minute, Shane Pilfer rushed toward the community building where – he chuckled, remembering – Jade Pilfer taught yoga and self defense classes for women. Regina really was pretty thick for having allowed the cursed 'Jade' to retain that part of Jasmine. Perhaps the queen underestimated just how much ass his beloved pupil could kick…

…From the shadows behind club Ugly Duckling, a man watched Shane Pilfer arrive at the HFC. There was purpose and knowledge in his step, though that had been a trait of 'Shane's' as much as Aladdin's. Still, John didn't doubt for a moment that the young street rat was finally awake…just as Gold had predicted. Son of a bitch, was the man ever wrong?

John waited to ensure that Shane was fully inside before emerging from behind his dumpster and brushing off the small mound of snow that had accumulated on his brand new heavy trench coat, a gift to himself of course. He'd picked it out at the Emporium after dropping Henry off at the boys' home and trailing Emma long enough to make sure she went into the court house. All in all, John Foulfellow had already had a rather full day, but this was the moment he was most looking forward to. This was the big pay off. And how convenient was it for Regina to have assigned him this same spot for the siege! Two birds; one stone – Honest John's favorite kind of kill. For soon, both royals of Agrabah would emerge from the curse…and all that treasure…would be his.

…

James was by no means naïve. He loved his wife, his daughter, his grandson, and would forever search for the silver lining no matter how dire the situation to ensure that they never lost faith. But deep down, beneath the sanguine assurances of a ruling prince, lay the pragmatic reality of a poor shepherd – A shepherd who had already lost more than half his life to a curse, his mother to the avarice of a king, and his daughter's entire childhood to a miserable witch, hell-bent on his family's damnation. A part of him truly did believe that all would turn out well in the end, and that his family, in one way or another, would prevail. Good can't lose, as he'd said many years ago…But there was no way in hell he was going to let Snow accompany him back to the Nolan household…to retrieve Abigail.

Rummaging throughout the house, gathering clothes, food, tools, anything that could be forged into a weapon, James moved fast, feeling very much as if he were running out of time. There was much to be done, and so much more to accomplish before any of them could really rest easy. Hopefully, Emma had been able to learn something of value from Rumpelstiltskin, but he doubted very much that the imp had drawn her a map with X marking the spot where Regina kept Henry. He wasn't entirely convinced, as his daughter seemed to be, that 'Stiltskin even knew or cared where Henry was, but he had to let her try. In the meantime, their plan was simple. Stock up and regroup. The cottage was small, yes, but bigger than it looked, and he was sure the queen didn't know about it, else it would have been destroyed years ago.

He'd spent barely an hour at the house gathering victuals and was fairly certain he'd cleared and loaded everything to his SUV that could be useful. All that was left was the garage which he figured would probably offer them a few more tools that could come in handy. He loaded his last duffle bag into his trunk and then slammed the lid shut, blowing hot air into his gloves as he then walked up the driveway to the Nolan's garage. He remembered "Katherine" telling him at some point that their garage was so "full of junk" they hadn't parked cars in there for years. He was just about to lift the door and check out that "junk" when a voice startled him from behind.

"James!" cried the voice of a worried blonde, the heels of her boots clicking up the driveway.

James jumped and spun around. "Abigail!" he cried, instantly on alert. "Wh-why are you home already?"

"I got a call from Frederick. Told me to head straight to the house. Something about Regina? Knowing about the curse – oh James!" The girl was clearly panicked, throwing her gloved hands over her mouth. "What if she taps into her magic? What if she makes me turn on you all again?"

James eyed her warily, peering into her gaze. It was rather a coincidence that Abigail had just voiced his exact fears about those whose hearts the queen controlled. For this veryreason, he'd readily agreed with Snow that they should split up. If the queen knew they were awake, all bets were off, and there was every chance in the world that the witch would resort to her old tricks. Then again, if Regina was controlling her, Abigail would hardly be warning him of the possibility. "Well…" he said steadily, backing away from her. "H-how do you feel? You said once you could always feel her presence. Do you feel her now?"

Abigail lowered her hands to her throat, her eyes darting around as if searching for some invisible force. "N-no," she shivered, bundling herself up against the snow.

James allowed his shoulders to relax, though faintly, as he reached for the handle of the garage and yanked upwards. "Good," he said. The door flew open and bounced lightly against its stopper at the top. "Then stay there while I grab a few things and we'll head out, ok?"

She nodded, seeming glued to her spot on the driveway as he stepped into the makeshift storage shack and started rummaging through boxes. He was halfway to the back, practically disappearing amidst what seemed indeed to be mostly junk, when he thought of something. "Wait," he started to turn. "Did you say Frederick called you—"

But James didn't get to finish that sentence. With a blow far mightier than she should have been able to wield, Abigail stood directly behind her former betrothed and struck him hard with the base of a shovel. He fell to the concrete floor with an unceremonious thud, while the princess stood over him, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so sorry James," she whispered. And then she wept.

…

After parting ways with Aladdin, barely pausing to rejoice in the awakening of another prince, Graham and Emma raced to the town library. Apparently, it had been closed for years, for it seemed no one in Storybrooke had ever felt moved to seek knowledge. Thus, it was the perfect place for Gold to be hiding something, and Emma didn't at all feel like waiting until she started "doubting Gold's motives." She already doubted Gold's motives, and on the slim chance that this "something she'd been looking for" was indeed her son, she wasted no time in pursuing the only lead to come out of this entire screwed up day.

She wondered, worriedly, what was going on elsewhere in Storybrooke. Since leaving her parents and agreeing to meet up at the cottage, had they found everyone they were looking for? Were they all waiting in these caverns below that Emma herself still hadn't seen? She certainly hoped so, though her stomach tied in knots at the thought that, as usual, things weren't going to go exactly to plan. Still, she had to follow her instincts. They'd led her thus far and this key had to lead to something good. It just had to. In a sort of childish way, Emma now prayed fervently, with every fiber of her being, for something good to come out of this rotten day.

With no one around to object (and technically being the only two law enforcement officials in town anyway) she and Graham worked swiftly to dismantle the rusted lock on the library doors and kicked their way inside. The place was cold and damp, the smell of rotting wood and moldy paper permeating the air. Emma looked up sadly, seeing piles of books lying in damp puddles strewn throughout the abandoned building as the violent snow storm swirled in through the open door way. Working against the wind, they pulled the doors shut and then silently moved throughout the old collection of forgotten tomes, feeling almost as if the place itself was haunted.

"See anything?" Emma asked after a short while of searching, taking a flashlight from her parka and shining it down a fairly uncluttered aisle.

"No," Graham held up his palm, blocking the light that she'd unintentionally shined in his face. "Nothin' that looks like it goes with that key anyway."

"Sorry," Emma muttered, lowering the light and shining it elsewhere. Fear sank once more to her gut. "Another wild goose chase," she scoffed, shaking her head as with every passing moment it seemed less and less likely that Gold had told them anything helpful.

"Don't give up, Emma," said Graham, meeting her halfway up the aisle.

"Why the hell not?" she countered, throwing her hands up in defeat. "I screwed up this morning with Regina, I'm no closer to finding Henry, I got an earful of nonsense that…that weasel who, among other things, made it sound like breaking this curse is gonna be fucking impossible—"

"Emma—"

"And I'm standing here in an abandoned library with a key that leads nowhere while Regina's out there doing God knows what—"

"Emma!" Graham cried, grasping her by the shoulders and giving her a hearty shake. He stared down at her, heart beating fast as this was the closest he'd been to her since the tree lighting. "You're going to find Henry," he said with absolute certainty.

Emma dropped his gaze, shaking her head, a look of pain and anguish twisting into her face. "You don't know that."

"I do," he said softly, lifting his hand to place his finger beneath her chin. But she sucked in a breath and pulled away. Graham opened his mouth to object, then sadly lowered his hand to his side.

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered, shaking her head. "I-I just can't—"

Graham held up his hand, "I know."

"No," she looked up, her eyes pleading. "You don't. It's just—"

"It's ok, Emma," he assured her. "I understand." She didn't want to touch him again. She couldn't. Because she knew…she knew what she'd find if she looked into his heart. She'd find his love for her…something she couldn't return.

That did it, Emma thought. She officially hated the world. And the world hated her. It scared her how much she wished she could be ok with it. She wanted to let him touch her, if only to have someone wrap his arms around her and assure her that there were still some things in this world Regina hadn't taken from her. But she knew her head was far too screwed up right now to handle another vision, any vision. And she shook with a shiver not prompted by the cold.

"Graham," she said at last, still searching for the right thing to say, but at that moment she heard a thump. And then a pound. And then a beating along the walls. "D-do you hear that?" she whispered.

Graham was already darting his gaze around the room as they stopped before the old circulation desk. He nodded and switched on his own flashlight. "H'lo?" he called out loudly.

"Hello?!" came a muffled, impatient cry, and the pounding increased.

"Where's it coming from?" Emma hissed and Graham shook his head. The beams of their flashlights danced about the room like search lights, wildly scattering across forgotten shelves and cobwebbed corners. But eventually, both beams fell upon a small closet tucked behind the children's section they'd missed in their initial search.

"'S that you again, John? You son of a bitch!" called the voice, malevolently. "Come on, asshole! We'll just see 'bout that 15 rounds, huh?!"

Sheriff and deputy sprinted to the corner, Emma already withdrawing the skeleton key from her coat and shoving it cleanly into the keyhole. The lock clicked open and she wrenched the door open, letting it fly forward and almost stumbling forward. Having thrown her entire weight at the door, Emma shoved herself inside and a panicky feeling came over her. She was falling. Christ, she was in free fall! And she felt a scream build up in her throat before Graham wrapped one arm up underneath hers and the other clenched over her right shoulder, yanking her backwards. She collapsed into his arms, then turned and gaped at emptiness before her…into a room with no floor.

"Hello?!" called the voice again, though its tone was much less hostile and filled with confusion. "Who's there?!"

Emma and Graham looked at each other, and then shined their lights into the hollow space below. A man was standing in the center of a large open space, part of what looked to be the library's unfinished basement. His jeans were torn and ripped, a ratty parka vest hung loosely from his shoulders. He was squinting in the beam, and his hand shot up to block the blinding light in front of his face. At first, all Emma could make out was a scraggly, half-grown beard. But then he shifted to the side, and his entire face faded into view. Emma blinked in disbelief, staring into an expression as shocked as her own. For standing beneath her, in Gold's makeshift cell …was Michael Tillman.

…

***Whew! Ok…a couple things here deserve some credit:

The lullaby that Ella sings Alexandra is indeed from Sesame Street, a very old lullaby that Ernie sings when he can't fall asleep. It has always been a favorite of mine and if I ever have kids, it's what I intend to sing to them when they're young. As it is, this is the closest I can get right now!

The names of the lost boys are taken from nearly every version of Peter Pan that I could dig up: the original tale, Peter Pan in Scarlet, Peter and the Starcatcher, the movie Hook, and Return to Neverland. There are more, unnamed of course, but we probably won't meet them 'till later. And don't worry, Tootles will show up (I didn't want to go for the obvious!)

And since I combined Rodmilla de Ghent with Lady Tremaine for Ella's stepmother, it seemed only fitting to mash up the stepsisters as well. Thus, Marguerite is from Ever After and Drizella is from the Disney classic. (Jacqueline and Anastasia have far too much redeeming qualities for what I have in store for the sisters so I gave them a pass).

Shout outs to The Pris for keeping it real, Fruitality for such inspiring feedback and Kaylee the Pete whose own lovely, romantic prose inspired me to push myself further this chapter.

Lastly, I'd like to credit you – my readers. I got curious and reformatted the word document into which "Toll Bridge" is preciously saved to reflect the font size and margins of a standard mass market paperback – it's over 600 pages long. So thank you thank you thank you for continuing to read and coming back for more! A thousand times thank you and I truly hoped you enjoyed!

-Nikstlitslepmur***