Participated in the following meme on tumblr:
"send me "Librarian!" and a page number and I'll grab the closest book, flip to that page number, and write a ficlet based on a random line of text from said page."
Prompt: Librarian! + 333 - arianakristine
A/N: it took me four books to find one that had a page 333 that I could work with a line from, and I still almost worried myself when I closed my eyes to point.
"I don't want you hurt, and I know your parents would be devastated to learn of your death." - Romeo Redeemed, Stacey Jay
A/N 2: anyone else see princess/huntsman there? No? Just me? Oh well.
The man she'd met in the forest, the black knight who had become her guard when she'd been taken hostage by the former Queen Regina, seems sincere when he speaks of not wanting her hurt, of knowing that her death would hurt her parents more than anything.
She doesn't know who, exactly, he is, who she's dealing with. He could be one of those still loyal to the witch, trying to lull her into a false sense of security for all she knows. But what choice does she have but to follow as he leads her to a secret passage, away from the dungeons and her possible execution? She won't trust, of course she won't. But that doesn't mean she won't follow.
"Who are you?" she asks, a low whisper as they round a bend.
"No one of consequence," he shakes his head and she sees something in him that suggests he truly believes that he's not important.
Everyone is important, she has seen that. No kingdom can run without even the most insignificant-seeming people doing their jobs, be it farming or hunting or teaching or… Anything, really.
"That's not an answer." She leaves her words at that, hoping for elaboration but refusing to push. If he doesn't want to give her a real answer, then he shouldn't have to. It would be nice, though.
"A friend to the true crown," he mumbles, and then another guard is in front of them and he's drawing his bow and… The other guard is dead, and she knows. She knows exactly who he is.
"Huntsman," the title passes her lips only barely, so quiet he doesn't even seem to hear; her parents speak of the man with fondness, but many others speak of him in fear.
Either way, she knows one thing. Without this man's work, without him saving both of her parents' lives, she would never have been born.
She is silent as he leads her the rest of the way out of the castle, and then, as he is about to turn back, having given her supplies enough to make her way home, she faces him once more.
Emma stands on tiptoes and brushes her lips gently over his cheek.
"Thank you," she whispers quickly, and then she makes her escape.