AN: I believe it's safe to say that my writer's block is officially over (for now, anyway). I think I'll continue with my CS Playlist drabbles, but they'll be in addition to posting my usual one shots. As for this one, it's my take on Emma attempting to battle the darkness. Enjoy!
There's a fire burning.
There's smoke and ash inside of her, filling her lungs, replacing the blood in her veins with blinding heat. And it is blinding, blocking out any chance of seeing her surroundings, leaving only blank, pitch-blackness.
Instead, memories dance behind her eyelids. They are strange and unsettling, moments she can't remember ever living, yet she can feel them, like ghosts on the edges of her mind. They rush by in flashes of sight and sound; a girl with eyes on the palms of her hands, whispering words of her downfall; a cell illuminated by torchlight; a high-pitched cackle rising from her throat; the golden scales of her skin and reptilian eyes; countless, anonymous lives she has ruined.
And then there are the others, the faces she truly knows, the ones which fill her with rage and longing, with love and fury. She sees her mother, Snow White, whispering through the cell bars that her name is Emma; her father, Prince Charming, holding a sword to her throat; her love, Captain Hook, and the sound of flesh and bone severing. She sees a young Regina, ripping out a heart and presenting it to her as though it is a gift; a young Neal, falling back into a portal, calling for her to help him; a young Henry, grinning up at her, the words your undoing clawing at the back of her mind.
The memories continue to flood her mind in a flurry of words and emotions, hot anger flaring up, ensnaring her. They become too much, so familiar yet so out of reach, and all she can do is scream.
Windows break, she screams so loud. She hears glass shattering and her shrieks echoing off the walls around her, still blind to the world, still desperate to understand.
When the visions start to cease, petering out slowly, the voices growing warped and then silent, she takes a breath that stings her raw throat.
Centuries and millenniums pass. She has lived many lives, but it is this life-the life she has been ripped from-which fills her head. She sees Henry at ten years old, standing in the threshold of her apartment before the smile he wears shatters like a broken mirror. She feels her father embracing her, cupping the back of her head as though she's still an infant before he twists her neck with a sickening snap. She hears her mother sobbing you found us in her ear, loving hands framing her face before they close around Emma's throat. She sees Killian beaming down at her before his smile contorts and his teeth begin to fall out one by one, landing like daggers on Emma's skin.
She screams again, the "No!" tearing from her throat and echoing in the emptiness around her. She is still herself, just enough to understand that this is all wrong. Enough to try and fight against the false memories, the contradicting emotions, the darkness nipping at her heels. She can't allow that darkness to steal her away, to make her forget the faces of those she loves. Those who love her, too.
But do they?
The question comes from somewhere within, rising from the abyss like a cloud of smoke, undetectable until it's encasing her.
"Yes." she says aloud, finding her voice again, nothing more than a rasp of certainty. "They love me." She tests the words out, letting them settle in the quiet. "They love me. They'll find me."
What if they don't?
"They will." she argues, trying to shake her head but finding her mind disconnected from her body. "They always have before."
So confident for a Lost Girl.
"I'm not lost anymore. I found my family."
Then where are they now?
"They're looking. I know they won't give up on me."
Just as none of the others gave up?
"It's different this time."
How many times have you thought that before? How many times have you been wrong?
She tries to grit her teeth, can't feel anything but the flames igniting her nerves. "They are my real family. They won't leave me like this."
Ah, but will they want you 'like this'? Will they want anything to do with someone forged from such evil?
"They'll still want me. They know who I really am, and it's not this."
Who are you, then?
She thinks, my name is Emma Swan. I am the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming-
The daughter they didn't have enough faith in. The daughter they needed to be good, so much so that they were willing to damn an innocent child. The daughter that's never been able to stop resenting them. The daughter whose powers they fear. The daughter that's only caused them more trouble. The daughter that will never live up to their expectations. The daughter they tried to replace.
They are the thoughts she's had late at night, at her lowest of moments, when no one's there to chase the doubt away. Rationally, she knows they aren't true. But a part of her, however small, can't deny the way they resonate. She thinks, I am the product of True Love-
The product of True Love, yet you can't find love yourself. Nobody has loved you enough to stay. You've never loved anybody enough to keep them around. The product of something you'll never have as your own.
It's not true. She loved Neal. She loves Henry. And Killian. She loves them so much that it's a part of her, as much as the heart thrumming in her chest, the magic flowing through her veins. She thinks, I am the Savior-
The only saving you do is from the harm you cause to begin with. You continue to lose people, and it's your own fault. Because of who you are, others suffer. Others like Henry. You couldn't even look at him when he was born. You didn't want him, you gave him away, and because of that, he was forced to grow up the way he did. You made him miserable, and you did the same for Regina. You brought back Zelena, you caused Robinhood to leave Storybrooke, you are the reason Regina will never get her happy ending. Just as Killian never will. You took on the darkness, and now he, too, has lost his happy ending. The poor pirate who'd tear apart realms for you. And he's going to die trying, you know, just like Graham and Neal. The ones who loved you, and who were punished for it.
Her eyes sting with the memory of tears, but her body is still disconnected, unable to let them fall. Instead she screams some more, hoping it might silence the voice filling her head with doubt.
Who are you? It hisses. What pain have you caused? What pain will you cause?