FULL SUMMARY: Growing up lonely and isolated, all Henry wanted was a family. After the death of his father, he is sent to live with his reclusive grandfather, Professor Gold, at his family's ancestral estate. It is there, against a backdrop of spies and intrigue, battles plotted and foiled, that Henry learns what it means to have a family. He listens as the spirits of his ancestors recount a centuries-old romance between Mary Margaret and Colonel David Nolan. Meanwhile, Emma, is torn between love and duty when she meets Killian Jones, the dastardly British Captain her brother, David, is tasked with apprehending. Could they be leading Henry to his own budding romance, or will his grandfather's secrets threaten to destroy everything?
PAIRINGS: Killian/Emma, David/Mary Margaret, Henry/Violet
A/N: This story is a retelling of "The Sherwood Ring" by Elizabeth Marie Pope. I have borrowed parts of the plot and dialogue (which I hereby acknowledge), but much has been changed, as I have put a definite OUAT spin on it. Relationships are a bit of a jumble from canon, but hopefully not too unbelievable. And this is a multi-ship story, with Henry at its core. In some ways, it probably more closely resembles the show format of multiple storylines that intertwine with a series of flashbacks. Therefore, I will try to do quick and regular updates as much as I can. If you are just looking for CS, I will probably be doing two one-shots branching off from this story that are told from Killian and Emma's POV.
Feel free to message me here or on tumblr (as drowned-dreamer) if you have any comments or questions. Reviews are always appreciated! And a huge thank you to Tutorgirlml/Snowbellewells for looking this over and giving me your thoughts. Your support and ideas were absolutely invaluable!
**One last note: No one in this story is without flaws, just like in real life. So you might not always agree with the character's actions. I'm good with that. And although Neal is Henry's dad, Emma is not his mother, so there is no Swanfire in this story.
Now, on with the story!
Chapter 1: The Girl on the Horse
Anyway, Henry thought savagely to himself as he tried to lift a large and very clumsy suitcase down from the baggage rack. Anyway, it is my father's old home, and living with a stuffy old professor doesn't sound too bad. And I've only got a year left until I turn eighteen. And an ancestral house sounds like it would be really cool—
"Oh-! Ouch!" He yelped, as the case landed directly on his toe.
"Hey brother? You alright?" Asked the conductor reproachfully, from where he was standing and chatting with a nun across the aisle. He was a short, roly-poly little man with grey beard and a stocking cap who looked as if he had never smiled a day in his life and Henry briefly wondered how the cute little nun could be so taken with him.
"Yeah, fine." Adjusting the suitcase so that it was now leaning against his shin and out of the way of the foot traffic, he gave the man a wry smile. "Just a bit heavier than I anticipated. Are we getting near Storybrooke yet?"
Eyeing him over once more and frowning, the conductor huffed and looked down at his watch. "Only about twenty minutes more now, if you'll take your seat."
Only about twenty minutes more.
Twenty minutes.
Feeling suddenly weak in the knees, Henry sank back on the lumpy train seat and glanced again at the gloomy landscape lumbering past the window. He had often heard from his father that Maine was beautiful, but it certainly was not on a gray afternoon late in May, with clouds blowing in rainy gusts off the low hills, and the barns and trees and little white farmhouses all huddled together as if trying to shelter themselves from the wet. The train window was so dank with mist anyway that it was hard to see anything at all except the reflection of his own figure all hunched down under the baggage rack in his navy peacoat and his favorite striped scarf the only thing of color on either side of the glass.
The scarf, done in Yale's school colors, had been a gift from his father when he first mentioned that he was interested in attending. The coat—dark, practical, and perfect for a funeral-was a more recent acquisition.
["I am so incredibly proud of you, Henry," Neal said suddenly, his head turning stiffly against the pillow. "I know I don't tell you that often, but I am."
Henry found himself choked up and unable to respond. This honesty, if it could be called that, was far different than any of his other memories of the man. "I…I never minded."
Neal gave him a small grin. "Yes, you did. I should have been around more for you. Should have put you first more."
"You did the best you could." Neal had never been the most 'involved' parent, often entrusting his education and safety to those friends or neighbors who happened to be available. Mostly, Henry just looked after himself. And he was okay with it. Really.
"Yeah, but I could have done better." Henry had never seen his father cry, but there was a definite shine in his eyes that cemented the weight of the confirmation they had just received from the doctor about Neal's prognosis. "I suppose it's a case of too little too late, but I want to do right by you That's why this was such a hard decision."
"What do you mean?" Henry asked nervously.
Looking up, Neal's face fell into a deep frown and Henry's stomach turned with whatever he was going to say that would cause him to look so guilty. "I'm sending you to live with your grandfather."
"I have a grandfather?" Henry blurted, shocked to know he had an actual living relative after all. He was always lead to believe that there was no one left, that his family was all gone, but apparently, it was all a lie.
He shouldn't have been surprised, really. He'd always known his dad had secrets.
It had been just him and his father for as long as he could remember and the one thing he always dreamed of was to know what it was like to have a big family. But family was the one subject that was almost completely taboo with Neal. Anytime Henry brought up why his dad didn't find someone else after his mom passed away, he'd only just say that he was too young to understand and change the subject. Or when Henry would ask about his dad's childhood, Neal would tell him the bare minimum and then grow quiet. Hell, Henry had never even seen pictures of his own mother! His dad claimed that there weren't any, but how could that be? Surely, someone-somewhere-had to have something and Henry had always vowed that he'd track them down when he got older. But who knew if he'd ever get the chance now?
Furious and in shock, Henry collapsed into a bedside chair, trying his best to sort out his thoughts. At least his dad seemed to sense that he needed a moment to come to terms with this revelation and wisely kept silent.
He wanted to be angry with his dad for never telling him, but honestly, this sort of earth-shattering revelation wasn't anything new for his dad. For as long as he could remember, Henry had been shuffled from one place to another, often less than a year after they had moved in, and usually with very little notice. In Henry's opinion, there was never a good reason for these moves. Working as an architect surely wouldn't require a person to pick up and leave every few months, he reasoned. There had to be some other reason, like he was on the run from a shadowy government agency, or he owed some bad guys some money or something. But when he asked, all he ever got from his dad was that moving was for the best. The best for who, though? Henry wondered resentfully.
The worst part of it was that just as he would get settled in a place, his dad would announce that they were leaving again. As a result, Henry learned that making friends was pretty pointless when he'd never see them again. So, somewhere along the line, he just stopped trying, telling himself he was fine all alone.
The problem was that he wasn't fine, and he knew it. He was horribly lonely and Henry couldn't help but want more. He wanted family, real friends. A place he could truly call home. Things which he might never have, especially now that he was losing his dad on top of everything.
Looking over at the still form on the bed, the fight drained out of him. He didn't want to spend what time he had left with his dad angry at him. Was he perfect? Did he make mistakes? Of Course. Still, Henry knew that his dad had done his best, making sure that he went to good schools and had whatever he needed. That alone couldn't have been easy for a single dad.
So why didn't Neal get help from his father if he was still alive? Why hadn't he even mentioned that Henry had a living relative before? Maybe there was a good reason for why Henry hadn't been told about him. Maybe his grandfather had been off traveling around the globe with some sort of secret government agency? Or living on a commune with a bunch of back-to-nature hippies. Or doing time in prison. Honestly, Henry didn't care what the reason was, because HE HAD A GRANDFATHER, and suddenly, he was beyond excited.
In his mind, he pictured a kindly old man, maybe with glasses and a grey beard who was eager to talk for hours, hopefully about literature and history. Maybe he would take him on fishing trips or museum visits. Maybe they'd go to the movies together and his grandfather would complain about how things were different back when he was a kid. Or maybe he was one of those 'cool' rock-and-roll guys who rode a Harley and had tattoos, but also loved kittens and had an impressive sword collection.
Lost in his fantasies, he was rather abruptly brought back to reality by his father's grim announcement, "Don't get too excited, kiddo. He's not very fond of children."
With his illusions shattering all around him, Henry rolled his eyes and stated, "Technically, I'm almost an adult anyway."
"It's not likely he'll see it that way. He certainly never did with me."
There was a dark shadow on his father's face, something like fear and deep anger, and Henry wondered what had happened between them to make his father act like the man didn't exist. It must have been pretty bad, as Neal was pretty much the most laid back and easy-going person Henry knew. Suddenly, going off to live with the mysterious grandfather seemed like a terrible idea. But, as his father had stated and he was bitterly reminded, he wasn't going to be given the choice.
"So tell me about him, then."
"His name is Rumpel Gold. But mostly just goes by Gold. I always found it fitting." Venom dripped from his lips and his eyes clouded as if lost in dark thought. "He's a history professor. Retired now, but he's one of those people whose career is their entire life, so that's irrelevant."
Henry shivered, suddenly wondering if having family was really going to be worth it, if they were capable of causing someone that much pain. He must have been making a face, as his father's eyes softened, drawn away from whatever nightmare he had been revisiting.
"Sorry. Just personal stuff of my own, kiddo. Nothing for you to worry about."
"That doesn't sound very reassuring, you know."
With a wheezy cough, his dad adjusted himself to get more comfortable in the bed, clearly trying to finish what he needed to say while he still had the strength left. He was clearly hurting, but seemed determined to make it through. "Yeah, I know. The thing is, the relationship between me and Papa is really …complicated. It was different when I was growing up, but somewhere along the way, he lost sight of what was supposed to be important. But I know he'll take care of you. It's just that sometimes, he can be…selfish. He thinks he's doing something for the right reasons, but..."
His dad trailed off and the haunted look on his face told Henry that something dreadful had just occurred to him.
Taking pity on his father and still needing a million other questions answered, Henry grimaced and said, "You really expect me to live with him?"
"It's the only option," Neal stated with finality. "But worse comes to worse, you'll only have to live with him for a year at most. Then you can go off to college and never look back, if that's what you want," he added quietly but resolutely, his breath growing shallow.
"Dad—" Henry sighed, as he helped slipped the oxygen mask back over his dad's face.
After a few minutes, Neal was breathing better and he was able to remove the oxygen, the determined look still on his face. "I know, kiddo. I know. I'm sorry I've made such a mess of things, but I'm just...trying to do right by you now. Your grandfather-he's got connections and money and… I know he wants to help. He can make Yale happen for you, now that…" He broke off, swallowing hard and unable to look Henry in the eye. " I hate that I can't... I know that this isn't…" He stopped, choking on the words he was trying to say.
Unable to stomach the sight of his dad crying, Henry buried himself into his shoulder like he hadn't done since he was in grade school. "Dad...it's okay. I'll be okay."
Neal cleared his throat, blinking back the wetness gathering in his own eyes and squeezing Henry's fingers for the strength to continue. "I know you will, kiddo. You were always the strong one. Now-" he started, clearing his throat. Normally, Henry was used to his father's way of switching gears when anything got too complicated, but even so, he was still scrambling to catch up after the emotional release he was still trying to recover from. "-I've arranged for you to take the train to Maine in two weeks' time," Neal said, reaching over and gingerly pulled out a crisp white envelope from his bedside table with what looked to be a ticket inside. "The place you'll be staying at is called Misthaven Hall."
"Sounds kinda toffee-nosed," Henry commented dryly, earning him a grin from his father.
"You've no idea." Neal rolled back against the bed and sighed, eyes focusing of the glare of the fluorescent lights. "But…I think you'll like it there. Misthaven Hall is an ancestral home back in Maine. Your ancestral home, I should say. Complete with the centuries-old history to accompany it. And it's not just a house, it's an estate. Huge gardens, stables, a ball room, butlers and maids," he said, and then gave Henry a smirk, adding "And a giant library."
The thought of having a long and storied family home, not to mention the history to accompany it, was such a foreign idea that he felt as if he was in dream, like everything he was hearing was happening to someone else, though it did lift his mood considerably. The more he heard, though, the more unreal it became. Yet, he couldn't help being excited over staying at the house itself (even if the owner might be a nasty piece of work). Again, his mind supplied a buffet of images of what this place might look like.
"Do you mean it's like one of those fancy B&B's where you can stay in the same bed Washington supposed slept in or something?"
"Try two beds. Washington stayed twice," Neal teased. "And he wasn't the only one. Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton, Benedict Arnold—no I'm wrong, he only came for dinner—they all stayed there. There's even a rock in the garden that Fenimore Cooper is supposed to have stubbed his toe on. Papa was completely obsessive about it all and used to lecture me constantly about the place when I lived there," he uttered with a mock shiver.
"So let me guess…you were completely bored to tears." Henry couldn't help but smile at the thought of his rogue-ish father being forced to listen to history lessons at the dinner table night after night after night.
His dad grinned back unexpectedly at that, looking more like himself than he had in months. "Not completely. But, yeah. You're not wrong. Though, I think you'll find it all fascinating. It's the perfect place for an aspiring writer, like you. I'm sure there's all sorts of interesting tales surrounding it that you could dig up. Apparently, it's also one of the most historically relevant homes on the East Coast; one of the few places left almost unchanged since the Revolutionary War."
"Wait. Are you saying that it doesn't have indoor plumbing or electricity?" Henry gave him an appalled look.
"You're good there, kiddo," Neal chuckled. "But cable and internet aren't a concession to the modern world Papa was ever willing to make, so you might have to think up alternate forms of entertainment."
"I might as well go camping in the woods," Henry grumbled. He was suddenly envisioning a decrepit stone castle with cold floors, giant tapestries, big fireplaces, and almost no modern comforts.
Neal's throaty laughter was quickly dissolving into a tight wheeze. Rushing to his side, Henry slipped the oxygen mask back on over his father's face and willed his own heart to slow. Thankfully, after a few moments, Neal opened his eyes and nodded back that he was okay again.
After several minutes had passed, Neal slipped the mask off once more. "Listen to me carefully, kid. Misthaven Hall is your grandfather's pride and joy, and he loves it more than he's ever loved anything. Never forget that. Not like he'd let you anyway. But if you just keep out of his way, make yourself useful, you'll be alright in the end."
He swallowed thickly as he nodded, turning to fiddle with the bedsheet before his face could betray his emotions. Why were his father's words getting him so upset? It was silly to think that someone who'd never met him would care about him. Especially since his Grandpa Gold seemed about as warm and friendly as a rusty knife. He knew that having any fanciful ideas to the contrary would only lead to heartache, still… the man was family, and Henry had always thought that meant something. Not to mention that he would soon be the only family Henry had left. So, he reasoned, maybe it was okay for a kid who was about to be all alone in the world to be irrationally upset. Maybe it was okay if he had a hard time telling his heart to stay out of it.
"That reminds me," Neal went on, oblivious to Henry's inner struggle. "I wrote him a few days ago about you coming, but I wouldn't count on him remembering to pick you up. He tends to be sort of scatterbrained about practical things like that. You'll have to fend for yourself a lot from now on, I'm afraid."
Don't worry. I'm used to it, Henry wanted to reply. But he knew it would only end up hurting his dad and he just couldn't bring himself to do that. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and nodded.
"You'll get off at a town called Storybrooke and then you can walk or call a cab from there."]
Storybrooke.
Only about twenty minutes more now.
"Hey there, brother. You by any chance going to a place called Misthaven?"
Henry looked up. The conductor was standing beside him again. His frown was so deep set, Henry guessed there were permanent wrinkles between the man's bushy brows. However, at least it didn't seem that the conductor was actually mad at him this time.
"Y-yes," he stammered. "Yes, but, I mean, how did you know?"
The conductor grinned menacingly and told him that he looked very much like his grandfather, who had caught him trespassing on his land to go fishing more times than he cared to admit. He added though, that he also reminded him of his father, who would sometimes buy beers for him and his brothers at the local inn back in the day. Just that little bit of information was enough to make Henry's heart catch in his throat. The pain of loss was far too fresh and Henry was still deep in the stages of denial.
"I do?"
"Yeah. He was an alright guy," the man said with a shrug. "Always knew how to have a good time. Anyway, it put me in mind of something I thought I'd better ask you, just in case. Not that I'm trying to pry or anything, only—did you fix it with your grandfather to meet you at the station?"
"No," Henry shrugged. "I didn't want to bother him. I was going to walk." He didn't add that he didn't actually know if his grandfather even knew he was coming and was more than a little scared to find out.
"Walk! Brother, you can't do that! It's six miles outta town, and wet, and back roads all the way."
"Six miles?" Henry could already feel the icy finger of dread sliding down his backbone into his shoes as he looked at the rainy wet state of the land beyond.
"Six miles and a bit. More like seven. Or eight."
He wondered desperately if there was any way to hire a taxi to take him there or if he was better off looking for a place to stay the night, maybe trying to find a way to call out to the house in the morning.
"There ain't no taxis in Storybrooke. It's only a little place and most folks have cars. My brother at the garage keeps an old Volkswagon he hires out, but it breaks down more'n it runs, and anyway he's rented it out to some Englishman. Works with horses. He's got a daughter with him, about your age, if I recall. No—what I had in mind was that you might want to do what your father did back in the old days when he went up to the city and came back unexpected. He'd pull the emergency stop just shy of Muffet's dairy farm, then he'd cut down through the hayfield to the road by Locksley's Wood. It ain't more'n a mile and a half to Misthaven thataway."
"Do trains even still have emergency stops?"
"Brother, you just leave that to me," he added, with something almost approaching a wink.
How the man did it, he'd never know, but ten minutes later the train had stopped and Henry and his slightly cumbersome luggage were scrambling down out of the train next to what must have been Muffet's hayfield. From there, a rutted up gravel road rambled away over the hill alongside a noisy little brook. It had stopped raining, but the sky was still overhung with scudding dark clouds and the potholes were all full of water.
Walking slowly, the big suitcase banging his knees with every other step, Henry made his way through the pasture where an old white horse turned to watch his progress. Eventually, the country began to run wilder and leaves closed in about the road as their branches met overhead. Huge elms and maples and mountainous oaks dropped and twisted, trees that must have been old when the country was yet young. The wood turned so dense, it was impossible to see more than a foot or two into the tangle, and the shadows around his feet grew darker and darker.
He began to walk a little more quickly. It was already getting late, and the ground mist had begun to rise from the dripping forest and was blowing vaporously across the road just like a horror movie cliché.
Then the road came to a sharp, sudden end.
It was like a bad dream. One moment the road was there, the next it had split into two separate paths. One went off into the trees on the right and the other the trees on the left. There was no signpost or possible way of telling which one led to Misthaven Hall.
Coming to a dead stop, Henry wondered frantically what to do. Not for the first time, he cursed his father's tendency to insist that things like learning how to tell your way in the woods were beneath them when there existed other things like GPS and cell phones. And neither of which made a lick of difference if you have a dead battery.
With his feet wet and his damp brown hair falling into his eyes, Henry sucked in a breath and flung back his head bravely only to hit his bag on a branch and dislodge an icy spray that went straight down his back.
Shaking with frustrated anger and cold, he drew in a breath, closed his eyes, and weighed his options.
Eeny, meeny, miney—
"Can I help you, kid?" said a voice over his shoulder. "Are you lost?"
There behind him—apparently sprung out of nowhere—was a young woman sitting astride a tall black horse. She was dressed in a red leather jacket (which stuck out even in the gloom) and a grey beanie pulled down over her blonde hair so that it curtained most of her face. Even so, there was enough light that he could tell it was a beautiful face, a dimpled chin and high cheekbones, with wide-set green eyes that were as brilliant as jewels. Henry's frustration was quickly doused by the kindness of the woman's smile and the curious nature of her arrival. Questions about how she could have came up on the road without the horse's hooves making any noise were overshadowed by his extreme relief about finding someone to give him directions out of the woods.
"Can I help you?" She asked again.
"Oh thank god, yes," Henry replied gratefully. "I'm trying to get to Misthaven Hall and I have no idea which turn to take."
The woman bent her head and sat for a moment as if considering something. Then, she looked up and after tucking back a loose blonde curl that had drifted over her cheek, pointed in the direction of the road on the left.
"A little past the first bend in that direction," she said, "you'll come upon a girl trying to repair an old car. I'm sure she'd be glad to tell you the way to Misthaven if you asked her."
Without another word, she touched her mount with her heel and went off down the road on the right. In another instant, both she and the black horse had melted into the depths of the wood as noiselessly as shadows.
As Henry stood rigid, staring and utterly mystified, he realized that in spite of her strange appearance and behavior, the woman had been right about one thing. There was somebody down the road to the left. Through the sighing wind, a sharp clinking noise was coming, as if metal striking metal, and so was the sound of a woman singing along to a car radio. It was a catchy old pop song, one he knew quite well, and it came dancing through the trees, sweeping away the silent shadows as comfortingly as an outstretched hand.