Emma had always known more than they wished, heard more than they believed, tucked behind the heavy swathes of tapestry that lined the corridors of her home. Whispered voices would swell to a crescendo behind closed doors, the sharp panic of her father's pleas piercing through the quiet, regal hum of her mother's assurances.

It was the promise of the Evil Queen that haunted the walls of their home – she would come for them, and she would ruin everything they held dear – those words echoed Emma's footsteps as she grew.

She didn't understand all the words her father wielded like a blade during those overheard arguments, but even as a child she knew he questioned the wisdom in allowing the Evil Queen to live. But her mother spoke often and frequently of hope, as if it were a tangible thing that could be seized and never lost.

If they only had hope, then surely they would prevail over darkness.

Emma could feel the darkness – it lingered beyond the castle's walls, slipping tendrils into the rose garden as the sun fell. It was the creak of movement where there should be none, the echo of her voice at the far end of the Great Hall, crouched and biding it's time in the lengthening shadows of the thrones.

Emma knew the horror of waiting for it to descend; it was the cold shiver that never quite rose to her skin.

She lived beneath the pall of its wings, though her parents saw only the sun and light that glanced from her golden curls – a promise of hope that blinded them to the shrouded darkness haunting her every step.

It followed her as she shirked her studies, dispelled temporarily as she found amusement within the chamber her father preferred when practicing his swordsmanship within the castle proper – dragging a heavy practice blade around the room as she heaved it to and fro with both hands, exclaiming victory over a foe that was less imaginary than those of most children.

It hung over her shoulders like a frigid cloak, whispering in her ear – I'll come for you, I'll destroy everything you hold dear – as she flitted from the bath to the solarium, her fingers scented with rosewater that bled into the embroidery of her mother's maids as she fingered their careful stitches.

It loped like a panting beast at her heel as she padded along the rugs that ran from her parents' chambers toward the Great Hall, flowers and vines woven of dyed wool thick and soft beneath her feet, the tiny woodland animals stitched into their depths whispering – run, child, run.

Emma had never set eyes on the Evil Queen, but she knew the promise of her words, and she felt the pressing of her will against the walls of the palace itself, seeping slowly through every crack.

The sun danced its arc over the towers and spires of her home, alighting on leaded windows and stone balustrades just as did the kitchen yard with its fowl scratching. Emma sat tucked behind her father's throne, listening in that half-aware way that children have to the troubles of the audience that came to call – her thoughts distracted by the rumpled piece of embroidery sitting on her lap. Its threads were lumped and misshapen, crooked and wandering. She pushed the needle stubbornly through the thick fabric, lip caught between her teeth as the rounded end bit into the pad of her thumb.

And then it leapt forward – a yelp tearing from her mouth as it pierced through unexpectedly and embedded itself into the palm of her left hand. She tossed the piece of work aside with a growl and stood, gasping as a pair of strong hands lifted her from her hiding place. Her frustration was replaced with a smile as her father swooped her into his arms and returned to his seat on the throne, the soft folds of her gown draped over his lap and her discarded needlework held in his free hand.

"Now, what's happened, my darling Emma?" he murmured, his eyes locked on her hand as he raised his own palm toward the steward, indicating the next petitioner would have to wait until he'd finished with his daughter. "Let me see."

Emma lifted her left hand to show him the red bead welling from just below her thumb, the motion causing it to trickle wildly down her skin and fall, staining the cream colored silk of her father's doublet.

"I stabbed myself," Emma muttered, frowning at the tiny wound left behind by the pointy end of the needle.

"All of those hours spent dancing with a sword, and it's the finer arts that give you trouble, little one; what shall we do with you?"

"I've never liked embroidery anyways," Emma sighed, green eyes slipping sideways to where her mother sat, watching the interaction with a soft smile, "but mother says I must learn."

"Perhaps a lesson in patience is needed then," her father hummed, eyeing the mad path of her embroidery, "your needlework will get no better if you've only one hand."

"A princess needs to learn many things," Snow agreed, reaching across and pressing a folded, white kerchief to her daughter's hand, "not just how to wield a sword and thieve pastries from the kitchen at night, but...perhaps that's enough embroidery for one evening. You'll join your father and I to see to the tenants."

"Your mother is right. One day these will be your people, Emma, and you must learn how to care for them as well as to rule over them – a responsibility that will need more care than the path a needle takes."

As Emma settled on her father's lap, her countenance turning serious as she faced the court, Snow motioned for the steward to continue. He quickly complied, summoning the next petitioner forward. Emma listened as the man spoke of the tidings of his village – a wild beast that raided their traps and eviscerated their livestock, the men who disappeared while tracking it often found days later, in pieces. She listened as her mother eased the farmer's worries and her father promised a contingent of knights would be sent to his village to hunt and slay the beast.

All the while she wondered, what could hunt and slay the darkness that haunted her own family?

Emma's little fist tightened around the white kerchief her mother had given her to staunch her wound, and when she crawled between the silk of her sheets that evening, it was still held safe within her grasp.

Her dreams pulled her far from the darkness creeping up and over the walls of the castle, far from the helpless townsfolk who perished between the teeth of some rabid beast.

While she slept, she walked on white sands that warmed her feet, the hot sun falling from her back as she took shelter beneath the cool awning of the jungle – her magic trilling beneath her skin as she raced from tree to tree, following the laughter of all the others who waited in the depths of a place far from time and all of the sadness it would bring.

And when she woke, it was with the ghost of shadowed fingertips leaving her hand – the snow white kerchief stained with her blood nowhere to be found.