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Chapter Fifty-Three

Grandmother Willow


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Margaret landed on the beach in a dishevelled heap. It was one thing to have to wear riding leggings and a wayfarer's blouse, to have goose wings, and yes, maybe there were heels on her boots, but the colour was a drab brown when she'd have much preferred something pink, but having to tumble into damp sand was another matter entirely. Nibs, she cursed under her breath.

Climbing to her feet, she smoothed out her clothes and dusted off the sand before turning to find him. At the sight of him standing nearby in his ridiculous waistcoat whilst casually glancing at his pocket-watch, she could have yanked the ears out of his head. He was the… well, gentleman was a very strong word, but he was the man in this situation, and she was a princess. It was his duty to help her up, not stand there with that infuriatingly uncouth smirk on his face.

"First time travelling by rainbow?" he asked, looking rather amused. "You get the hang of it."

"Listen here, you ruffian," she snapped. "Stop twitching your ears and help me get onto solid ground. My heels are sinking into this infernal sand."

"I told you to wear flats," he said with a long-suffering sigh. Rolling his eyes, he strolled towards her as if he was on a morning constitutional before making a show of offering her his arm. "May I, oh wondrous princess?"

"Shut up," she snapped, but she accepted the hand anyway.

As they made their way up the beach, she glanced around at this strange place. The trees looked rather strange and unfamiliar. The Plains Nation, she thought. Apparently, this was one of those trivial kingdoms that existed in the Undiscovered Lands to the west, but she really couldn't see what the big fuss was about. The beaches here, for one, were nothing like the picturesque coasts of Renvale. There were no cabins or bungalows, no lady waltzing across the sand selling ice-cream, and there didn't even seem to be a lifeguard. In fact, there didn't seem to be anyone here at all.

It was a wild, almost savage place, all white-gold sand and roaring waves which gave way to thick jungle, and the stones rising from the sea were rough and jagged. Even the birds looked odd. She glared at a passing white-flapping-thing as it made its way through the sky, shaking her head in disdain.

"So?" she asked. "Where is my brother?"

"Somewhere." Nibs gestured towards the jungle. "Rainbow travel isn't an exact science, you know, but there's no other way of magically getting here. Speaking off…" He raised a hand and screwed up his face in concentration before shaking his head. "No magic. Who'd have thought? Guess I'm roughing it."

No magic? Margaret yanked the Omnicron free from her belt in alarm, and to her shock, it didn't fall open at her touch. Desperately, she tried to pry open the pages, only for the book to remain locked shut, almost as if it had been glued together. No magic? Nibs, you bloody moron.

"Would it have killed you to mention our magic wouldn't work here?" She scowled as she slid the Omnicron back into place in its holster. "We could have brought weapons."

"I didn't know my magic wouldn't work here," he said with a shrug. "I'm a Lost Boy, not a Guardian, but apparently that cantankerous old tree shuts down everything related to Tsar Luna."

"But you knew my magic wouldn't work here." She fought back the urge to slap him. Deciding to reiterate her earlier point, she fixed him with a glare that could curdle milk. "We could have brought weapons if you'd made the point earlier."

"Can you use a weapon?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Personally, I've never needed to, so I'm a bit useless with them."

"That is beside the point," she snapped. "It is better to have an axe to wave at someone who wants to kill you than to not have an axe at all."

"An axe?" Now he seemed distinctly amused. "I'm afraid that I'd have trouble swinging an axe, and you don't have my muscles."

"Muscles?" Margaret scoffed before poking a single manicured nail into his bicep. "You have no muscle."

"I have plenty of muscle." He flexed, his scrawny arms straining within their cotton sleeves. "Poke me again and see."

"Fine," she said. She prodded him in the gut, and to her surprise it wasn't quite as soft as she'd pictured it to be—but it was not something she'd call muscled either. She poked again, harder this time, her nail digging through his shirt. Yes, definitely somewhat firm, but not a six-pack in sight.

"Ouch," yelped Nibs, his ears twitching as he hopped backwards. "I said poke not dig."

Against everything, a breath of laughter escaped her lips. Catching herself immediately, she schooled her features into an impassive mask and jerked a finger towards the jungle. Without waiting for another bit of nonsense to escape his mouth, she began to walk. The smell of moss and damp earth invaded her nose the second she'd entered the place, and it was decidedly cooler than it had been on the beach. She picked up her pace, the canopy growing thicker and thicker until the light was dappled green, and she sighed. This was going to take forever, and there was no telling how large the jungle actually was.

For all she knew, it could be the size of a kingdom and her brother could be all the way on the other end, which would be Nibs' fault given he'd been the one steering that infernal rainbow. Rainbow travel isn't precise, Margaret! Forgive her for not believing him, because it was becoming rather clear that Nibs was doing everything in his power to irk her.

Wait.

Their magic didn't work in this confounded land, and they'd travelled here by rainbow.

"Nibs," she said, her voice frostier than she'd ever heard it. "When we find my brother, and we will find him, mind you, how precisely are we going to get out of here?"

Nibs' footsteps came to a sudden halt, and it was all the confirmation she needed as she rounded on him. Jabbing her finger into his chest, she scowled, her ire all but spilling from her ears and nose. Her wings flared out around her, and she jabbed him again, harder this time.

"You wretched, uncouth, reckless, stupid, rabbit-eared, mildly attractive, lacksadaisical, sarcastic, irritating, annoying, foolish, idiotic moron," she ranted. "You didn't think of how we're going to get out of here, did you?"

"Well, excuse me, you goose-winged harpy," retorted Nibs, "But maybe I'd have been able to think things through better if you hadn't been screeching in my ears the entire time I was preparing for this trip."

"I do not screech!" Margaret screeched.

"One more word and I'm sending you right back to Neverland." Nibs' ears twitched.

"Good luck trying, you can't do magic in this wre—"

A loud howl tore through the air, and the words died in her throat. Her eyes growing wide as saucers, she glanced through the jungle in search of whatever had made the sound, gooseflesh prickling along her arms. That… it sounded like a wolf, but there couldn't be wolves in this land, could there? A second howl, shriller than the first, pierced the quiet, and a third howl answered.

She shivered, backing away until she collided with Nibs. To her surprise, his arms shot around her, steadying her to keep her from slipping into the damp leaves and mud.

"Wolves," he whispered, and she didn't miss the strain of fear in his voice. "Lots of wolves."

"I can tell," she replied, fighting to keep her breathing steady. "What do we do?"

"Run?" he suggested.

"Run," she agreed, and without another word, they took off as quickly as they could.


Asmund Haddock was the firstborn son of King Hiccup of Berk and his first wife, Queen Astrid, and he had been the crown prince, destined to inherit the Dragonbone Throne. He'd been born with an axe in one hand and a flagon of ale in the other if the stories were to be believed, and he'd tamed his mount—Demre, the great white wyrm—when he'd been no more than three years old. The bards of Berk had once proclaimed that at the moment of his birth, the mountains themselves had whispered his name.

Asmund Haddock was currently living in a cave in the middle of nowhere. He spent his free time weaving reeds, and his crown was a hat designed to keep off the sun.

Jian pinched the bridge of his nose, not quite understanding what to make of this malarkey. The cave did seem homey, at the very least, but the drink was foul and yeasty, so thick that he could chew it if he tried. Compared to the stiff ale of Berk, it was ditchwater at best, but Asmund quaffed it as though it was the finest vintage in the world. After pretending to swallow another mouthful of the putrid drink, he set down his cup on the rustic table and sank back into the misshapen armchair.

"Start talking," he said, crossing his arms as he studied the other man.

"What about?" asked Asmund with a shrug. "We're here, it's a good day, and there's good tula-pah to drink. Why waste it talking about the past?"

Jian favoured him with a withering glare. "Do I need to hit you again?"

"Like, you can if you want to." Asmund grinned. "Work out your hostility, mate, and then let it all go. It's all good."

"I am not hostile!" snapped Jian. "I'm just stranded in a backwards hovel of a civilization with no way home. In fact, there's never going to be a way back home because my home is gone. You do know that the Imperium is gone, right? Not overrun, not under hostile role. Gone. But sure, I'll let it all go, and I'll just stay here rather than—"

"Granted, the situation is not ideal, but it's the end of all, Jian," replied Asmund. Pausing to quaff up the last of his drink, he leaned back on his lumpy bed and folded his hands behind his head. "Listen, I was fourteen when I left home. I was sick of it, to be honest. All the scheming and the politics and the bloodshed. It was exhausting, you know? You should have left it all behind as well. We all should have. I mean, look at my life now. It's chill. I'm happy. I've got some good friends who like me for me and not what I can give them. I ride Demre for fun rather than war. I—"

"You broke your father's heart with your disappearing act," shot back Jian. "My mother always said the last light in King Hiccup's life left with you."

"Oh, is that so?" Asmund snorted. "I'm sure dear old Dad could get over it the same way he got over my mother."

Jian blinked. Oh, for fuck's sake. Really? This was what it boiled down to? Asmund had left without a word to anyone and let the world think him dead for over a decade because he was angry that King Hiccup had remarried? Godmother have mercy, but he'd deserved that punch. He deserved a dozen more, if Jian was being perfectly honest with himself.

He wanted to say something, but all his words died in his throat. This was just… he was at a loss for words. Why in the world was everyone so bloody dramatic? Getting a new stepmother? Run away from home forever. Want to protect your girlfriend? Abandon her and take off with a bunch of pirates. There were wars coming? Better go off into the wilderness with strangers to speak to a tree.

Honestly, Jian was just done. He wanted to get back to DunBroch and have a nice dinner with Sigrun before enjoying a nice night's sleep in a proper. There were many things that could be said about DunBroch, but it was peaceful, and the people who lived there were actually sensible. His anger, which had been building for the entirety of the conversation, folded into itself, and he sank back into his chair.

"I don't know why you came to find me by the river," said Jian with a shake of his head. "I didn't know you were here. I didn't need to know that you were here. Nobody knew. But, I'm not going to sit around with you pretending that everything is fine, Asmund, because it's not fine, and whatever issues you have. You deal with them, but me? I want to go home. It's war and it's scheming and it's an entire mess, but I'm not going to run away from my problems because the going is getting hard. So, you… you sit here and enjoy this swill, and I'm going back to the village so I can at least try to find a way back home. Or train. Or do something other than sit around and pretend that it's all fine."

Rising from his seat, he turned and made for the exit. The cave didn't even have a proper door, he noted as he pushed aside the woven curtain and emerged into the fresh air. For the first time since coming to this land, he was glad that Sigrun wasn't with him. Every family had the one person that they couldn't take about without opening old wounds, for his girlfriend, that person was Asmund.

If she heard his sorry tale… Jian didn't know how she'd take it. Sigrun was strong, he knew that. She was one of the strongest people he'd ever met, but this would hurt her in ways that no swords or axes could. When he got home, could he even tell her what he'd found? He didn't know. Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts, he kept going, putting one foot in front of the other as he made his way down the hillside towards the village.

"That was a very eloquent speech." Asmund's voice carried in the wind, and Jian stiffened. He hadn't expected the man to come after him, and he'd hoped that his outburst would have been enough to discourage further attempts at approaching him. He kept silent, and didn't bother turning to acknowledge the Viking.

"I've heard it before, you know?" continued Asmund. "Thing is, I am dealing with my baggage. I removed myself from the problem, because being a crown prince? Marrying a princess and raising a bunch of brats? Scheming with my court and dealing with nobles and having to move mountains whenever someone so much as snubs a toe? That isn't me. It's never been me. I didn't want it. I never asked for it. I just happened to be born into it, and guess what, I didn't like it. So I walked away, and I'm doing a lot better."

Asmund scoffed. There was a low rumble upon the air, followed by a the heavy whoosh of wings. A shadow passed over them, and Jian looked up to see Demre, the great white wyrm himself, swooping down onto the hill. His white scales glimmered in the sunlight, his claws trailing ragged strings of flesh. He'd been hunting, clearly, and Jian had been around the dragons of Berk long enough to know he'd returned to his master without finishing his meal.

Demre growled, his warm breath washing across Jian's back, and the sensation was enough to make him finally turn back to Asmund. The viking stood beside his dragon's head, stroking Demre's snout.

"You want to talk about running away from your problems?" Asmund snorted. "How about we talk about my sister's missing eye. That one was all you, wasn't it?"

"How do you—" Jian paled.

"The winds talk, and so do the mountains, if you have the ear to actually listen to what they have to say," replied Asmund with a shrug. "You think I don't know what's going on back home? Please, I know more than enough. I know that most of the council have bitten the dust, the poor devils, but really, what chance did they think they had against Pitch Black? I know there's a new king here and a new queen there and none of them are fit to wear their parents' crowns. I know that for all your whining about the wars to come, you've spent the last year hiding in DunBroch between my sister's legs because Queen Merida doesn't want to involve herself with the wars outside her borders, but you know, you don't have the stomach to chew her out because she'd rip you apart with her bare hands. See, I know that you're a decent guy because as much as I don't care for Sigrun, I know she'd never settle for a useless lickspittle, but I also know that you'll only mouth off to people you think can't kick your Imperial ass all the back to the ruins of your homeland."

Asmund rolled his eyes.

"What?" he concluded. "Nothing to say for once?"

"Tough talk for a guy who ran away from home to drink away his days in a cave," retorted Jian, his shock giving way to anger. Who was this… this bastard to tear into him like this?

"No," said Asmund. "Tough talk from a guy whose been fighting the same war you have. It's a big world, Jian. You really think we haven't seen our share of hell here?"

"Berk—"

"Is not my home," said Asmund with a note of finality in his voice. "This cave is, and this land is, and our borders are stained red. So, are you done riding the high horse, or are you going to keep making life difficult for all involved?"

Jian was at a loss. This… was not how he'd seen things going after his outburst. He'd expected Asmund to be chastened, but the Viking had somehow found himself on the moral high ground. For a moment, it had been as if he wasn't speaking to Asmund at all, but rather to King Hiccup in his prime, and he wouldn't lie and say that it hadn't been vaguely intimidating.

He blinked, and it occurred to him that he may have lost sight of the bigger picture while lost in his own losses. Just a little, of course, because he still had his priorities in order. Still, maybe he had been rather unpleasant to the people around him for a while. Letting out the breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding,

Taking a deep breath, he outstretched a hand.

"So," he said with a wry look on his face. "How about that drink?"

"On one condition," said Asmund.

"What?"

"Hold still while I punch you in the face." The Viking smirked. "Then we're even."


The Warren lay in ruins.

As Nick stared at the crumbling pillars and caved-in tunnels, he couldn't help but remember the place as it had once been. On a winter solstice so very long ago, he father had brought him and his mother here to see the place where the magic of Easter was made. It had been bright and vibrant. Thousands of little eggs had scurried across the ground while rows upon roses of flowers had blown forth wisps of colored ink, and the river had run thick with paints in every shade of the rainbow. It had been a beautiful place; a magical land of tunnels located deep beneath the surface of Easter Island.

There'd been sparkles and glitter and magic, and he'd accidentally tumbled into the river and been covered in magical dye for days after. His father had yanked him out by his ankle before he could be carried by the current into the tunnel, and his mother had been beside herself with laughter at the sight of his rainbow coloured skin and hair.

The memory made him want to cry. Lips trembling, he sagged into Morgan's side. It was beginning to sink in—truly sink in—that the Guardians were gone, that his father's entire legacy had been undone. If… if this was what the Warren had been reduced to, then Punjam Hy Loo would likely be in a similar state. Was Neverland still standing? Pixie Hollow?

"I'm sorry," murmured Morgan, wrapping a steadying arm around him. His boyfriend walked with a slow gait, favouring his left leg as he did so. If anything, it was a miracle he was walking at all after the lightning strike, but a dragon's skin was resilient. Still… it would definitely leave another scar on Morgan's skin.

Nick nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He should have expected this. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he glanced around the caverns a second time, taking in the desolation with a more practical eye. There had clearly been a fight of some sort here, which made little sense considering Bunnymund had fallen alongside the other Guardians at the North Pole. Yet, someone or something had clearly destroyed the stone eggs and laid waste to the Warren, but why? Without Bunnymund, the place was just a series of magical caverns.

"What caused this?" asked Alyssa, giving voice to his thoughts.

"An old foe, perhaps," said Morgan. "Might be someone taking advantage of Bunnymund not being around anymore to try settling a score?"

"Maybe," said Nick. "Or maybe someone with the same idea as us."

"You think someone else is looking for the Guardian's secrets?" asked Alyssa, glancing around. Her hand rested upon her rapier, and she sniffed the air. "I can't get much in the way of a scent. This entire place smells strange."

"That it does," replied Morgan. "Mother did say that the Kingdom of the Sun has fallen. You don't think the Hollow Ones could have broken in here?"

"It's a possibility, but we'd recognise their stench," said Alyssa warily. "No. It wasn't them."

"If someone was here with the goal of defeating Pitch, they wouldn't have thrashed the place," said Nick. "No. If they were here in search of the Guardian's secrets, then it can only mean they wanted to destroy them before someone like us could find them." In his mind, it made sense, and it's honestly what he'd do if the roles were reversed.

Steadying himself, he strode forward, extending his staff in front of him. The Nightlight glowed with pale-blue light, and he took a deep breath. Relaxing, he focused on his staff, letting the world itself fall away around him. Aurum Gold has a memory. It had guided him during the ordeals in Corona, and it had aided him in taming the blizzards of Arendelle. He would have to trust in it once more.

Guided by the staff, he walked across the rubble. It was as though an invisible string had been tied to his navel. It tugged at him almost gently, leading him towards a caved-in tunnel that seemed to go uphill, and he paused. There was no way forward, but there was something on the other side that he needed to find.

The Nightlight's tugging grew more insistent, and he turned to his companions

"I'm going to need to clear a path," he said. "Morgan?"

"Might be a bit outside the realms of what my magic is capable of, Nick," replied his boyfriend, worrying at his lip. "We'll need to clear it the—"

"Can you melt it if Nick freezes it?" asked Alyssa. "I imagine dragonfire is easier for you than casting a spell?"

"Probably, but this entire place might come down if we melt the wrong place," said Morgan, frowning at the ceiling. "These caverns have definitely seen better days."

"It's still worth a shot," said Nick. "I can conjure support pillars made of ice if anything goes wrong."

Reaching out with his staff, he brushed his staff against the rubble. A ripple of cold passed along his arm, and then several tendrils of ice crept out of his staff. It coiled around the rocks like snakes before sinking in. Before his eyes, the rock turned to ice, and he smiled as he took a few steps back to give Morgan room.

Morgan roared. Nick turned, raising an eyebrow in mild amusement at the sight of his boyfriend standing before the frozen rocks. The roiling green flames cut through the ice in seconds, and Nick's amusement turned to apprehension when the sides of the tunnel began to melt. The molten stone dribbled across the walls.

By the time Morgan was done, Nick was afraid that the tunnel itself would melt into itself, for the stone was red-hot and, in some places, molten. As his boyfriend gasped for breath, he took a few steps forward and thrust out a hand. A tendril of frost curled around his knuckles, and a gust of cool air billowed out of his palm.

Taking care to cool the tunnel slowly—Nick knew full well what happened to hot things cooled down too quickly—he bit his lip as the tugging at his navel intensified. There was something there. He was sure of it. At first, it had just been a hunch, but now that the way was clear, he could almost sense the presence of something important on the other side of the tunnel.

"Something's in there," he muttered as he led the way into the tunnel. "Keep behind me, but stay on guard."


Alyssa did not know what awaited them at the end of the tunnel, but to her surprise, it was simply an empty bedroom. She glanced around; it looked as though someone had left in a hurry, but unlike the rest of the Warren, the room was perfectly in order. The stone walls of the cave were panelled with rich wood, and the room was furnished in elegant furniture.

She paused, blinking in surprise. The table was smooth wood, yet the legs were carved with a pattern of fleur-de-lis. Turning, she studied the rest of the room with greater care. Roses engraved onto the mantel.

And… there, upon the bedside table. Striding past Nick and Morgan, she reached out and picked up the picture frame, her eyes growing wide at the picture within. A beautiful woman in vibrant silks, clutching a tambourine in one hand and a shawl in the other. Her hair was black and wild, spilling around her face as she moved, the picture capturing her in mid-dance as flames licked at her heels.

"Lady Esmeralda," she said with a frown. "But…"

It made no sense. What was a picture of Esmeralda of Amoré, General Silvanus' grandmother, doing all the way on the other side of the world? She sniffed at the air, trying to find a familiar scent, but all she smelled was rabbit. Setting down the picture, she turned her attention to the mantle, studying the roses. Yes… she hadn't imagined it.

The engravings were of the royal sigil of Amoré.

"The Guardians did have lives before they were raised," said Nick, studying a row of paintings upon the wall. "They keep their identities closely guarded, but I know of one. Erm… Santa, before he was raised, was Tsar Nicholas of The Old Kingdom, father of Queen Anastasia."

"The Godmother is Alice of Wonderland," said Morgan with a shrug. "Mother told me about it years ago, but she didn't know about any of the others. That's interesting, though, about Santa."

"And the Easter Bunny was an Amoréan," said Alyssa, with some relation to Esmeralda… If there were more clues, perhaps she'd be able to work it out better, but all she had was that one picture. She would have to speak to Silvanus when she returned. Perhaps there was somebody in his grandmother's life who would fit the role?

"Alyssa?" said Nick. "I think we've found something."

She turned to find him standing beside a bookcase, perusing a worn tome. The leather peeled, and the binding was frayed, and a single glance at the cover was enough to tell her it was written in the tongue of Old Amoré. She frowned. It had been years since she'd had to study the language—one that had died centuries ago—and she could barely remember the words.

"There was an Amoréan colony in the Undiscovered Lands, was there not?" he asked, looking up from the book. "Orleans of the Bayou? I recall my tutors telling me about it when I was a child."

"There was," she replied, her frown deepening. The words of her governess came rushing back to her, and she gnawed upon her lower lip. "During the Years of Conquest, if you recall, when empires rose and fell, and the kingdoms we rule were born. Amoré sought to seize Albion of Old, and we were pushed back into the sea, and for the avarice of King Alexandre who dared defy the rule of the Once and Future King, the sea rose up to swallow those who fled. Defiant, Alexandre of Amoré declared he would carve himself a new empire, and so he sailed with a hundred ships to the Undiscovered Lands, wherein he was beset by storms and plagues throughout his voyage…"

She trailed off, trying to remember the rest, but it was an effort in futility. She had never been a scholar of note, and all she could remember was whatever she had committed to memory.

"Orleans of the Bayou stood for some time," chimed in Morgan, his expression curious. "My mother told me about it. She said that she visited the ruins during her travels."

"Bunnymund declares the secret histories are stored in the catacombs beneath Orleans," said Nick, setting down the book. "For the Undiscovered Lands are a place that do not fall beneath Tsar Luna's shadow. We have to go there."

"Easier said than done, Nick," said Morgan with a shake of his head. "It's the Undiscovered Lands. The rules of magic are different there."

"And yet we have to go," said Nick grimly. "If there's even a shred of a chance that the secret to defeating Pitch is in Orleans, we have no choice but to go."


Christopher believed that in every part of the world, there was a place of true beauty. In Amoré, it had been the Rose Gardens. In Agrabah, it had been an oasis that Ali had taken him too, and in Renvale, it was Frelia, that ancient city upon the lagoon. When he'd been a child, he'd dreamed of visiting these wondrous places and capturing them upon a canvas, though he'd always known that he'd never be able to truly recreate their beauty.

Now, in the Plains Nation… he'd found another wonder. The Willow Grove was a misnomer of a name, for there was nought but a single willow tree. It rose from a stony island in the middle of a still pool that was fed by a dozen rivers, if not more, and the leaves fell in thick curtains that blotted out the sun. The willow tree was enormous; so tall that there was no way it could be climbed and yet, it didn't look out of place. It was a miracle that he hadn't seen it sooner as they'd made their way downriver, but the grove was lost in a sea of fog. At first, he'd thought it was simply the weather, but as he'd drifted closer… he'd realized that it was simply the magic of this place.

"Your jaw is hanging open." Kaya sounded smug.

Numbly, Christopher nodded and closed his mouth. He took a ginger step out of the canoe, and what felt like an electric shock raced through him as his foot touched the stone. Ripples flowed across a dozen tiny pools, each as clear as a mirror, and there was an almost monstrous creaking as in front of him, the willow tree moved.

"Grandmother Willow," murmured Pocahontas, emerging from the mist to stand beside him. She lay a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. "Have no fear, Christopher Charming, she means you no harm."

"Good to know," muttered Christopher, his gaze fixed upon the tree.

A weathered, wizened, withered face emerged from the rough bark. It was the face of a kindly grandmother, and as her soft wooden eyes opened to match his gaze, a warmth spread through his body. It started in his chest and bloomed, and when he looked down, he was no longer dressed in the buckskin apparel of this land. Instead, he wore his green doublet and his dark breeches, and his boots were shiny and comfortable. Reaching up, he touched his hair, soft and wavy and properly cut, and in his heart of hearts, he knew it was a lie. He'd hacked at his hair with a dagger just a week ago when it had finally reached an impractical length, and he knew that the cut was rough.

Christopher looked up again, and he wasn't in the Willow Grove. Instead, he was in the palace of Renvale, and he stood beside his father's throne. A firm hand closed around his arm, and he flinched. He knew that touch, and it made no sense to feel it now. Father. But… Father was dead. King Florian was dead. He was dead. He was gone. He was nothing but bones. Christopher jerked away, and like glass, the illusion shattered, and he was cold again.

"That was nasty," he said to the tree, shaking his head. His father's phantom touch lingered on his arm like a block of ice, sending a shiver down his spine. "That was cruel."

"No," said Grandmother Willow, her voice deep and rich and gravelly. "It was a test, and you passed. You are gifted, child… very few in this world can awake from a dream that I invoke."

A dream? Christopher raised an eyebrow. He didn't fully understand the scope of his Dreamtouch, but if it gave him some mild immunity from the illusions of others… He paused, contemplating this new bit of information before filing it away for later study. Right now, he had more important things to consider.

"Why did you wish to speak to me?" he asked, looking up at Grandmother Willow. "Am I, like… a Chosen One or something?"

"No, you're not a Chosen One," said Grandmother Willow. "But you're better than nothing, and we will have to make do."

Wow… To be perfectly honest, Christopher had not really expected to be a hero of prophecy akin to his ancestors, but the dismissal still stung.

"So what do you want from me?" he asked.

"I seek an end to the cycle," said Grandmother Willow. "Such is the task I was given as a sapling, and you are important. The Lord of Neverland is gone, but his work continues." Her wooden lips curled into a grim smile. "For the Nightmare grows, and the Dream brings refuge."

"I… I… I… am supposed to fight Pitch Black." Christopher's throat was drier than a bone. "You must be mistaken. I'm Christopher. I'm just Christopher. I can't fight the King of Nightmares."

"Your worth does not lie in a fight," she said gravely. "But that worth may be all that stands between us and the shadow." Her leaves swayed. "You asked if there was a Chosen One. There is not. No one person can change this world on their own, but together… it can be done."

The branches creaked above her eyes, and a recess in the trunk appeared. A slender branch dipped into the hole and drew out a single arrow. Christopher cocked his head to the side in confusion as the arrow was offered to him.

"This arrow was forged in the first age," she said, "To kill Pitch Black, for it is the one weapon in all of creation that can kill an Eternal. Rumpelstiltskin entrusted it to me, and he told me, all those millennia ago, that there will come a day when it must be given to mortal hands. Today is that day. Take it, child, and you will know what must be done when the time comes."

To say he was taken aback was an understatement, but Christopher accepted the arrow all the same. It was warm to the touch. The wood hummed beneath his fingers, and it was a wood he had never seen before that was paler than the moon and traced with veins of some rare metal. Me? I'm not an archer? I haven't picked up a bow in years.

It didn't make sense.

"You will know when the time is right," she repeated, her eyes boring into his own. "Go south, King Charming, and you will the way home. In Orleans, upon the Bayou."