Chapter Twenty: Lost and Far Away

"Leah, please think about this rationally," Charles said, blocking her path and holding out his hands to stop her. "You can't truly believe that Snow had anything to do with this."

Leah gestured angrily towards the empty cell. "Who else?" she snapped, almost seething. "Who else would break the wolf out of prison?"

"And how would she do it?" Charles countered reasonably. Though he could not deny that Snow had motive, he did not see how she could possibly have had means. "You changed the locks on the cell when you repaired the station from the Wraith's damage. Snow doesn't have the key."

"Maybe she stole it," Leah suggested, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at Charles. "Or maybe she used magic."

"Magic would not allow her to break Miss Lucas out of a prison," Charles countered. "The Blue Fairy assured you that no magic could penetrate the spell she placed on the bars. Not even her own."

"Perhaps she lied," Leah suggested, huffing impatiently at Charles' arguments. "She was always far too loyal to Snow and James."

Fairies were supposed to be neutral beings, giving their loyalty only to themselves and to the dwarves who mined for their fairy dust. They intervened in the affairs of others, of course, when called upon by one true of heart and in desperate need of help, but the Blue Fairy had gone far beyond merely answering calls. Her allegiance with Snow was more than a little unsettling.

"You said that you didn't tell her of your plan to arrest Miss Lucas," Charles answered with a frown. "Why would she have lied to you if she didn't know what you intended to do? She probably assumed you were plotting against Rumpelstiltskin or Regina, and she would have no cause to want either of them free."

"Or she wanted to always have the upper hand, always have control," Leah replied. She paused, considering, then continued suspiciously, "Maybe she wanted to make sure that only the people she was truly loyal to would have full use of this sheriff's station. And who is she loyal to, Charles? Who would she lie to me for if not Snow and James?"

"You absolutely cannot accuse the Blue Fairy of such treachery without proof," Charles retorted in worry and disbelief. "She is the old power, the greatest of the fairies, the champion of good magic. No one will believe you – and you will bring their wrath upon yourself."

Leah sighed, frustration evident in the lines of her face. She could not argue with him on that; it was far too dangerous to openly declare herself against the fairies in general, and the Blue Fairy in particular. They were revered, even beloved, among the people of this town.

Still...

"Miss Lucas could not have broken out of that cell by herself," she said pointedly. "She had neither the key nor the magic. Someone must have helped her – and who else would do it if not Snow?"

Charles frowned, unable to come up with a suitable reply.

And yet he cautioned, "You cannot accuse her without proof, either, Leah."

"Then I will find proof," Leah answered coolly. She glanced once more at the empty cell before stepping around Charles and heading towards the door. "I will question her and the Blue Fairy. And Rumpelstiltskin and Regina if I have to. Ruby Lucas is not going to evade justice."

"Tread lightly, then," Charles said softly. "Snow has allies. And friends, too. People who would not want to see her unfairly accused of a crime she did not commit."

Leah gritted her teeth. "I know that," she retorted sharply, bitterly.

"And Leah…" He waited until she had turned back to him before adding grimly, "I might disagree with her on many subjects, but I, too, still count myself one of her friends."

Thirty-six hours ago, in a different world…

The first thing Emma noticed was that she could barely move. Her clothes were stiff, the dried saltwater restricting her movements, and her body was covered in blue and purple bruises.

She rolled to her hands and knees and spat out sand. It stuck to her dry lips and tongue, and scratched at her skin. Her hair was matted against her face and neck, and as she tried to brush it free, more sand spilled onto her clothing.

She stumbled to her feet.

The portal had been a giant whirlpool of green light that had pulled the ship towards it, and the last thing Emma remembered was watching Mary Margaret fall into the abyss before the surge of power radiating from the closing portal had flung her backwards. Her head had hit something, and she remembered the pain and the desperation to get to Mary Margaret, to Henry…

"Henry," she murmured, the word thick and heavy. Her throat was dry, and just speaking felt like scraping sandpaper against it.

She rubbed at her lips and looked around.

She was standing on an island. Behind her, the mainland stretched out, and the treacherous cliffs surrounding Smuggler's Den rose towards the sky. In front of her, the ocean was smooth and calm as though there had been no recent storm, no portal to separate her from her family.

She swallowed and tasted blood, and wondered how badly she'd been hurt. The storm had thrown her onto this island, which she supposed was preferable to drowning, but she was alone now.

Completely alone.

"I have to get back," she muttered.

But how? How are you going to get back, Swan?

The voice in her head was mocking her, but it brought up a very good point.

The portal was closed. She squinted out at the ocean, out at the distant horizon with the sun just starting its ascent into the sky, but saw nothing besides shimmering water. No movement broke the calm surface, no ships appeared over the horizon, nothing.

Not a living thing in sight.

Just her.

Alone.

On an island in the ocean, trapped in a different world, far away from everyone she cared about, everyone she loved.

She stumbled backwards, and turned towards the mainland. She couldn't gauge the distance, but she was fairly certain it was further than she could swim in her current state.

Swimming was not one of her stronger skills – swim lessons were not exactly available to a girl growing up in the system.

And even if she could make it back to the mainland, what good would that do? All she could possibly encounter were ogres, and she'd already proven once that she didn't know how to deal with them.

Her hand slid automatically down her side and came to rest at her waist, but there was no holster there, and no gun. It took her a moment to remember that the gun had been crushed by the ogre Mary Margaret had killed, and although she had not felt its absence that strongly before, she felt it now.

"Great," she grumbled to herself, the words thick and heavy, "just great."

You're completely alone - and unarmed.

She took a few steps forward, slipping on the shifting sand, and let out a long, shaky breath.

"Okay. Okay, think," she said firmly. "You need to think. You need to get back to Henry. He's waiting for you - he needs you - so you need to think."

If Mary Margaret had made it safely back to Storybrooke, she would no doubt be searching for way to reach Emma now. All Emma had to do was stay alive and safe long enough for Mary Margaret and David to find her, and then they would open a portal and bring her back.

Wouldn't they?

She sighed and kicked at the sand bitterly, though in her weakened state the movement just made her lose her balance and slip around even more. She groaned, but caught herself before falling.

What if they couldn't? What if there was no way to reach her? What if they didn't know how to find her? What if...?

What if Cora somehow stopped them? What if Cora had attacked them? What if they were in trouble, what if they had been captured, what if they were waiting for her to rescue them?

"Got to find a way to rescue yourself, Swan," she muttered.

But that brought her back to the original question that she had already failed to answer once - how was she going to get back to Storybrooke?

She stumbled a few more steps until she passed the crest of the small island and had an uninterrupted view of the water separating her from the mainland. She fell to her knees as she stared at it, exhaustion and a dull, throbbing ache slowly seeping through every part of her body.

"I can swim that," she said shakily, hoping that if she said the words aloud, they would somehow become true. "I can definitely swim that."

And then what?

The thought invaded her mind, sending a prickling shiver of unease and doubt racing down her spine.

If only she had read Henry's book of fairytales, if only she had listened to him, then maybe she would know more about this place and these people and the magic here, and maybe she would be able to find her way home. But she hadn't done any of that, and now she was alone, and…

"Think," she chided herself, saying the word aloud to stop her runaway thoughts. "Forget the doubt. You need to make a plan."

It would do no good to wallow in regret.

It would have been so much easier if Mary Margaret was there, and not just because she actually knew things about this bizarre fairytale world. She also had belief - the kind of unwavering faith that seemed to belong to fairytale heroes and heroines, that promised that Good would always triumph in the end, and the woman who'd grown up without a family would somehow find her way back to them.

Emma didn't have that belief.

"Stop thinking about that," she said sternly. "You're going to get home - you have to. Henry is there." She paused, running her fingers through her sticky, salty hair, and said, "And now I'm talking to myself. Great." She let out a breath. "Okay. Okay, so inventory. You don't have your gun. But what do you have with you?"

She rose to her feet and glanced down at her water-logged clothing, and the rips in her pants and the saltwater still dripping from her jacket and creating small puddles next to her muddy boots.

"Not a whole lot. Alright... well."

Now what?

The mainland was her only hope. She couldn't sit on this tiny island forever, and there was nothing left in the ocean for her. She had to go back...

Back to the ogre-infested lands. She grimaced, and reached up to rub at her eyes. But there was salt and sand clinging to her lashes, and rubbing her eyes hurt, so she dropped her arm back to her side.

"Note to self - find fresh water. Preferably before I die of thirst." She blinked a few times to clear away the grime. "Another reason to get back to the mainland, I suppose," she remarked aloud. "There's no water here." A wry grin touched her lips as she added, "But I'd better stop talking once I do that - don't want to attract the ogres."

A half-mad laugh bubbled in her throat and escaped her lips.

"And now I'm not only talking to myself, I'm making jokes with myself, too. Definitely a sign of insanity." A feeling that she might be completely losing it rose in her chest, but she inhaled slowly, and forced it away. "Time to get serious," she said. "So how are you going to get back to the mainland? Can you really swim that far?"

Realistically, the answer was no. Not right now, anyway. She needed some time for her body to rest before she attempted anything like that.

But she didn't want to rest. She didn't want to waste time sitting around doing nothing while her family – Henry – was in Storybrooke.

With Cora.

Think of all the things Cora could be doing right now.

And yet - what choice did she have? Better to spend a few hours resting and doing her best to patch up any wounds than to push too hard and not make it back at all. She just had to trust that everyone in Storybrooke would keep Henry safe until she got back.

"Yeah. Trust," she scowled, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "That's easy."

She looked around the island, wincing as the stiff muscles in her neck protested the movement. There was no shade here - it was just sand and rocks. But the sun had barely risen, and it was not yet hot enough to need a reprieve.

She sat down.

"Rest," she told herself. "Just for a little bit. Just an hour. Rest."

That was far easier said than done.

But the storm must have taken a greater toll on her body than she had realized, because by the time she awoke again, the sun was high in the sky, and her skin was hot with soaked-up rays. She had slumped over at an odd angle, and her back creaked as she stretched and squinted up at the azure sky.

"Two o'clock?" she guessed, unable to discern much from the sun's position beyond the fact that it was no longer night, or even dawn. "Three?" She grimaced, and licked parched lips. "Oh, who knows," she snapped irritably.

Talking was harder now – her time asleep had only made the dehydration worse, and her throat was dry as sandpaper. But, despite the stiffness in her body, it was easier to move, and most of the fatigue that had clung to her before was gone.

She walked down to the edge of the ocean and peered towards the mainland. "Alright – a plan. Swim to the mainland and then…?"

There was no obvious answer, but this time, instead of allowing herself to get bogged down by how little she knew about this land, she closed her eyes and quickly ran through the places she did know about.

The curse survivors' safe haven – but everyone was dead now.

Lake Nostos – but there was no longer a portal there.

The castle – but the wardrobe had been burnt to the ground, so what could she gain from that?

Rumpelstiltskin's cell – but the ink was gone, and Aurora and Mulan were probably long gone, too, and she didn't know how to find them.

She opened her eyes and gazed unseeingly in front of her, weighing her options carefully. Sleeping had done good for more than just her body; her mind felt clearer, and thinking was easier now than it had been before.

"Lake Nostos is in the open," she murmured to herself, "and there is no one left to defend the safe haven, so it probably isn't that safe anymore. Rumpelstiltskin's cell is creepy. So…"

She straightened her shoulders.

"Process of elimination.," she said determinedly. "I'm going back to the castle."

Home, Mary Margaret had called it. It hadn't really felt like home when she had seen it, but it had given her the first really obvious proof that her parents had truly wanted her, that they hadn't just thrown her away. It was still had to let go of the pain of growing up alone, and even if she could see – logically, rationally – that Mary Margaret and David had been trying to save her from a horrible curse, trying to give her the best chance possible, her emotions were harder to convince.

The bitterness had still not fully faded.

She'd been so overwhelmed the first time she'd seen her nursery, she hadn't been able to take it all in. Maybe the second visit would give her something else – closure, perhaps, or at least a better understanding.

And hopefully, safe from the ogres and with access to drinking water and possibly food, she could figure out a way to get home.

Maybe there was even something in the castle that would help her.

With a goal in mind, she was able to force away the last lingering doubts and the creeping panic, and think instead about how to best put her plan into action. A quick look at the ocean separating her from the mainland showed her what her slightly-crazed mind had missed before; there were a few islands between her and the rocky shore.

"I don't need to swim all at once," she said in dawning realization. "I can do this in stages. I can rest, catch my breath, in between."

She glanced down at the gentle waves that were lapping at the sand near her feet. Her clothing and shoes had dried in the hot sun, but they were stiff and cumbersome. It would be difficult to swim in them. The water would seep into the fabric and pull her down, adding unnecessary weight. To make it to the mainland, she'd need to remove unnecessary clothing.

She might not have had much experience with swim lessons, but she remembered learning that bit of information – if stranded in the ocean and attempting to swim a long distance back to shore, remove as much clothing as possible.

Could she bring the clothing with her and put it back on after she'd finished swimming? The boots would be too hard to carry with her, but maybe she could hold onto the jeans, her shirt, and her jacket?

She really didn't want to part with the red leather jacket.

But carrying her clothing would probably be even more impractical than wearing it.

"I could take off the boots, but try wearing everything else, and if it doesn't work then take off my clothing at the next island," she mused.

But what if she couldn't make it that far? What if the clothing was so problematic that she ended up drowning halfway between the two islands? Was it really worth taking that risk?

She wrinkled her nose at the thought of arriving on the mainland in nothing but a bra and underwear. "So… I have to wander around fairytale land half-naked?" she muttered to herself, grimacing. "Well…" she smiled sardonically, "at least ogres are blind."

And with a sigh, she sat down and started tugging with stiff, sore fingers at her boots.

Vanity and sentiment won out in the end – or perhaps it was just a compromise – and Emma crawled onto the sandy beach of the next island wearing only her bra and underwear… and the red leather jacket.

On her hands and knees, she coughed out seawater and struggled to pull herself clear of the water. Swimming was harder than she had expected it would be, and more than once she had felt the waves crash over her head and gravity start to pull her towards the ocean floor, but pure stubbornness and the image of Henry's face kept her struggling forward.

Why anyone would ever swim for fun or for sport was completely lost on her.

She half-crawled, half-dragged herself forward, legs and arms shaking, barely able to sustain her weight; and once she was fully free of the waves, she collapsed onto the sand, gasping for breath.

The jacket was sodden, and weighted down with water that dripped from the material and caused rivulets to run down her skin. But despite the weight and the chill of the cold water, she felt comfort in having it, and pulled the collar up closer to her chin.

"Just close my eyes for a moment," she murmured, "just a moment…"

By the time she reached the mainland, the moon had started its ascent into the night sky, and she was so exhausted she could barely crawl.

She pulled herself onto the sand and rolled on to her back, staring up at the stars. Her hair clung to her face, but she couldn't muster up the energy to push it aside. She blinked, and simply lay there, listening to the frantic thudding of her heart in her chest and the uneven inhale and exhale of breath.

"Made it," she gasped, her voice a low whisper.

She had no idea how long she lay sprawled on the sand. Her vision had darkened around the edges from lack of oxygen, and it took several moments for her to regain full sight, and even longer for her to muster up the strength to push herself into a sitting position. By the time she had finally done so, sand clung to her hair, stuck between her fingers and her toes, and scraped thin lines onto her skin when she tried to brush it away.

She ran her tongue over dry lips and tasted salt.

The night air was cool, and she shivered as a light breeze raised goose bumps on her bare skin. She pulled off her stiff, sodden jacket with tired, jerky movements, and twisted to look up at the edge of the forest where the trees met the beach.

She clambered awkwardly to her feet and lurched with unsteady steps towards the forest. She needed wood for a fire, or the cold night would freeze her before she had a chance to adequately dry.

But the woods were foreboding at night. It hadn't bothered her before – she had not realized how much she had relied on Mary Margaret's presence – and Mulan and Aurora, and even Hook – to make her feel safe in this unfamiliar place. Every creak of the branches above her, every whistle of wind through the heavy shrubbery that lined the edge of the sand, had her starting and staring about with wild, frantic eyes.

A branch swiped at her face as she tried to bat it aside, and she hissed out a sharp breath of pain and felt blood on her cheek.

Her search for twigs and branches took her further into the woods, but she did her best to keep in sight of the ocean. In the dark, it would be easy to wander too far and get lost in these woods.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow moving in the dark and whirled around, dropping most of the sticks and holding one particularly large branch in front of her like a club.

But there was nothing there but more trees.

"You're imagining things, Swan," she murmured.

She reached down to gather up the fallen kindling, and a prickle of unease raised the hairs on the back of her neck – a warning.

She straightened slowly and turned in a circle, peering into the gloom, but still saw nothing.

"You're just being paranoid," she whispered. "There's nothing there."

Had the trees always been this close together? Had the forest always been this dense, this thick? It seemed darker than she had remembered, as though the moonlight could barely penetrate through the thick foliage above. And the air itself felt heavy, the wind seemed almost malevolent.

She shook her head.

"You're being ridiculous," she chided herself, and with her arms full of branches, she started back towards the beach.

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that if any place was going to have a forest that was itself evil, wouldn't it be a land of magic?

The illogical fears faded the moment she stepped onto the sand again, and the moonlight was able to illuminate everything with a gentle glow. There were no looming shadows here, no rustling wind to be mistaken for movement, no breaking twigs to be mistaken for footsteps on the ground.

Halfway down the beach, Emma dropped her wood onto the sand and stared at it blankly.

"Okay," she murmured, "now what?"

How exactly did one go about starting a fire without matches?

"I need – flint. I need to make sparks or… or something with friction?" she said. "I could rub two pieces of wood together and that would start a fire – right?"

She sighed, and dropped to her knees next to the kindling, grumbling as she did so. But after several tries, she could neither create enough friction to start a fire nor catch sparks on the kindling, and she shoved the wood away in frustration and leaned backwards, staring up at the sky.

"Seriously, how did people live here?" she snapped.

A particularly strong gust of wind made her shiver, and she reached automatically for her jacket before realizing that putting a wet coat around her shoulders would not warm her.

She grimaced.

Without the trees to block it, the wind was stronger on the beach, and brought in cold air from over the ocean. There were still several hours left in the night, and without a fire to warm her, the wind would be a problem.

She glanced back at the forest. She could probably find some shelter in there, and even if it would not be as warm as a fire, it would protect her from the cold.

"There's nothing to be afraid of there," she told herself firmly. "The trees make it darker, but that is all it is. Dark. And you're not afraid of the dark."

She'd walked through these woods with Mary Margaret and Hook during the day and at dusk, and there had been nothing particularly dangerous, nothing particularly malevolent, in them. Her unease was only an overactive imagination combined with paranoia. There was nothing to be afraid of here.

She climbed slowly to her feet, snatched up her still-damp jacket, and started towards the woods.

Once in the woods, however, she was confronted with another problem. Although she knew that she needed to find adequate shelter, she wasn't entirely sure what such shelter looked like. Overgrown tree roots? Hollow shrubbery? Or was she supposed to build her own shelter?

Feeling thoroughly unprepared for this, she glanced around and debated simply pushing on with her trek. Maybe she shouldn't sleep – or maybe she shouldn't sleep until daylight, when the sun would warm her and dry her jacket.

The thought had only just occurred to her when a wave of dizziness rushed through her body, and she had to brace herself against a nearby tree to stay standing. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. She was exhausted, and her limbs felt leaden, and she needed to sleep.

And she was still cold.

Besides, if she tried to find her way through the woods, she would get lost. It was too dark to see anything clearly. She needed light.

"Should have taken a wilderness survival class," she muttered under her breath. "But it's not like I knew I would need one."

She chewed her lip and looked around.

Ahead of her, a bramble of hedges formed a semi-circle around the base of a giant nursery log. Moss and soft grass grew along the ground and spread up one side of the log, and the shrubbery looked like it could form a decent barrier from the wind and offer a little isolation. If she squeezed, she might just be able to fit into the small pocket of damp ground between the hedges and the log.

She hurried forward, and on her hands and knees crawled along the base of the log. The thin branches of shrubs scraped against her skin and caught on what little fabric she was wearing, but she pressed forward until she had reached the softer moss. Then, by lying on her side and curling herself into a fetal position, she was able to fit, entirely hidden, into the small pocket of space.

The night was still cool, but without the ocean breeze, she was able to get a little bit more comfortable.

"Good enough," she muttered as she folded up her jacket and placed it under her head for a pillow.

All around her in the darkness, she heard the creaking sounds of forest, and it was with a sense of unease and lingering fear that Emma finally drifted into a much needed sleep.

When she awoke again, it was to bright rays of sunlight slanting through the foliage and scattering the night's shadows.

She crawled out of her makeshift bed and stood up slowly, stretching. Her muscles protested the movement, but she ignored their soreness. The air smelled fresher, cleaner – or maybe that was just her imagination. She really didn't know anymore.

"Alright," she said thoughtfully, "I need to find my way back to the castle."

That was, of course, far easier said than done, but she had a vague idea of where she was in relation to Lake Nostos, and an even vaguer impression of where the castle was in relation to the lake, and really, as long as she could find that main road that had led past Rumpelstiltskin's cell in the mining caves, she should be able to find the castle.

She picked up her leather jacket.

It was mostly dry, though covered in dirt and moss and small rocks and other forest floor debris. She slapped it against the nursery log, trying to shake off the dirt, and when it looked about half clean, she slid it over her shoulders and tried to ignore the fact that she was now wandering around this foreign land half naked.

And barefoot.

Last night she had been so worried about noises in the forest and the shadows moving everywhere that she hadn't really realized how much it hurt to walk without shoves. Every step she took pressed tender skin against tiny sharp rocks and twigs and other prickly things.

"This sucks," she declared to herself.

But she kept walking.

Twice, she stumbled over and moss-covered rocks and tumbled to the ground, stubbing her toes and bruising her shins. She winced and bit back a string of expletives both times, and still pressed forward.

The forest thinned out as she left the beach behind, and the sun grew brighter and hotter. The warmth was a welcome change from the night, but she could already feel her skin growing hot, and knew her unprotected legs would be badly sunburned before this was over.

She still pressed forward.

There was no path to follow – she couldn't pick up trails the way Mulan and Mary Margaret could, and even though she had walked this way once before, nothing looked particularly familiar to her.

Or rather, everything looked familiar because everything looked the same.

She was still fairly certain she was going the right direction – or maybe she just convinced herself of that. Either way, she needed to believe she was doing something, because she could not allow herself to simply sit around and wait.

And besides, she needed to find something she could drink before the dehydration became too unbearable.

If only she had any idea how to go about finding water.

And still she pressed forward.

"I wish you were here, Mary Margaret," she said quietly, finally allowing herself to fully admit that she really did need her mother right now.

And she was so lost in her own thoughts that she did not feel the first gentle tremor of the ground, did not hear the heavy snapping of branches that could not possibly have been caused by the wind, did not recognize the signs of danger until it was far too late.

The thing appeared, crashing through the trees, knocking giant branches aside as if they were merely twigs. It loomed over her, and every step it took caused the ground to shake.

Emma froze in her spot, half-hidden by the trees.

It can't see you, she thought. They're blind – ogres are blind. It doesn't know you're here. It's just walking through the forest. It's not hunting you. It can't see you.

The ogre did appear unaware of her presence as it strode forward, passing by her with merely a few feet to separate them. Emma's heart was hammering so loudly in her chest that she was surprised the creature couldn't hear that, but she didn't move, didn't even dare to breath.

Just stay calm, she thought desperately, fighting back the rising panic.

Once the ogre had passed by her fully, she twisted just her neck to watch it go, and felt the beginnings of relief as it didn't look back.

And then the wind came.

A quick breeze, barely noticeable to her, but she was upwind of the ogre, and she smelled like salt and sweat and dirt and human – and, oh, God, hadn't Mary Margaret said that ogres hunt by smell?

The ogre stopped and turned back.

And started towards her.

And Emma – unarmed and half-clothed – stared up at its heavy brow, flat nose, and wide, gaping mouth in horror.

A/N: Emma and everyone in Storybrooke are now essentially at the same point in time, so future chapters will generally show the happenings in both lands.