Chapter 3: Life is a Chessboard & You're Nothing but a Pawn

Emma appraised herself in the floor-length mirror stationed in her newly acquired bedroom, tugging absently at her appearance.

A cream tight-knit shirt with brown wrist guards threaded over the sleeves. Matching brown vest to bind in her chest. Fitted tan pants that sank into brown knee-high boots.

Throw a hooded green cloak over it and she was right back in her bandit days with the Merry Men.

She sighed as her shoulders slouched and ran a hand through her tousled curls once more before turning from her reflection to strap her sword to her hip.

The bed was so soft that she'd felt guilty for sleeping in it. Her wardrobe had been spritzed in the night with lilac perfume. And when she had gambled a glance out of the oriel to squint at the sunrise, she'd found the world still quiet with sleep save for a lone bluebird, who chirped its happiness at her as it fluttered by.

Emma hated all of it. Not because the castle wasn't nice enough or the staff clearly well-trained, because they very obviously were, but because she didn't want to be here in the first place. And yet somehow here she stood, about to court further disaster by sticking around to pick a fight with the local army, all while smelling like a bunch of flowers.

Emma harrumphed and set to tying her riotous curls back into a manageable formation. Today was probably going to be one of those days that she'd need two lengths of twine to get them under control.

She could always just bolt, politics be damned. Cut bait and run like she always did and leave this palace and its cloying courtiers in the dust, far, far away from wherever she decided to head. But Emma had a sneaking suspicion that Leopold would likely turn out to be the kind of pompous ass that relished in vendettas, and would content himself to stay a thorn in her side forever, even with the clout she'd accrued during the Ogre Wars. The White Knight desperately wanted the delicious glee she knew would come from defying the aggressively covetous King in his own court, but the more she considered the possibility, the more ill-advised the idea seemed.

Emma growled as a tangle snagged in her fingernail and yanked the golden mane in her grasp askew on the back of her head. She ripped the twine away and angrily started gathering her tresses back up into her hands again.

But what else was Emma doing with herself, really? It's not like she had anywhere she needed to be. No one was waiting on bated breath for her to return home safely from battle. She was merely in-between jobs for the moment and just hadn't happened upon what she wanted to experience next. So… maybe what she did next was this.

With her newly found fame, the knight knew that keeping a low profile would be a challenge, but she enjoyed the idea of testing her skills. The glamor and intrigue surrounding her presence would surely abate the longer she lingered, and in a month's time, she'd no longer be the newest plaything of the royal company. If she could avoid the Queen that made her want to hit things, then she was fairly certain that she'd be able to disappear into the ranks of the King's militia. And who knew, maybe she'd assimilate so effortlessly that they'd forget all about her presence and she wouldn't even be missed come time for the tournament. She could secret herself away then. The White Knight was solitary, and she was meant to go it alone.

Emma shook her head to clear it of the sudden pang of loneliness and to see if her ponytail would hold. It finally did.

She turned back to her grim reflection in mirror and tried to shuck off the nagging feeling that she was trying to convince herself she wasn't about get trapped here, like a lobster in a pot about to boil. The chimera she'd consumed the night before churned a bit in her stomach.

This castle didn't matter. These people didn't matter. Her situation wasn't permanent… nothing in her life ever was. She just needed to keep her head down, stick it out, and move on when she could.

And with that final thought, Emma secreted her trusty dagger back into her leather boot and trudged out onto the grounds to greet the rapidly lightening day.

The arena was exactly what Emma had come to expect of Castle White. It was magnificent and lavish, the jousting ground dusted with a fresh layer of straw over the hard-packed dirt. The walls of the stadium rose well over three feet above her head before splintering off into ringed spectator seating that circled three-fourths of the enclosed space. The only place where the well-loved wooden benches disrupted their horizontal stripe around the showground was at the pulvinus in the center of the field. It erupted out of the stadium as an intimidating stony block, and the weathered red tarp suspended above it by pikes snapped once with the undercurrent of slight breeze.

The only bit of shade was offered by a huge, primeval oak tree embedded into the design at the end of the arena. Emma had entered through the inset barracks doors on the other side of the space and it loomed in the architecture as a titan leaching power from the earth. She mused that the green colossus must have been a force to be reckoned with if the gardeners had let it grow unmonitored for this long without chastisement from the King. Emma even hazarded a guess that the tree had been here longer than the castle had been.

A man roughly the size of a mountain shoved passed her and tromped heavily towards the center of the showground. The blonde's frown only deepened as she followed his stride with her eyes.

Emma was confused. She was supposed to be training with the King's Army, was she not? But as far as she had counted, there were only ten warriors milling about on the field… and that was including her. Not only that, but there seemed to be no uniform set to this odd gaggle of men. For someone known for owning one of the biggest fighting operations in the land, one would have thought that His Royal Highness would have been more organized about it.

Two grumpy-looking dudes with impressive five o'clock shadows for this early in the morning were donned in all black armored plating. A scraggly redhead with a woefully pitted face, who was currently doing some kind of crude pelvic thrust towards the sand, was only wearing a thin ruffled tunic and sea-breeches. Most of others were clad in nearly all white with their under-armor chainmail scrubbed to an almost glaring match. A few of them were even wearing these doofy white helmet-hats; Mountain Man included.

She hoped they wouldn't make her wear a doofy hat.

A couple of them were stretching, some chatting, and two of the white-garbed men were caught in an amicable fist-a-cuffs; the one with light brown skin chortling as he repeatedly whapped the shorter, pudgier one on the head. Pudgy yelled and ducked away. The sprightlier of the two caught her watching and winked charismatically in her direction.

Emma rolled her eyes and looked elsewhere.

Right. How could she have forgotten all of the posturing and testosterone-riddled exchanges she had been made to endure in her first five months amongst Midas's battle contingent? They had been so fun after all.

The comforting sound of iron scraping steel greeted her ears as she pulled her blade from its sheath.

Well two could play at that game.

Emma tuned out the tromping men around her, their heavy footsteps and muttered morning-grumbles fading away into the background of her thoughts as she studied her sword's metallic gleam in the blushing light of dawn. She languidly turned it back and forth to watch the glint of sunshine slide up and down the polished edge. Her mouth finally relaxed.

There was a smudge near the hilt on the left side. A thumbprint maybe. She idly wrapped her fist inside the hem of her shirt to rub out the imperfection before quickly slashing the blade thricely through the air. Cross-cut. Cross-cut. And a swift slice across an imaginary jugular. The whooshing sound of her swing made the knight's lips twitch in contentment. She choked up on the hilt and smirked at her sharpened old friend.

"Real swords are forbidden on the practice field."

Emma turned to find a sophisticated seaman standing directly behind her. He wore a dark blue tailcoat with too many shiny buttons and stark white pants so clean it made her want to slather the man in mud. But he smiled kindly and shrugged like they were long-lost friends, "Huntsman's orders."

Here we go again.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that so?"

The man nodded briskly; a barely-there jolt of his chin that spoke of years ingrained in the service. "Yes ma'am," he answered. "The Queen believes it imprudent to have us potentially maiming one another before we ever get the chance to ride into battle for her." His mouth tugged to the side in a gesture that was a little mocking as he lowered his voice. "She seems to think that we'll skewer ourselves on our own jousting posts if we're not careful."

As if women could possibly understand the intricacies of warfare, his tone practically shouted.

Emma's responding smile pulled tight across her teeth. "Well, I'd have to agree with Her Majesty there," she stated insolently. "Back when I was serving under King George, a sizable amount of 'accidents' on the training field were swept under the rug. And if rumor had it that the dead soldier might have been sleeping with the commander's wife, no one thought to mention it." The blonde shrugged as well. "So yeah, wooden swords for practicing makes sense. The militias' a lot safer place when you can't kill your compatriots."

Emma let the point of her blade dig into the toe of her boot a bit and watched the leather ripple like flesh about to puncture. She grinned coldly, "Even if it does take some of the fun out of it."

The flicker of surprise in the man's expression was well-worth the unsavory insinuation.

"And I, for the record, am hardly a ma'am." The White Knight's face scrunched up at the word as she slid her sword home with a satisfying thud back into its sheath. Her eyes were hard when she returned his gaze. "So don't ever call me that again."

"Alright." The seaman's grin strained. "What am I to call you then?" He half-bowed out of propriety and rotated his slightly outstretched hand in a circle, indicating for her to finish his sentence for him. "My lady? Mistress? Miss…?"

"Sir. Sir Swan."

Emma knew she was being surly but so far, the man's staunch formalness with her appeared very firmly rooted in her gender and it was rubbing her the wrong way. The blonde was sure that she outranked him by a long shot (even if he wasn't aware of it yet) and the assumption that she was somehow there by mistake was clear as day.

She scowled at the curly-headed sailor. He acted much taller than he actually was; Emma's shoulders were practically in line with his and yet she still got the feeling he was attempting to look down at her. And she resented the fact that despite him coming off as an entitled git, lingering bits of her upbringing still made her feel like she was somewhat obligated to be pleasant in his presence.

The Savior begrudgingly tried to ease up on her unfriendly face and be polite for once.

"Or Emma," she conceded gruffly. "If you like."

"Emma." The tension immediately flew off of his shoulders at her small gesture of civility; as if she had just rolled out a welcome mat into her good graces. The knight resisted the urge to roll her eyes as his crystal blue ones crinkled cordially at the corners. But there was something distinctively familiar about their provocative glint, especially when lined up next to his pompous demeanor. Her mind reached and came back wanting.

"And where is it that you hail from, Emma?"

Because even if the man seemed more at ease, he was still doing a piss-poor job of keeping the nosiness out of his voice as he looked her up and down. "I'm afraid I don't recognize your uniform."

"Oh, um, no uniform. Just a guest," Emma muttered, and crossed her arms protectively in front of her chest. Her hands felt awkward without her sword in them. "But the King was adamant that I not let my skills rust while I'm here." She couldn't help the grimace in her gaze as she looked distractedly around the showground. Everyone else was still giving her a wide berth and she seemed to be stuck here indefinitely with this uncomfortable nimrod.

"So what is it you do?" she inquired just to direct the conversation away from herself and his prying questions. "I'm guessing it's ship-related based on the getup."

That had been the right thing to ask. The seaman swelled near bursting with pride inside his tailcoat. "I command the flag ship of the front-running fleet that sails under His Royal Highness's banner," he proclaimed. "King Leopold is a mighty ruler and I am honored to admit that I have fought many a war for him in order to keep his kingdom at peace over the years. We are one of the largest armadas in the North after all."

He tugged at the lapels of his jacket with a sense of smugness not nearly as cute as he thought it was and nodded towards the two men that had moved from slapping each other to grappling on the ground a few feet away. "This kind of work isn't typically on my naval docket, but with the King's birthday arriving soon, I assume we are to be something of a special assignment."

And if a special assignment it truly was, he seemed to be the kind of man that wouldn't be caught dead talking to the wrong kind of people. So finally judging her worthy of his acquaintance, or at least as an adequate connection to the crown, the sailor thrust his hand self-importantly in Emma's direction. "The name's Liam. Liam Jones."

And just like that, the crystal blue eyes before her snapped into place in her memory; her year at sea flying back to her in a montage of salt-slick skin, clashing swords, and wind-burn on her face.

A genuine smile spread across the knight's lips for the first time that morning as the familiar name clicked with the obvious genetic similarities. "Jones?!" she exclaimed, and grasped the man's hand a little tighter than she probably should have. She shook it vigorously and ignored the slight wince at her excitement. "No way, really? Jones. As in Killian Jones?"

Emma released the man's fingers and rocked back on her heels in her enthusiasm. She'd finally found some common ground with this guy. "That's crazy! I used to sail with your brother years back! Never quite got my sea-legs under me personally, but Killian, he always had a knack for it. I mean, he was the master gunner when we parted ways so, what, he's gotta be… he's gotta be at least a leftenant by now, right?" She grinned easily as her inquiries babbled out of her mouth. "That scoundrel! Is he still on the Jolly Roger?"

"…and with that unsavory woman no doubt."

Uh oh.

A shadow passed over Liam's clearwater eyes like a raincloud over the ocean. "My little brother is a rapscallion and a traitor and I no longer stoop so low as to hold conference with him," he uttered stuffily. "So whether or not he still sails under that particular buccaneer flag, I wouldn't know."

"Oh, well, that's–"

"Because what kind of brother just leaves you in the middle of a mission!?" the sailor suddenly spouted. The abrupt spike of anger was unexpected and Emma took a startled step back as he continued to, rather vehemently, protest his case at her. "Killian was in line to become an admiral at my side and he just… and to clamor after some marauding strumpet with a palate for booze no less!" The man huffed mightily. "Killy always did have a weakness for anything in a corset, but one does not abandon their crew for batting eyelashes! I don't care how enamored with the lifestyle you are!"

The blonde held in her laugh at the babyish nickname for her smooth-talking, leather-clad shipmate. His tightly-wound sibling tossed his hands into the air like he was at his wit's end.

"He's forgotten the oaths. Forgone the law. My brother forsook our King to become a baseless, crude, love-drunk pirate," Liam spat the word out like he feared if it stayed too long in his mouth that he'd spontaneously become one himself. "And he daily takes pleasure by cavorting with harlots and consuming intoxicants on the job."

He shook his head in dismay, apparently in significant disapproval of having alcohol onboard a ship of all things. "My brother was seduced away by a cheap wench who probably didn't even command the shoddy boat she was whoring on. What a waste of potential."

Emma almost interrupted the seaman's tirade to ask if he'd ever actually seen her former captain in the flesh because, if memory served correctly, Milah had been a fox well-worth drooling after. She was a splash of sass in the middle of the ocean who was always too quick to draw her sword upon insult and wouldn't blink twice at making you walk the plank for showing cowardice in battle. And it was that bite, that finely-tuned anger at an estranged husband who was never to be spoken of, that had kept portmen from across the land practically falling over themselves for the chance to be pillaged by her. A good crew liked that in a leader and as such, the steely pirate woman had remained the unchallenged kingpin of the Jolly Roger for as long as Emma could recall.

Her lust for all things including gold, gambling, and rum had also made her a wildly celebrated captain as well.

And as far as Killian went… yeah that sounded like Killian. The pirates' way of life suited him quite nicely and although Emma had never been particularly fond of the man, his loose morals and innuendo-flicking tongue always keeping the blonde just at arm's length, the pair had managed to take up a hesitant comradery after the brigand had come to terms with the fact that he was never going to sleep with her.

Though not for lack of trying.

But Liam's obvious disdain for that part of her past made the knight bristle uneasily in her skin, and she suddenly had to fight against the pricks of resentment she could feel beginning to sting inside her shoulder blades.

Had they been the most scrupulous people to associate herself with? No. Had they looted and plundered well-to-do villages in the name of some slanted sense of justice? Yes. But Milah's crew had been good people. Accepting people. And the pirates had taken Emma under their wing when she had felt like she had lost herself and given her a new purpose: to take what she believed was owed to her.

Because the world was a cruel and unfair place, and if she didn't stand up for herself… no one else would either.

She clenched and unclenched her fists once before she spoke.

"Hey man," the blonde mollified as genially as she could, and she raised her open palms up in what she hoped was a universal expression of 'calm down'. "I know it's not much of a consolation, but I can tell you that the woman you seem so fixated on hating, was not putting your brother on. Milah was, and still is I'm sure, a great captain. Especially by pirate standards. Feared across the eleven seas and everything. So, if Killian was gonna fall off the wagon anyway, at least he did it spectacularly, right?"

"And as far as the 'intoxicant' thing goes," the effort it took to stifle the eyeroll on that one was almost painful as Emma pushed forward, "well, that's kind of one of the main selling points of being a pirate, don't you think? Drunkenness?" She frowned at the sailor's plagued expression. "Don't be so hard on your brother," she suggested shortly, and gave him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. "He's finally found something he's good at."

But it finally seemed to have seeped into Liam's thick skull that the reason Emma knew about all of this was because she had been actually been aboard that ship full of sin and degradation with Killian. She watched as the man's eyes widened to the size of blasphemous light-blue saucers.

He shrank away from her hand looking positively scandalized. "You regularly imbibe?"

Emma bit the inside of her cheek to keep her opinion in check. "Occasionally," she cautiously admitted. "I'm more of an ale girl myself. Your brother can keep his rum."

The blonde forced a soft, dry chuckle from behind her teeth to try and pull some levity out of the gauche situation, but it didn't really help. "I never had before that ship though," she offered nostalgically, and the White Knight's eyes twinkled in spite of herself as her thoughts wandered back to a few of her more attractive swashbuckling bunkmates. She nudged the seaman slyly with her elbow in a last-ditch effort to form a bond, "As I'm sure you know, it's hard to say no to a pretty girl with a sword."

But the comment was wildly misconstrued, and Liam practically shrieked as he took two rather large steps away from her. "I'm sure I don't know!" he shouted, clearly taken aback and unnecessarily offended by her words. "My wife is a zenith of demure sensibility and she would never do anything so crass as to handle a weapon, except for in the direst of straits. She is perfectly content to stay at home with my boy and frankly, I don't care for your implication that she would ever even consider pursuing the same degraded lifestyle choices as you."

The prickles in Emma's shoulder blades shot down into her chest to transform into a swell of fury that was all at once very hot. Her ribcage felt full to bursting as the top of her spine began to tingle like an impatient itch; her magic rapidly streaking towards the surface of her skin.

Well frankly, whenever Liam found out that the woman he'd been insulting for the past fifteen minutes was actually the renowned Savior of the Realm was gonna be a hoot and a half.

But before the knight got the chance to dig herself any further into conversational hell by unceremoniously ripping the sailor a new asshole like she wanted to, she was saved by a man in wolf's clothing striding across the showground.

The Huntsman's bark echoed throughout the stadium as he appeared, "Attention men! Fall into line!"

The ten of them hurried to align themselves across the arena, Sprightly hurrying to right his comrade and pull him to attention. They landed predominantly grouped in their outfit categories, with Emma standing stiffly between a handsome black man donned in gleaming white and one of the gruff, stubbly guys garbed in jet-dark plating. They glowered sidelong at one another until Stubbles sniffed pointedly at the air. His gaze shifted beneath his helmet's nose-guard to glance in her direction, dropped it slowly down her form and back up again, and then let out a belittling scoff. Both men rolled their eyes and turned their attention back towards the Captain of the Guard.

The fire in Emma's chest burned a little brighter, and she bit her fingernails into her palms hard enough to draw blood. The flame died down a little. She'd need to talk to one of the staff members about the perfume thing if she was going to stay here longer than a day.

"Well men," Graham announced loudly, speaking from his gut, "I'm sure you all have noticed that our numbers are suspiciously smaller today." His mouth twitched as he began to pace down the line. He did not look pleased. "That's because today, of all days, the mighty King Leopold has smiled upon you. For he is under the impression that you are some the toughest, fiercest, most agile, and most creative fighters that his employ has to offer. If you are standing on this field, you have been preselected to compete in the final rounds of the King's birthday tournament, because the King believes you lot will put on the most entertaining show. A show worthy of celebration." The Huntsman spun dramatically on his heel in an about-face. His eyes glowered beneath his unruly mop of hair. "I'm here to ensure that His Royal Highness is proved correct."

The chimera unsettling Emma's stomach made itself known again. So much for sneaking away unnoticed.

Reversing course, he paced back the other direction. "Gentlemen, I'll be brief. Some of you aren't accustomed to taking orders from the likes of me." He paused in front of dark plating and fingered the hilt of his sword, the glint of steel peeking below the sheath. "Get used to it. This is the first time in almost a decade that all designations are to be represented in the finals." His gaze slid idly over to Emma, and then to her horror, the man grandly thrust out his arm and clapped her on the shoulder like they were old drinking buddies. "Including the King's special guest of honor! Visiting war hero and Savior of the Realm, Sir Emma Swan!"

The White Knight could feel the immediate desire to give her a wide berth like a bubble about to pop. The men closest to her tensed. The pock-marked seaman craned his neck around three of his fellows to gape at her open-mouthed. Liam purposefully avoided her eyes.

Everyone was frowning.

The corners of Graham's mouth did their best to pull upwards, but he too, looked fairly wary at her presence and seemed to reconsider his friendly stance. His hand released. "No doubt you'll put us all through our paces before the tournament arrives." He then kicked over the bucket of practice swords so that they spilled across the ground at their feet.

"Pair off, men." The Huntsman snarled. "And don't let your opponent out of your sight. Learn each other's weaknesses. Exploit their fighting style. And the King's tournament will be the grandest this kingdom has ever seen."