In the Shadow of the Toll Bridge

by Nikstlitslepmur

AU: Something DID jog the memory of our favorite prince that night...but it wasn't the windmill. What would have happened if David Nolan had remembered his REAL life instead of his fake one that fateful night in Gold's shop? What would have happened if David and Mary Margaret had awoken long before anyone else and been left to deal with the monumental task of breaking the curse?

32. The Prince, the Thief and the Duke

DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.

This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…

In the shadow of the toll bridge

The Prince, the Thief and the Duke

Changing quickly into a janitor's uniform that was far too short and ill-fitting for the towering prince, Adam cracked the door open and peeked down the hallway. All was quiet in the strangely bright corridor, and he gestured for Belle to join him as they rushed out of the room and headed for the emergency exit. The stairwell was constructed from strange metals, not unlike the bars of the cot in his cell, Adam noticed. And when their shoes first collided with the landing, Adam started at the enormous echo their steps made in the narrow column of beams.

"It's ok," Belle smiled, taking his hand, realizing how strange the world must already seem to him and they weren't even out of the hospital yet. "Come on, the dwarfs are waiting downstairs."

"The dwarfs are here?"

"Just Sleepy and Grumpy, though Doc works here too."

Adam shook his head, deciding to process it later, and the two of them rushed swiftly and undetected down the stairwell. As anticipated, Snow's famously short companions had disabled the exit alarm and were waving frantically for them to hurry as they descended the final flight.

"Come on!" said Leroy as he stirred the air with his left hand and pointed toward the exit with his right. Walter was waiting on the other side of the door, ready to sneak them past the cameras.

"Sleepy, Grumpy," Adam said on approach. "Thank you for—"

"Whadid you call me, Mack?" snapped Leroy, his brow creased even more than usual.

But Belle didn't allow either to reply. "Nevermind that now," she hurried by her husband. "Come on. There's a place underground we can hide and—"

"We can't leave yet," Adam held his hand out to stop her. "Thomas is in trouble."

Leroy threw his hands up and huffed. "Who the hell is Thomas?"

"No, Thomas is fine. Ella and Christopher are in there with him right now. We—"

"In where?" Adam demanded, his eyes darting to the door opposite the exit.

"Look, Rose—" Leroy shook his head, thinking for the first time tonight that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to spring a guy from the psychiatric ward— "we don't have time for this."

"I know," Belle waved at him impatiently. "Adam, they're in there creating a diversion for us so we can escape. We have to—"

"You don't understand," he whirled on her, grasping her shoulders. "I heard them. I heard them this morning talking about killing Thomas. Making it look like an accident. I won't allow it!"

"Adam wait!" Belle cried, lurching forward. But her husband was already through the entrance door and tearing down the hall.

…

"He's my fiance," Ella shrieked. "And Alex's father! How could you have taken out a restraining order?!"

"To keep you from manipulating him any further!" Christopher spat, careful to keep the smile tickling the corners of his lips from actually forming across his face. "Look at him!" he pointed at his son's cot. "He's in a coma because of you."

Thomas was back to lying perfectly still, knowing that 'Sean' suddenly waking up might draw the wrong kind of attention to his wife's and father's performance.

"Ashley, I'm sorry. I'm going to have to ask you to leave," said Dr. Whale, guiding Mr. Herman away from the hysterical blonde. "He does have the law on his side here."

"Joe, how could you?" spluttered Snow, glaring at him in horror and indignation as she wrapped her arms around Ella's shoulders. "Don't you know what they mean to each other?!"

Joe Whale's gaze darted nervously between Sean's father and Mary Margaret. Dammit! he thought. If they had only left the hospital five minutes sooner. He hadn't realized she and Ashley Boyd were friends, and siding with the cold-hearted Mitchell was going to seriously diminish (if it hadn't already ruined) his chances of scoring tonight. "I-I'm sorry Mary," he tried to explain. "I don't have a choice, I—"

"I swear to God Mitchell, I will fight this!" Ella screamed, thrusting her finger at her father-in-law (Thomas bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing). "He wants to be with me."

"Well thankfully, you're not allowed within 100 feet of those decisions anymore," Christopher folded his arms tightly across his chest and scowled, trying hard to duplicate the alter-ego he'd very quickly come to loath. "Now get out!"

"All right people, that's enough," came a new voice. A chilling voice. The entire room turned to see Dr. Fisk glide through the door, towering over everyone. "As the highest ranking physician at this hospital, I insist that everyone clear this room immediately. None of this can be good for Sean."

Christopher gulped, glancing down at Ella and Snow whose faces showed genuine shock but bared no visible signs of recognition. He must be the only one among them who had ever met Jafar. "I'm not going anywhere," he blustered, trying still to maintain the façade of Mitchell.

"I'm afraid you have to. Everyone here is much too excited right now, Mr. Herman," Jafar sneered at the old king. He'd met Christopher once, years ago before he'd tried to overthrow Sultan Rushdi and was still acting as royal vizier. If only Regina had granted him permission to take out the entire royal bloodline of Seven Gales tonight…

Christopher glanced quickly at Ella whose eyes were pleading with him to maintain their cover. Surely it wouldn't do them any good if both were banned from the hospital for bad behavior, so he must not defy the head physician. Then again, he couldn't imagine leaving Thomas alone with Jafar! "Please doctor," he managed in a slightly more controlled tone, though the tension and anxiety building inside him was no longer an act. "I will settle down as long as she leaves."

"Well no problem," piped up Snow, who maintained her grip on Ella's shoulders and started to guide her out, though she had not missed the shift in Christopher's veneer. "Ashley shouldn't have to put up with this kind of abuse," she added in her best biting tone.

Gradually, the scene died down, the nurses scrambling to put chairs in order and straighten Thomas's sheet while Snow and Ella slunk away with Dr. Whale close behind. Only Christopher and Jafar remained while Thomas was still 'playing dead' on the gurney. "Mr. Herman, I really must ask that you leave as well," Jafar demanded of the king.

Christopher drew a sharp breath. He'd addressed him 'Mr. Herman' again, and in private. Clearly Rushdi's old advisor wasn't aware he was awake. "I'm not leaving my son," he replied evenly.

"I understand that, but visiting hours are ending soon, and I'm afraid this place is only upsetting you."

"I said I'm not leaving, Dr…" he trailed off and cocked an eyebrow.

"Fisk," Jafar replied thickly. "Dr. Jeffery Fisk, and as the head of Psychiatry here at Storybrooke General, I should say that I think it's in your best interest as well as Sean's. We wouldn't want this ordeal to leave you emotionally scarred and unable to help your son…would we?"

Christopher narrowed his gaze, watching him carefully as Jafar practically slithered to the door, tapped it open with the toe of his shoe and checked the hallway.

Jafar grinned. The crowd seemed to have disappeared and the nurses were gone from their stations, tending to the flustered visitors and staff. The wing was completely deserted. Now if he could only get rid of the king. "Please," he turned back to 'Mitchell' adopting a more professional, more understanding bedside manner. "You've had an upsetting night, and I'm sure you'll want to be back here with your son tomorrow. Go home and get some rest."

Christopher glanced at his boy feeling sick to his stomach. He couldn't leave. It was out of the question. Not now that he knew Jafar was a high ranking doctor, and especially when he still didn't know if Ella had been able to make any progress with Thomas. At the same time, he couldn't draw too much suspicion from the doctor or they all might be discovered. "All right," Christopher sighed, reaching down to grab his coat off a chair. "That's probably not a bad idea." He'd hide downstairs for ten minutes. Yes. Ten minutes' wait in the cafeteria and he'd come right back up after Jafar was gone. The king took a deep breath, mumbled a private prayer, and then left without a word.

…

Thomas heard the door swish closed but he didn't dare open his eyes. This Dr. Fisk person still remained, his breathing heavy, his flat soles squeaking loudly against the tile as he circled the room. It was a joy at first for Thomas to hear his wife's and father's voices again, even if they were screaming at the tops of their lungs. And to know it was an all an act, that they were both in fact awake and reconciled, was a joy he'd not thought possible. But when Fisk had entered the room, even Thomas, with his eyes squeezed shut, could feel the tension spike.

The air grew stale, cold; the steady cadence of medical monitors pinged obnoxiously as he only just became aware of their constant beeping. Fisk drew closer and started…humming to himself? Thomas heard the slide of flesh on fabric and guessed the doctor was pulling something out of his lab coat. He heard a light tapping against something plastic. He felt Fisk lift one of his feeding tubes by the side of his gurney…and then he heard a menacing, bone-chilling laugh. "Say goodnight…Your Highness."

Thomas's eyes flew open just as the door to his room was thrown off its hinge and slammed into a supply cart. Heart thudding, he jerked his head to the side just in time to see Adam – Adam! – seize Fisk by the throat and wrench him backward, sending the plastic syringe he'd been holding crashing against the wall.

Jafar barely had time to register what was happening before a rock hard fist slammed into his jaw and his left cheek made a nauseating splat against the tile. "Wha…who…" he blabbered, trying to focus through the dizzy spots clouding his vision as crawled across the floor.

"Are you all right Thomas?" Adam spared a moment to assess his young friend.

Thomas just stared open-mouthed and nodded.

Adam turned back to his tormentor, fully recognizing the man whose face he'd seen hovering over his own bed for decades, smiling devilishly as he administered potion after potion (drugs he'd called them…sedatives). Adam scrunched the lapels of Fisk's lab coat in his fists and hauled the doctor up to his knees. "Remember me, doctor?" he growled with animal ferocity. "Your favorite laboratory experiment?!"

"S- s- s-security!" Jafar yelped, though barely above a whisper, for Adam's grip around his collar was slowly cutting off his air supply. A part of him always feared it would end this way: Adam of Ebonshire, war hero and Circe's one and only failure, 28 years his patient…ready for payback.

Adam plunged his knee into the doctor's stomach and watched him crumple in a heap to the ground. But the villain was still groaning so he kicked him again, striking him squarely in the ribs, over and over until he heard bones cracking.

"Adam!" yelled Thomas, futilely stretching his arm out from his cot. "Adam stop!"

Adam bent over to confirm the man was at last, unconscious, and then abruptly turned. "Can you walk?" he asked.

Thomas looked down at the doctor (whom he had at least managed to identify as Sultan Rushdi's old advisor before he was pummeled to the ground) and then back to the prince. "Adam…how did you—"

"Can you walk," Adam repeated, approaching the bed.

Thomas looked down at his legs, still covered with sheets. He squinted, concentrating, trying desperately to make them budge, but they wouldn't. "No," he shook his head.

"Then I'll carry you out," grunted his friend, bending over to scoop him up, but Thomas thrust out his arm and held him back. "Adam are you crazy?!" he hissed. "You have to get out of here. Now!"

"Agreed. And so do you."

"I can't."

"Thomas, they're trying to kill you!" Adam argued.

"And you just punched out a doctor. In fact you might have killed him."

But the intended implication was lost on the older royal. "Which spares us all the aggravation of a trial for the attempted murder of a prince," Adam replied, frustrated by the fact that they were still talking about this. "You are still in danger here."

Thomas openly gawked, stuck for a moment on how to even think about replying to that when it was suddenly all too clear. "Adam, is Belle with you? Is she awake?"

"Awake?"

"Yes," Thomas frowned. "Does she…know who you are? Who she is?"

"Yes," he shuddered, still a bit shaken by the image of Belle's terrified face between his hands.

"You need to go to her."

Adam shook his head at the ceiling, hands settling at his hips. "We will. Once we get you—"

"No, Adam listen to me," Thomas grunted, propping himself up as much as he could on his one good elbow. "The world works differently here. This—" he pointed to the heap of Jafar— "won't be viewed as justice."

"He tried to poison you—"

"And you're an escaped mental patient who just assaulted a doctor. Trust me, you need to go. Now. Belle will explain."

Adam was still glaring disapprovingly, but respected the young prince enough to trust his judgment. "There are more, you know," he warned. "I heard them conspiring this morning. They will try again."

"And now that I'm awake, it'll be more difficult for them to pull that off. Now please," he hissed, shushing him away with his hand. "Go."

There were already so many things he didn't understand about this world, so it was pointless to argue with a man who clearly had a better grasp of the rules here than he did (though why he should be cast into doubt just because this white-coated devil happened to be a doctor was beyond Adam's comprehension). Nevertheless, the attempt was thwarted and immediate danger nullified. He gave Thomas a slight bow of the head and then turned to leave.

"And Adam?" Thomas called after him. The prince paused and turned as his young friend glanced down at the battered villain on his floor. Then he looked again…and grinned. "It's good to have you back."

…

James wanted to enjoy the spectacle of lights, berries and tinsel strung from every cranny of Bridgeport's Emporium. He wanted to take in the sweet aromas of roasting chickens, scalloped potatoes, and steamed vegetables at the sampling tables, tasting the latest dishes from Storybrooke's best executive chefs and caterers. He wished he could simply appreciate the expertly timed water jets dancing to lively holiday tunes sounding through the loud speakers and gratefully accept the compliments of those offering him holiday salutations and accolades not only for his and Archie's citizenship award but for the tremendously beautiful tree just outside the Emporium, now brilliantly lit for the season and towering above the square.

Yes, James would have truly loved to take a night off and simply enjoy the festivities, but it was nearly 8pm, there was still no word from Snow or anyone else at the hospital, Emma never even showed up for the award ceremony despite Regina's promise that she would also receive a commendation this evening, and Henry…he glanced up at the terrace for the hundredth time tonight. Henry was—

"James!" Abigail hissed, tugging at his arm and urging him to turn away from the balcony where Regina still stood with his grandson.

Reluctantly, James tore his gaze away from the witch and forced himself to face Abigail. "What?" he snarled a little nastier than he'd intended.

"You need to stop staring at them!" she scolded, plastering a smile across her face as she was the one now facing the terrace. "The more you keep watching them, the more Regina will suspect that we know too much."

"She has kept him glued to her side the entire night!" James growled, clenching his fists tightly inside his pockets, making no effort to match Abigail's futile attempts at maintaining their appearance as the happily married Nolans. "She wouldn't even let Archie speak to him!"

"And glaring up at them from the concourse is not going to change that," she hissed back, determined to keep him facing her rather than the enemy. "Look, I can't even imagine what you're going through tonight with Snow not back and Emma missing—"

"And Henry—"

"Yes, and Henry," she nodded impatiently. Honestly, the prince was practically unraveling before her eyes and it unnerved her. If she'd learned anything about James it was his ability to keep a cool head, even in the most dire of circumstances. But as the evening had progressed, and it seemed more and more likely that every member of his family was in some sort of danger, James had grown increasingly impatient, damn near insufferable, and it was all Abigail could do not to smack him unconscious with a frying pan just to calm him down. "Look, if there's one thing we know about Regina, it's that she will do anything to protect Henry. Regardless of what she may do to us, Henry is the only thing even remotely important to her – her reason for maintaining the curse—"

"How do we know that?" James countered, seizing her forearm and pulling her behind the cart of a rather provocatively dressed young woman, covered in grey leather and thick mascara, selling tinted glass butterflies and wooden wind chimes. "Can we really be sure of that anymore? We're talking about a woman who murdered her own father so she could get back at a girl who never truly slighted her to begin with! How do we know she wouldn't hurt Henry?"

"Because Henry fills the void left in her heart by her father," Abigail insisted, slapping her palms into his and clasping his hands together. "He's the one thing that keeps her from descending into total darkness."

"Keeps her from descending?!" James practically roared, though Abigail's warning glare at least prompted him to check his volume. "Gods, Abigail, she's already descended. She's way past descending. Think what happened to Thomas, to Adam. Jefferson even!"

Abigail closed her eyes and inhaled sharply through her nose. "I'm not defending any of that or denying the evil already poisoning her soul," she conceded, "but like it or not, Regina loves Henry. In her own way, she'll want to protect him just as fiercely as you do."

"Says the woman whose heart she ripped out of her chest," James muttered before he could catch himself. The hurt that filled Abigail's eyes was immediate and the prince instantly regretted the remark. Mortified, he reached out for her, hating himself for such horrendous behavior. "Oh hell, Abigail. I'm…I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that."

Abigail stared down at their hands, a clumsy joining of fingers and wrists that solidified just what an awkward pair they were. Just how clearly they didn't belong together. In many ways she envied James – he didn't have 28 years' worth of regrets for their ill-fated marriage. Of separation and near divorce. Of the pain in her gut she'd felt as Kathryn and the guilt that came with dutifully mourning her comatose husband while enduring the inexplicable relief at his absence.

"Please," James said softly, tipping her chin up, fearing the presence of tears rolling down her cheeks. But Abigail did not weep. And she was not angry. In her eyes were only sorrow and grief. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"I know you are," she said with a weak smile. "And you don't have to be. I know how scared you are for your grandson. But trust me, James. She won't hurt him."

James so dearly wanted to believe her, and with the wind having gone partially out of his sails of anger, he could see now how firmly she believed herself to be right. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, glancing back at Regina who, with Henry by her side, continued to scan the concourse with an eagle's eye. Luckily, he and Abigail were positioned behind the cart in such a way that she couldn't possibly see them staring now.

Abigail took a deep breath and laid her hand across her heart. "Because," she sighed. "You know when the queen took possession of my heart, she used it to control me. She made me insist on renewing our betrothal, forced me to reveal where you and Snow were hidden." James nodded; this part of course, he knew. "But in order to make me do all of those things, she had to…" she struggled with the phrasing, having never really had the occasion to fully explain it before or even put it into words.

"To what?" James asked, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze, a tacit reprise of his apology.

"To…make a sort of connection," she said, "like a link or a bond." James shook his head and her face screwed up in frustration. "In order to control my heart," she tried again, "she had to open up a little of hers. And I could feel it. I could sense how deeply troubled she was, how sad she was all the time. There's a hole in her heart, James. A…a void that cannot be filled." Abigail wasn't exactly sure where she'd heard or come up with that phrase, but she was sure it was accurate. "Henry is her way of trying to fill it. We have to be able to trust in that until we can get him away from her safely."

For several moments, James just stared at her, not at all sure of what to say. It occurred to him that he knew so little about Abigail, really. His first impressions of her were crudely warped by the queen's heinous deed, his faith in her character only recently renewed upon their visit to Archie's therapy couch. But even so, he knew she spoke the truth, saw it in her eyes swimming with the pain and regret of unwanted memories. "She really put you through hell, didn't she?" he said rather stupidly, for it was such an obvious assessment.

Abigail didn't seem to mind. "It's not important anymore," she waved him off, taking hold once again of his forearms and facing him away from the terrace. "What's important is that you keep that cool head of yours and we don't tip our hand tonight. Everyone we love is counting on it," she added, spotting Frederick lurking beneath the awning of a vacant shop. His back was pressed against the locked doorway while he watched them from afar, nursing a holiday ale as his eyes occasionally swept the concourse and landed back on his beloved. She flashed him a smile, trying to pack as much love and ardor into one quick gaze as she possibly could and then turned back to James. "Now come on," she looped her arm through his and led him away from the trashy looking street vendor. "Kathryn and David Nolan are known for mingling during this event, rubbing elbows with the Storybrooke elite," she winked. "We can't disappoint them now that we're 'back together'."

James groaned, having never enjoyed 'rubbing elbows' with any kind of 'elite' in either world. But he allowed her the satisfaction of thinking she'd put his mind at ease. Inevitably though, as the evening dragged on, he couldn't help his gaze from constantly drifting back to Henry – standing stiffly by the railing, making no effort to reach out or communicate with his 'Pops'. "Just hold on Henry," he muttered under his breath as Abigail embraced a smartly dressed woman near the fountain. "We're gonna get you out of there."

By 8:30, the party was in full swing, both inside and out. Kids were running around the tree sporting their brand new toy swords, foam hammers and plastic Captain America shields. A jazz quintet had set up in the gazebo and were jamming away, inventing new and clever variations on Christmas favorites with their reeds and valves. The catering companies had broken out a smorgasbord of custard pies, fruitcakes, covered strawberries, bread pudding and brandy cobblers that had lines of hungry carolers out the doors and looping around the emporium. But as 'David' and 'Kathryn' made their way through the crowd, fielding all sorts of questions from "how did you find the courage to venture out in those woods" to "do you think they'll auction off Teague's antique furniture?", the feeling of dread already sunken into the pit of the James's stomach intensified. He'd been checking his phone ever forty seconds and there was still no word from Snow or Emma. Surely she was through with her appointment by now. Surely if the pie hadn't worked, they would have aborted the mission and returned to the festival. And if it had worked, Snow's part should be over. What in the world was taking so long?

Lost so deeply in thought, James barely dodged a nearby couple dancing to a jazzy rendition of "Good King Wenceslaus" as he and Abigail strolled arm-in-arm near the tree.

"Oh, hey man. Sorry 'bout that!" said the tall, brown-haired stranger unfolding himself from the arms of a beautiful, buxom blonde. In the soft, dim glow of Christmas lights, it took James a few seconds to recognize him.

"Philip!" he spluttered reflexively and Abigail instantly spun to face the prince as well.

The man's brow furrowed, and he shook his head. "Uh, no sorry. You got the wrong guy, buddy."

"Right," James recovered quickly. "Right, sorry you just," he stammered, glancing down at Abigail and then back again, "you look like an old friend of ours." Philip shrugged him off with that characteristic ease of his and turned back to his date. James gaped at his long lost friend who clearly didn't recognize him as he resumed his enthusiastic boogying with the blonde who clearly wasn't Aurora.

"Jeez honey, you're right!" Abigail shouted above the music, causing Philip and his date to turn around again. "He does look exactly like Philip."

The man looked at them strangely as Abigail, completely ignoring his confusion, thrust out her hand. "Kathryn Nolan," she said with a hearty shake. "And this is my husband David."

Hearing the name, he perked up and turned to James, "Oh right. David Nolan," he said and then gestured up at the Emporium terrace. "Congratulations on the uh, the thing today. I heard you and Doc Hopper were getting' some sort of award."

"You didn't see it?" Abigail asked, squeezing her 'husband's' arm.

He opened his mouth to answer but the blonde tapping her foot behind him cut in. "Matt just got here," she explained, smoothing her hand over his sleeve. "He had a late shift at the fire house."

James flashed immediately back to his conversation with Emma and the pieces all fell into place. "Oh, so you're Matt Clancy?" he asked, reeling from the discovery. Philip was one of the paramedics who treated Thomas?

"Uh, yeah," said Matt, still looking at them both a little tentatively. "Do I…do I know you?"

"Not exactly," James chuckled. "Emma Swan mentioned you today. We were talking about Sean Herman." At the mention of Emma, Philip seemed to momentarily forget about his clingy date, and he turned more fully toward James, a rather stupid grin splitting across his face.

"Emma Swan," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "Yeah she was talkin' to me about that too. You know what, speaking of," he paused and strained his neck over the crowd, sweeping his gaze across the square. "Is she here tonight?"

"Who Emma?" asked Abigail.

"Yeah."

James's eyes narrowed to incredulous slits. He knew that look. He'd seen that look before. "No," he said tightly. "No I don't think so. In fact, I'm pretty sure she's working late."

"Ma-att," whined the blonde behind him, tugging on his arm. "Come on, I want to dance before I have to go on stage."

"On stage?" asked Abigail.

"Oh," said Matt, a little embarrassed now as he coaxed his reluctant date forward for a formal introduction. "Sorry, this is Donna Andersen. One of the Andersen Sisters."

To James, this name meant absolutely nothing, but Abigail actually grew giddy. "Oh of course!" she said finally recognizing the woman and shaking her hand. "Are you all performing again this year?"

Donna gave her a polite smile. "Not all of us," she replied coolly, a twinge of resentment in her voice. "In fact, it'll be mostly Marina soloing. Lottie and I are doing a few duets at the end."

"Well, you're all so talented," Abigail said with a wave. "We look forward to it every year, don't we sweetie?" She turned to James and for a moment was genuinely surprised to find him looking clueless. "Oh!" she gasped and then laughed. "I'm sorry, I'm sure you've heard of my husband, the amnesiac," she slugged him playfully on the shoulder. "Honey, the Andersen Sisters are a singing act. They perform at that nightclub down by the pier, remember? Ugly Duckling?"

James pulled a face so sour that Philip actually laughed. "Someone named a nightclub Ugly Duckling?"

"Yeah, I was skeptical at first too, man," said Matt, clapping a hand down on David's shoulder. "But don't let the name scare you off. Good food," he paused to run an appraising gaze over Donna, "great service."

"Uh huh," James nodded, glancing up from beneath his brow. So Philip had definitely reverted to form. Perfect.

"And fantastic entertainment," added Abigail with a flattering nod to Donna. "Truly, Jam—uh, David," she gulped. Thankfully, the other couple didn't notice. "They really are amazing."

"Well," James cleared his throat, stepping back from the couple. "I'm looking forward to it. You two enjoy the rest of the festival ok?"

"Will do," replied Matt, then leaning in a bit closer, "and if you do see Emma Swan around here, tell her I've got some information for her."

"Right," James said dryly as the two twirled away to a ramped up version of "Jingle Bell Rock." He watched them go, rolled his eyes and gave Abigail a gentle tug, continuing their stroll in the opposite direction.

"So," Abigail smirked, "that's Prince Philip huh?" James gave her a sideways glance, but she couldn't help laughing. "His reputation precedes him."

James sighed. "You know, he did change after he married Aurora. Obviously she's not part of his life here."

Abigail's smirk turned into a half-frown. "Not yet anyway." She looked around, half expecting Aurora herself to appear. She'd never actually met Philip before, but she knew Aurora when they were young. "Any idea where she might be?"

James shook his head, let out another frustrated huff and swiped a slightly sweaty palm through his hair. "No and I wouldn't even know where to start." He looked down at her. "I don't suppose you remember seeing her at—" he paused and made another face— "Ugly Duckling."

Abigail laughed and shook her head. "You know it's really not as bad as it sounds."

"Well that's good, because it sounds just likea tavern that Philip would have taken me to."

"It's not a tavern," she chided. "It's a lounge. A pretty ritzy one too actually. All the clubs and shops down by the pier are pretty high-end. And the Andersens really are a singing group. They're very good. In fact," she remembered, holding out her index finger up with a decided ah-ha flair, "you use to really enjoy them…you know, as David."

James gave her an obligatory nod, shrugged and resumed his scan of the crowd. Absent the distraction of Philip, his stomach was right back to churning as minutes continued to fly by without any word from his family. Truthfully, he could not care less about a group of lounge singers who—

"Ladies and gentlemen," a deep, husky voice sounded over the loud speakers, sending a rippling hush over the throngs of people gathered near the tree. James and Abigail turned toward the gazebo where a very large-breasted woman dressed in a shimmering satin evening gown (that was way too light to be wearing outdoors) had stepped in front of the quintet and seized a microphone. The musicians were busily changing sheet music while the husky woman cleared her throat. "Good evening and thank you for your continued patronage at the annual Storybrooke Tree Lighting ceremony."

Her salutations were met with warm applause and a few whoops and hollers from the more enthusiastic youths as a sense of anticipation settled over the crowd, but James couldn't help feeling a little wary of this silver-haired woman. There was something cold and steely in her gaze, almost synthetic.

"It is my great pleasure to introduce to you, back by…popular demand—" again more whooping and hollering, though to James she sounded almost bitter about it— "Ugly Duckling's favorite little star, Marina Andersen."

James glanced around as waves of people flooded the square, huddling together in one giant clump near the gazebo. Even people who had stayed inside the emporium almost the entire evening to keep warm came outside to hear this Marina woman sing. He looked down at Abigail who was clapping vigorously.

"I didn't want to say anything to Donna," she said, leaning over to mutter in his ear as the roar of the crowd increased. "But Marina really is the best singer."

James nodded and was about to suggest that maybe now was a good time to split up and search for allies when the silver-haired lady on stage stepped aside to reveal a lovely, demure young princess posed behind the microphone stand. Marina nodded to the larger woman who handed her back the mic. She slid it into the stand and the crowd heard the unforgiving scraping and popping of substandard sound equipment, but they didn't care. The quintet had just started the intro to "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas", clearly an audience favorite, and Marina stepped up to sing.

James was fairly certain of who it was already: heart-shaped face, sapphire eyes, rich auburn hair peeking out from underneath her white wool cap. Why even clad in an aquamarine parka, blue jeans, and suede boots, he recognized her stance – still slightly awkward on her legs, her feet turned inward, though her knees were no longer wobbly. Yes, he was almost positive, but any remaining sliver of doubt evaporated when she started to sing. Pure, crystal tones with a hint of soul – rich, mesmerizing octaves that could easily lure naval captains from their posts and make fishermen stray from their wives.

But hers was not the song of sirens. Sirens sang to entice and deceive and capture. Ariel? The "Little Mermaid"? She sang for the joy of it.

"Doesn't she have the most beautiful voice?" Abigail whispered, nudging him on the arm.

James nodded, picturing vividly that fateful afternoon when, as a youth, he'd wandered too far from the farm and came across Triton's daughter in the middle of what looked to be a heated discussion between herself, a guppy and a seagull. The seeds of an unlikely friendship were planted that day, long before he'd ever met Snow or King George for that matter. He had wondered since his awakening what had become of his aquatic friend since his awakening. It was a joy to see that she still had her voice.

"James?" Abigail nudged him, looking expectantly since he hadn't answered.

"Sorry, yes," he said. "Beautiful."

But Abigail could tell much more lurked behind his stare. "What is it?"

He looked down. "I take it you don't…recognize her?" She shook her head. "That's Ariel of Atlantica. Princess of Lochmere?"

Abigail gaped, juddering her gaze back and forth between him and Marina. "No!" she cried, but James was already nodding. "Ariel? Th-the 'Little Mermaid'?"

A smirk snuck across his face. "And she likes being called that about as much as Snow likes 'fairest'."

"You know her?"

"We met when we were young."

"How? When?!"

But James just sighed. "A long time ago." He surveyed the crowd, looking for a certain black-haired youth who he knew should be equally as thrilled to hear Ariel singing again. But Eric was nowhere in sight. He must be here somewhere though, the whole town had gathered for this little yuletide clambake and he wasn't about to squander an opportunity to bring them together if he could find—

Something else caught his eye: movement in the shadows beyond the gazebo, lit by the soft glow of Christmas lights and the candles of carolers. A woman observed the scene from afar, partially hidden beneath the overhang of the flower shop that completed the square opposite the Emporium. She was listening to Ariel's angelic voice, lightly swaying to its soft and somber melody…and resting her chin on her gloved hands folded atop her padded crutches. "Snow," he said in a heated whisper.

Abigail followed his gaze across the square and then glanced behind her. They were almost 100 feet away from the Emporium doors, but could still see the faint silhouette of Regina looking imperially over the concourse below. There would be no way for her to see the flower shop from here. "Go," she said, giving him a friendly poke. James immediately obeyed.

Snow spotted him too, and as he approached, she slunk around the side of the flower shop, completely out of view of the square. In seconds James rounded the corner and scooped her up into a fierce hug. Overwhelmed with relief, James clung to her so tightly her feet barely touched the ground.

"I take it you missed me?" she teased him.

But as James pulled back, he couldn't quite conceal the magnitude of his fears nor the awful frustration from having to sit on the sidelines while everyone else seemed to be in danger. "What happened? Is everyone ok?"

Snow laid a hand aside his face and smiled. "Everyone's fine. Belle is awake, Adam is free, Grumpy and Sleepy have joined the fight and all four of them are headed for the cottage."

James let out a breath he felt he'd been holding for hours. He reached up and clasped her gloved hand in his own. "And…Thomas?"

Snow beamed, having saved the best news for last. "Conscious. And completely relieved to find his whole family awake."

James couldn't contain himself any longer, not with so much good news in one sitting. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her up to him, fastening his lips over hers in a kiss that was both raw in need and at the same time heavenly. Snow moaned against him, matching his enthusiasm as she slid her tongue along the soft contours of his mouth. Deepening the kiss, she skimmed her hands inside the wool lapels of his coat and around his chest, loving the way her embrace eased the tension in his back and shoulders as she smoothed her palms up his back.

Having her here again, safe and sound, was a balm of such intensity it nearly drove away every other concern he'd had this evening. But gradually, reality intruded and he loosened his grip, pulling back and, framing her face in his hands, pressed his forehead to hers. "I'm glad you're safe," he murmured as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

Snow gave him an extra squeeze for good measure, locked her arms around his middle, and lifted her gaze to meet his. "Likewise. How is everything here?"

James threw a sideways glance around the corner and sighed. "Well? Regina has kept Henry glued to her side all night, there's no sign of Emma…or Graham for that matter, Ariel apparently sings at a place actually called 'Ugly Duckling', and Philip is dating one of her sisters." James felt Snow's grip slacken as her mouth fell open in shock. "So…yeah," he said with a light chuckle as he tucked a loose strand of her hair back under her cap. "I've missed you."

…

Hot nervous prickles of anxiety tingled beneath Emma's skin as she listened to Graham's hazy account of his faked trip to Boston. She knew, of course, that Thomas, Christopher, Ella – and now hopefully Belle – had all awoken, but Graham was the first one she'd ever actually witnessed coming out of the curse. He was disoriented at first, though kept himself much more steadied and…well…sane than the last time. In the past hour, he'd unloaded more of his story than she could ever have read in the book, but the fragments of information he had on the Zimmer children, at least from Emma's perspective, were in some ways more frustrating than the total lack of info she'd had before.

"So you know you didn't actually make it to Boston, but—" she paused, her hands shaking a bit before she continued – "you have no idea where this other boys' home is?"

Graham shook his head. "I was ledthere by a man who claimed to be working for the state. We followed the bloke through the forest, and by the time we arrived, we'd taken so many turns, I couldn't even tell which way was north, much less where we were in relation to the town."

Emma brought her hands to her hips, air puffing out from her mouth in cloudy vapors as she paced the same two blocks of sidewalk beneath a lone street lamp not far from the emporium. "And what about Shane Pilfer? Do you know who he is now? Or…was?"

Again, Graham shook his head, his face flushed with embarrassment for having to give such disappointing answers. "No," he said quietly. "No, I only know him from here. From Storybrooke."

Emma inhaled slowly, trying to sort through her very cluttered mind. There was simply too much to keep track of. Graham was awake – the huntsman – the man without whom Emma surely wouldn't even exist had he not spared her mother. The Zimmer kids were indeed somewhere still in Storybrooke, hidden quite well no doubt within that godforsaken forest. But even having released Graham from the curse, Emma still had no leads on Michael Tillman or Shane Pilfer – two cases that, despite tonight's extraordinary developments, were no closer to being solved.

"I'm sorry Emma," said Graham.

Emma's head snapped up. "Why?" she asked in surprise and only then realized how frustrated she must look.

"Because I know what losing those kids did to you," he said evenly. Emma's breath hitched in her throat as he stepped closer to her. "And I know what finding them would mean to you now."

Pulse racing, Emma decided to ignore the fierce gaze in his eyes as she turned from him, shivering in the cold that bit so harshly at her face her nose and ears had gone numb. They probably should have headed inside by now, but both seemed to be intuitively distrustful of the eyes and ears of Regina sure to be lurking about the festival tonight. "It's not your fault, Graham." She paused and turned back, suddenly pensive. "Graham…is that…well, I mean the book just calls you 'the huntsman'. Was your name Graham back there too?"

A small smile broke his solemn gaze and he drew back. "Huntsman was my name. It's the only thing most humans in that world ever…understood about me."

Emma gulped as she processed this reply. "You were raised by wolves though, right?" she asked, cupping her fists to her mouth and blowing hot air into her palms. "Did they give you a name?"

His smile widened, quite warmed by Emma's interest in his past. "Not…in the way that you understand names."

Emma furrowed her brow and crossed her arms. "Huh?"

He laughed. "Wolves are not identified by names or physical traits. They're defined by their position in the pack. What you were called depended upon your role within the hierarchy."

She stared at him, blinking in amazement. "So…what were you called?"

The sheriff let out a tired sigh as he lifted his eyes to the tops of frosted evergreens at the forest's edge. Emma followed his gaze, only just realizing how much of the town was bordered by woods. She looked back at Graham whose face had tightened with grief as he answered "The closest translation would be…Lone Survivor."

Emma caught her breath again and she bowed her head. What had happened to Graham's pack if he was the lone survivor? "I…I see," she mumbled, struggling to look up again. When she finally did, Graham was now glaring at the wood, his expression no longer sad.

"That's it," he whispered.

"What?"

"That's it!" he cried again, and without further explanation he tore off for the forest.

Emma had a hell of a time keeping up with him as they raced through the maze of trees and fallen trunks. Was this Graham…faster somehow? She tried a few times calling after him, begging him to stop or at least slow down, but whatever the huntsman's target, he was not to be deterred, derailed or distracted. Panting and clutching her stomach as it cramped from exhaustion, Emma forced her legs to keep moving as her boots fell heavily along the frozen trail. And when at last she felt she could go no further, the sheriff finally…blessedly stopped.

"What," – gasp – "are you," – cough, cough – "looking for?" she wheezed.

"A friend," Graham replied as he scanned the area.

Emma meanwhile bent over and braced her hands over her knees, gasping for air and fisting the sweated up material of her shirt to her chest. At least she wasn't cold anymore. "What…what friend?" she panted, glancing at the fallen trees beside her. "Better not be another damn horse," she muttered. But when she looked up, the answer was clear.

Perched atop a flat rock jutting out over a frozen pond was a wolf: A massive, grey and white beast with a slightly worn pelt and one red eye peering down at them from his throne. His fury chest heaved in and out in slow, patient breaths. Graham he seemed to know, but of Emma he was wary. She gulped, unable to breathe though it had nothing to do with their hurried race through the woods. He was studying her, cocking his head from one side to the other, every now and then looking over to Graham and then back again. At last, she seemed to have his approval, for he leapt from his perch, the pads of his feet landing softly on the forest floor, and came to rest before Graham.

The huntsman crouched down, leveling his gaze with his canine friend. Emma watched in awe as the two eyed each other carefully, the wolf extending one paw and placing it in Graham's palm. The wolf blinked, his eye lids opening and closing heavily over his scarlet iris as Graham softly stroked the mottled fur over his paw. Emma's own eyes prickled hotly as she watched them, humbled…and honored to be witnessing this elegant form of communication.

After a while, Graham touched his forehead to the wolf's and then rose from the ground. The regal animal bowed his head, turned it once more to glance at Emma, and then scampered away. Graham watched it until it disappeared over a hill and faded into darkness. Only then did Emma dare to approach.

"Graham?" she said softly, reaching out to touch his elbow.

Graham maintained his gaze over the twilit glade. "He'll find them," he said.

"Them?" she stuttered, looked out over the open forest, and then gasped. "Them the kids?" she cried, figuring it out. "The Zimmers them?"

"And much faster than I could," he nodded, and then finally turned to her. "When he's ready, he will find you. He knows to trust you now, as he trusted your mother a few nights ago."

Emma shook her head, her brain spluttering from overstimulation. "My mother? Wh— he'll find—what?!"

"I need to get back," he said solemnly and turned toward town.

"Hey!" she called after him, bringing him to a halt. He stopped, his shoulders sagging a bit as she stomped over and demanded his attention. "What the hell is going on? What do you mean he'll find me. He'll trust me. Where the hell are you gonna be?"

"Emma," Graham began.

But Emma sucked in a breath. She was starting to really hate the way everyone lately started every sentence with Emma… "Why can't we just follow him now?" she asked. "If he can track them, we could bring them back tonight, and then get back to town and deal with Shane and Jack and—"

"You don't know the forest like I do, Emma," Graham held his palms up in supplication. "There are literally hundreds of acres of woods here, hundreds of paths and streams and tributaries that few in Storybrooke have even attempted to explore. And those who have paid dearly for it."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed and gestured toward the town, beckoning her to follow him back. "This isn't the first time I've been awake, Emma," he said as they started walking.

Emma shot him a glance as she shoved her hands in her pockets. "What?!"

"I've awoken once before. In fact, I think it's happened a few times, but never as fully as a few years ago."

"Whadyou mean?"

Graham sighed. "You were right to ask about Shane Pilfer. I wish I did know more about his life in the old world. It would certainly explain why I always felt compelled to help him." He glanced down and started kicking a stray stone along the path. Emma spotted it and started kicking it too. "A few years ago, I picked up Shane for petty theft. He'd been shoplifting from the drug store, and Regina wanted me to book him as a repeat offender and bring him up on the harshest charges." Emma clenched her fists tight inside her pockets as she listened. "I fought her on it. Insisted that all Shane needed was a stern talking-to and for someone to give him a second chance."

"Bet she was thrilled to hear that," Emma mumbled. "What'd she say?"

"There was nothing she could say. I was right. Sat down with Shane, had a heart to heart, and then I brought in his wife."

"Jade?"

"Yes. She had filed for divorce but it wasn't final yet. Things used to happen very…slowly in Storybrooke. Before you came," he glanced sideways at her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the rock they were now competing to keep on the path. "Jade and Shane came this close to a reconciliation that day," he went on, staring off into the memories. "I unlocked his cuffs, she took him by the hand and the last thing I remember is the two of them headed for home to give it one more try."

"The last thing you…remember?" Emma gulped.

"Well, the last thing 'Graham' was allowed to remember anyway."

Emma shuddered. Hearing Graham refer to himself in the third person made this all suddenly seem even more real.

"Seeing the two of them happy, willing to trust each other again," he explained, "seeing Jade refuse to give up on him even when she'd already suffered so much heartache…it – it did something to me, Emma. It renewed my own faith. Faith in other people…something with which I constantly struggled in my own life."

Emma nodded, remembering the story. She wouldn't soon forget the tale of the huntsman who had been sent to rip out her mother's heart and well would have had she not restored his faith in humanity.

"Seeing that changed me. I started having flashes of people in town. People I knew but…in a different way. Regina, Mary Margaret, Marco…I knew something was…wrong. I could tell that I was in a different land with strange people, but—" abruptly he came to a halt and Emma, so engrossed in the story, almost continued walking before she realized he had stopped.

"But what?"

Graham stared at her with sad but grateful eyes. "But I never before had someone to ground me in this reality as I struggled to remember the old one. The flashes were erratic, incomplete. Just as they were a week ago when I could see visions of me with Snow, but couldn't make sense of them. It wasn't truly a…a happy ending," he said, seeming to struggle with the very word 'happy', "until you came along."

Emma forced herself to meet his gaze, his words bringing back that dull ache in her heart. "Graham, I—"

"Don't you see, Emma?" he grasped her shoulders, giving her a light squeeze. "You were what it was always about." He released her then and stood back, extending his arms before her. "The daughter of Snow White. I could never be truly…happy until I knew the queen's plan had failed. Until I knew that my sparing Snow's heart was not in vain. That she had defeated the queen."

"But she didn't!" Emma argued, finding her voice. "Look around you Graham," she gestured back toward the town. "She enacted the curse. My parents forgot they even knew each other, let alone were married. She adopted my son!"

"She didn't win, Emma," Graham said calmly which only annoyed her more. But she was far too curious to interrupt him again. "You are proof of that. You escaping the curse, being here…Snow's daughter…that's my happy ending."

Emma's mouth hung open slightly as she struggled in vain to puncture his logic. People really needed to stop having these earth-shattering-Emma-centric revelations around her. It was turning her brain to mush.

"And that's why we can't follow the wolf tonight," he continued, falling back into step along the path, drawing closer to the town. "That's why I have to go back…to her."

Emma's heart nearly stopped. "Her. Her?" She ran to catch up to him. "Her as in the queen?"

"Yes."

"Graham you can't!"

"I must."

"What the hell for?"

He stopped and turned to her again. "The queen has my heart, your Highness. If I don't return to her willingly, she will use it and draw me to her by force. She has done so before."

Caught off guard at having been called 'your highness' by her boss, Emma couldn't think of a thing to say.

"I cannot allow her to do that."

"S-so we find her crypt," she spluttered. "We'll find your heart—"

"And I have every intention of doing so, but until then, I cannot give her any reason to suspect my awakening."

"Why? What will she—"

"She has to look into my heart to use it, Emma. And if she looks into my heart…she'll find you there."

Again the breath nearly went out of her and the ache coiled even tighter in her stomach. "M-me?"

Graham seemed to sense her discomfort for he merely smiled and gave her arms a light squeeze. "The source of my awakening. My faith renewed in humanity, remember?"

"R-right," she said, thankful for the reprieve, for she wasn't stupid. She knew that wasn't all he meant. Neither of them had said a word about that incredibly…heated …kiss. And she was grateful for that too. For the passions that drove it were not fueled by love – at least, not the kind of love she assumed must drive 'true love's kiss'. No, Graham was awoken by power. A primal, visceral power inside of her she hadn't a prayer of understanding. Not now…not with him standing here.

Still, her own confusion over what exactly she felt for him did nothing to lessen the sting upon hearing that he would return willingly to the queen's side.

"It's the only way to ensure she doesn't find out and have me reset again."

"Reset?"

"Put back under the curse."

"She can do that?!" she cried.

He sighed. "With me, she can. She has my heart. I don't know about anyone else."

Emma stared down at the path, digging the toe of her muddied boot into the ground and kicking up the earth in frustration.

"Hey," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. She looked up. "We'll figure this out. In the meantime, we need to get back. Make an appearance at the festival, check in with your boy."

Emma studied him for a long while, but at last relented. There were so many more questions to ask, so many things she wanted to know: how would the wolf come find her to lead her back to the Zimmers? How could they locate the queen's crypt, and even if they did, how might they restore all the hearts she took? Why did Shane Pilfer strike such a chord with the sheriff if he hadn't known him as the huntsman? And most importantly…why was it that people waking up in Storybrooke didn't necessarily make anything better…just more freaking complicated?

…

Philip, the heir of Braemar, and his cousin Lucas, Duke of Glowerhaven, were in no great hurry to reach Agrabah as they dutifully trotted their horses along the ancient paths that led from the outskirts of Braemar to Rushdi's infamous desert. And it wasn't as if they disliked the old Sultan or his daughter, but they were well aware of the true reason they had been invited to this summit and sent in King Hubert's place to end negotiations with the eastern kingdom…and the reason had very little to do with trade agreements or land holdings.

Toward the end of the Goblin Wars, the combined forces of Sultan Rushdi's army of mercenaries and King Hubert's legion of knights finally defeated the Snow Queen, freeing the people of Lochmere once and for all from her frigid rule. Already, the seaside kingdom had begun to heal, with lush vegetation flourishing on its shores, and glaciers breaking up and melting back into ocean. The land's resources and trade industries were to be shared evenly between the two conquering kingdoms and, during the course of the final summit, a royal was to be named as interim ruler of Lochmere whose job it would be to maintain peace and act in the best interests of both beneficiaries while its people began to rebuild.

The summit, however, was just a formality. Sultan Rushdi historically maintained very good relationships with his fellow Kings and Queens in the west, none more so than with King Hubert and Queen Magdalena of Braemar. The terms of their joint stewardship over Lochmere were all but signed and scripted for posterity at this point. Rushdi's real aim in inviting Philip and Lucas to complete the final terms of the negotiation was to present Lucas as a last ditch effort suitor for Princess Jasmine.

Jasmine was gaining a horrid reputation as the princess with the 'heart of ice', and given the villain he'd just conspired with Hubert to dethrone, Rushdi wanted to divest Jasmine of this epithet as soon as possible. The smoky-eyed Arabian princess had rejected dozens of suitors so far for a myriad of reasons including height, weight, body odor, fashion sense, and an inability to pass the 'Rajah test': approval from her pet tiger. Tiger. Why in the world had Rushdi agreed to let Jasmine keep a pet tiger?!

Both Philip and Lucas had actually passed the 'Rajah test' once before, but they'd had the distinct advantage of being children then, and Rajah was just a cub. Companions since birth, Philip and Lucas were Braemar's most infamous bachelors, gallivanting throughout the realms, winning tournaments, crashing parties, disguising themselves as mere villagers and challenging unknowing knights to pointless duels. In this respect, they were not all that dissimilar from Jasmine who had on more than one occasion snuck outside the palace walls, disguised herself as a commoner and took to haggling with marketplace vendors until they betrayed their own duplicity, at which point she would reveal her true identity and have them answer for cheating their customers. As contemporaries and friends, the three of them got on very well, but the sultan refused to see that this was as far as their relationship was ever going to go.

Philip would have been Rushdi's first choice, as he was an actual prince set to inherit a powerful kingdom, but he had been betrothed to Princess Aurora of Rosebriar since the eve of her birth. In fact, it was rumored that both Hubert and King Stefan of Rosebriar had been urging the young prince to formally announce the engagement soon, to start thinking seriously about the future, and to settle down so that he might finally learn the role of monarch. (Philip – being Philip – had responded to his father's pleas by dragging his cousin on a three-month excursion through the Badlands, sampling some of the country's most exotic wines and…pleasurable company. But that was an outing of which Rushdi was unaware). The Sultan just wanted someone of noble blood who would marry his daughter before her 18th birthday. It was an archaic law, granted, but it also ensured the princess a safe and secure future as he had no male heirs. Jasmine could not ascend the throne without at least a prince consort by her side. The people of Agrabah simply would not accept an unmarried woman as their ruler, and she would be in very grave danger amidst the noblemen of her own court. And so, having exhausted every eligible nobleman in his inner circle, Rushdi had begged Hubert to send Philip and Lucas to Agrabah in the hopes that the duke, the queen's nephew and Philip's unfailing right hand man, might be accepted by the princess.

"You know, it's been several years since we've seen Jasmine," Philip was saying as he trotted Samson along the path, in no hurry to reach Agrabah. "Perhaps your opinion of her will improve, Cousin."

Lucas smiled but rolled his eyes. "My opinion of her has always been favorable. But I know I do not love her, Your Highness. And I know I will not love her. We've been sent on a fool's errand."

Philip glanced back. "How many times must I tell you to call me Philip when we are travelling, Lucas? There are no dames around to accuse you of impropriety."

"And no kings around to judge you ill-fitted for the throne, that is true," jested the duke as he snapped Wellington's reigns and caught up to his cousin. "Nevertheless, as we are approaching the land where they cut off your ear if they don't like your face, I prefer to observe the strictest code of formality."

Philip shook his head. "Have you learned nothing from our adventures, Cousin?" he tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"On the contrary, I have learned a great deal! How else would I know to keep an extra flask of rum in my tunic so that I might have something left to trade when the Badland gypsies steal our horses?"

"A valuable lesson that belongs in every Braemarian schoolhouse, to be sure," Philip replied with a satisfied nod. "But I was referring to our one and only rule."

"Which is?" Lucas prompted him, though he mouthed the answer along with the prince.

"Never follow the rules." Philip tugged on Samson's reigns and slowed to a trot. They'd reached the point where the paths veered off in two directions. Between here and Agrabah, there were only a handful of oases with drinkable water, and it was widely known that these spots were teaming with thieves and gypsies, just waiting for naïve travelers to stop and rest. So Philip and Lucas decided to water their already sweltering horses here, before entering the desert, and trotted down to a small brook about a quarter-mile from the path.

"Besides," continued the prince with a graceful dismount, "how do you know you won't fall in love with her? By all accounts she's grown into one of the most exciting, voluptuous creatures in the history of our entire realm."

Lucas threw his head back and laughed as he wrapped Wellington's reigns around a drooping branch. "Tell me, are women flattered when you refer to them as creatures?"

Philip flashed him another smug grin. "Only the ones who are breathing."

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Lucas removed his boots and plunged his bare, sticky feet into the cool, fresh water. Gods, even the lands surrounding Agrabah were stifling hot. He was not at all looking forward to spending two weeks at the Sultan's desert kingdom, being paraded around as another in a long line of husband-hopefuls for a princess clearly not interested in marriage. But to refuse Sultan Rushdi's invitation would have offended his uncle's honor…and since Philip couldn't be counted on to care for such things, the responsibility fell, as always, to Lucas.

"It's all in the delivery, Luke," Philip joshed, retrieving a leather canteen from his saddle bag and filling it with water from the brook. After taking a generous swig, he handed it to his cousin and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I guarantee – if you walk up to Jasmine and tell her she's the most beautiful creature you've ever laid eyes on—"

"She'll feed me to Rajah," said the duke who took his own swig, capped off the canteen and handed it back to Philip. "But I will bear it in mind, Cousin. Thank you."

Philip sighed and took a few steps back, shaking his head with a disapproving smirk. "You're heading into this all wrong: A chance to be prince consort in one of the realms' most powerful kingdoms, a stake in Lochmere, and an exotic bride to top it off? Not a bad arrangement for a duke."

"Not unlike your betrothal to the princess of Rosebriar, Your Highness?" replied Lucas without thinking. He hadn't intended to bring her up. In fact, Philip's inevitable engagement to Princess Aurora was the last thing he wanted on his mind. But he also could not stomach his cousin's hypocrisy: to claim that Rushdi's offer of Jasmine's hand was an arrangement too enticing to refuse while he continued to scoff in the face of his own providence? To be promised to Aurora and yet continue to prance around the country playing the scoundrel? If he only knew the treasure he had right in front of him.

"Again with the betrothal, Lucas?" Philip asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Why did his cousin insist on bringing up his impending banishment into matrimony at every opportunity? Didn't he realize how lucky he was not to have had his bride chosen for him at the age of seven? "A flawed argument at best. That is an entirely different affair and you know it."

"Quite right, Cousin," Lucas replied quickly, desiring to end the conversation before it even began. "My apologies." An awkward silence settled between them as their horses grazed the last bit of grass they would see until they reached Agrabah. It was a good thing Philip remembered to stock up on extra carrots for the journey. Otherwise, Samson and Wellington would end up in very poor shape indeed.

"Well?" Lucas turned to the prince after he felt sufficiently cooled. "Shall we?" Philip nodded and turned to mount his horse when an arrow zoomed past his ear and struck the trunk of a nearby tree. "Your Highness!" shouted the duke, throwing himself over the prince and knocking him to the ground just as another arrow flew toward his head.

"Gypsies?" Lucas asked, inspecting the surrounding woods that had considerably thinned at the forest's edge and yet still managed to conceal their aggressors.

"Highwaymen," said Philip, who had drawn his sword and was crawling further up the bank. He cursed under his breath, trying to see where the arrows were coming from while the horses launched into a panicked fit, kicking out their hind legs thunderously close to Lucas's head. "Look out!" he said, grabbing Lucas by the collar and dragging him out of the way of Wellington's massive hooves.

Lucas spun into a kneeling position, his own sword at the ready, but both their bows and quivers were strapped to their saddles, and swords were of little use in this kind of ambush. Finding cover behind a few giant redwoods, the men peered frantically over every clearing, through every cluster of branches and behind every rock, but there was still no thief in sight. "Show yourselves!" shouted Philip, raising his sword about his head. An arrow just narrowly missed his outstretched arm in reply.

"Do try not to antagonize them, Your Highness," Lucas muttered, his eyes still darting around the forest. It was highly irregular to encounter so well-orchestrated an assault before having even reached the deserts of Agrabah. He was about to suggest that he would run to the next clearing and get to some higher ground when they heard an abrupt scream followed by soft thud. A few seconds later – another scream and then two thuds. On the third scream, Philip finally spotted a dark figure tumbling out of a tree with an arrow plunged into his chest. Two more men fell similarly through a small clearing in front of them, and the last one landed right at Lucas's feet.

"Gods and demons," spat Lucas, jumping back from the man groaning beneath him. The brute was wearing a dark green tunic, brown breeches and faded sash wrapped around his waist. His head was practically covered in hair, a red bushy beard growing over his entire mouth and thickset eyebrows covering his drooping eyes. "Robin's men?" Lucas asked.

Philip used his boot to flip the man fully on his back. "Maybe," he said, glancing down at the small fox crudely embroidered in the sash. "Certainly the right insignia."

"Imposters," came a voice behind them, and the two men whirled around, swords raised in expectation. "Robin's men only attack land jobbers and tax collectors," said the stranger who wasn't at all alarmed by the outstretched swords. "These men are just common thieves looking to trade on Robin's name."

Confident this man was not an immediate threat, Lucas sheathed his sword and stepped forward. The man was fairly dark-skinned, his sharp nose and angular jaw distinctly Arabian, though his dress reflected their own local apparel. He held a long, slender bow in his left hand strung with silver horsehair. "And you are?" Lucas asked.

"Passing through," said the stranger, reaching out to shake Lucas's hand and then Philip's before turning to leave.

The prince, taking note of what had to be at least eight thugs the young man had single-handedly dropped, jogged over to him. "You put on a display like that, save our lives, and you're just going to leave?"

The man gave Philip a crooked smile, clapped his hand over the prince's shoulder (with entirely too much familiarity for Lucas's liking) and shouldered his bow. "A man in my position can't afford to stay in one place, Your Grace," he said, giving Philip's back an extra pat before withdrawing and starting down the path again.

Philip chuckled and shook his head, turning back to their horses, but Lucas's eyes narrowed as he watched the man retreat. Something wasn't right. "It's not every day you catch an Agrabah thief right in the act, is it Your Highness?" he shouted, glaring down the lane at their supposed hero.

Wisely, the man stopped and turned. "Pardon?"

"Give it back," charged Lucas, clasping the hilt of his sword and withdrawing a hair's width from its sheath.

"Give what back?"

"Lucas," hissed Philip, "what are you—"

"Whatever you've stolen from my cousin, boy. Give it back."

Amused, though also looking a bit sheepish, the man reached into his deceptively large pockets and, sure enough, withdrew Philip's silver-plaited flask with the Braemar lion crest etched on the front – a gift from King Hubert on the prince's 16th birthday.

"What—" Philip stuttered, pointing dimly at the flask, checking his own tunic, and looking back again. He dropped his hands to his hips, shook his head, and grinned. "Well, I'll be dammed," he laughed. "That was quite a lift, my friend."

"Your Highness—" Lucas chided him, but Philip was far too amused.

"Oh come on, Lucas. We've been taken by some of the best swindlers in the Badlands, but that was the best pickpocketing I've ever seen."

The pickpocket in question stood rather stunned, watching this very uncharacteristic response to his pilfering unfold. Lucas, meanwhile, wiped his palms down his face and groaned as he headed over to where Wellington was still kicking up a fit. Leave it to Philip to make friends with a thief.

"What's your name, son?" asked the Prince, holding his hand out for the flask.

The thief hesitated, glancing between the prince and his companion before he sighed and handed it over. "Aladdin," he said at last.

"Never seen a man from Agrabah handle a bow like that, Aladdin," he nodded at the quiver strung to his back.

Aladdin shrugged, tugging on the strap. "When you're on the run, you have to adapt, your Highness."

"On the run?" Lucas joined in reluctantly, having calmed down his charger and returned to the clearing. "From whom?"

"From the sultan."

"The sultan!?" both men cried together.

"Well," amended Aladdin with a grin, "from Razoul, his chief guard."

"Oh," said Philip, slightly less impressed.

"There's a price on my head," he went on to explain. "And he's got the entire Imperial guard on the lookout."

"What did you do?" asked Lucas, stroking the pelt between Wellington's eyes as he fed the beast a carrot.

Aladdin grew quiet, folded his arms over his chest and looked away. "Nothing new," he said softly. "Just…got caught."

Philip studied him carefully, noticing the abrupt shift in tone and posture. There was so much more to that story than Aladdin was letting on. He glanced at Lucas, then at Samson, then Wellington, and back to Lucas.

Lucas followed his gaze and when it landed back on himself, he immediately shook his head, mouthing the word 'no' and stamping his foot impatiently on the ground.

Philip characteristically ignored him. "You know, we're headed to Agrabah on business, Al," he said, throwing an arm around the thief and leading him over to his horse. "And in case you hadn't already figured it out, you just saved the heir of Braemar and his cousin, the duke of Glowerhaven."

Lucas scoffed. "Yes. Right before you stole from—"

"Come with us," Philip went on, "and I'll get you a full pardon."

"No thanks," Aladdin shrugged away and shook his head. "I'm fine out here on my own."

"Says the man who lifted a flask instead of the hundred gold pieces I have roped to my belt," Philip replied, taking the pouch that indeed hung from his waist cord and palming the weight.

Lucas gasped, half mortified that the prince would reveal that to a proven thief, half impressed he'd noticed something so subtle.

"You don't enjoy making a living like this Al," Philip continued, "You help those in trouble and you take only what you need. Please," he extended his hand again, all joshing and cleverness aside. "You saved our lives. Let me help clear your name."

Lucas rolled his eyes. Making promises he couldn't necessarily keep: more classic Philip. Though to be fair, Lucas had a feeling the prince could charm even Razoul.

Aladdin stared at Philip's outstretched arm for a long while, considering his options. He'd certainly mistaken Philip of Braemar for another snooty, pretentious royal. The prince was far more insightful than the arrogant bantering he'd overheard had led him to believe. Could Philip truly deliver what he was offering? And for that matter, was there any point in going back? Was there anything left for him in Agrabah now after what he'd done to Cassim?

Aladdin's eyes slammed shut, shaking his head as if he could deny the truth. Of course there was a life for him in Agrabah. He missed his home, he missed Abu…he missed his mother. And he couldn't run forever. If Prince Philip could get the sultan to grant him a pardon, then maybe…just maybe…

At long last, the thief looked up, grasped Philip's hand and gave it a firm shake. "All right," he said quietly. "Take me home…"

When Shane woke up, stretched out on the cold slab of metal that passed for a bed in his cell, his arm was fully extended in the air, and he could almost feel the hand of the man shaking it as he emerged from his sleep. "Take me home," he mumbled in the moments between sleep and awake. "Take m-me…" But as the dream drifted away, so did the memory of it, and faces he tried so hard to remember soon faded from his mind.

"Take you where, Mr. Pilfer?" came a calm, cool voice in the shadows.

Shane bolted upright, clenching the edge of the metal cot and peering into blackness. "Who's there?" he growled. "Who are you?" Though the clock on the wall read only 9:17, Shane felt like it was almost midnight given how dark it was in the station.

"A friend."

"I don't have any friends."

"A comrade then," came the voice.

"I'm not at war," spat the thief.

"Oh, but you are," he leaned forward then, resting his slim hand over the tip of his cane. "We all are."

Only once he'd leaned fully into the tiny bit of moonlight spilling through the window did Shane recognize his visitor. "Whadyou want, old man?" he asked, crossing his arms and leaning up against the concrete wall beside his cot.

"Same thing your little sheriff friend wants, I suppose," the man replied, removing what looked to be a faded brown ushanka from his head. "To help you."

"Yeah well forget it," said Shane, pushing himself off the metal slab and starting to pace the cell. "New deputy already tried that. I beat up that kid, plain and simple. Got drunk. Got stupid. End of story. I—"

"Please," scoffed his visitor with an uncaring wave. "You and I both know you're in here taking the fall for someone else. And you're only doing that so Dr. Fisk won't pull the plug on your father-in-law," he slinked across the floor, placing his cane carefully along the tile with rhythmic consistency as he approached the bars. "Poor Jade would just be devastated if she lost her papa."

Shane flung himself across his cell and gripped the bars. "Who told you that? How do you know that?" he yelled. "I swear to God, you leave her out of this, Gold, or I'll—"

"Temper, temper boy," crooned the pawn broker, having not budged an inch from his leaned stance despite how close he was to the bars. "According to my sources, the little deal you struck with the good doctor will soon be irrelevant, and you will most likely be set free at no risk to your ex-wife or her crazy pop."

"What are you talking about?" Shane tightened his grip, but couldn't mask his open curiosity.

Gold chuckled as he lifted his cane once more, dug it more firmly into a groove on the floor and grinned. "You really should leave deal making to the professionals, my boy. I have it on good authority that Dr. Fisk is, at this moment, a patient in his own hospital. He was attacked by an escaped mental patient just seconds after Sean Herman awoke from his coma."

Shane loosened his grip, slid his hands down the bars and thunked his forehead between them with a gasp. "What?"

"I think it's safe to say that the now conscious Mr. Herman isn't about to wrongfully accuse a man who most likely saved his life. And with Fisk suffering at least two broken ribs and a cracked collarbone, I doubt he'll be able to direct much patient care…nor will be able to carry on with your ex-wife very effectively now that I think about it," he added with a wink.

His cheekiness was not appreciated, and Shane's blood started boiling again at the mere hinting of Jade's affair with Fisk. "Out with it Gold," he narrowed his gaze. "Whadyou want?"

"Want?" Gold pressed more firmly on his cane.

"You didn't have to come here to tell me any of that. I would've found out as soon as Graham got back. Whadyou want?"

"Once a thief, always a thief?" Gold baited him. "Always believing someone's out to take something from you?"

"Am I wrong?" Shane countered.

Gold stared at him through the steel bars, remembering the very first time he'd encountered this quick-witted lad. An Arabian on the run, he remembered. He'd thought briefly of striking a deal with him after observing him take on a band of highwaymen. But he had other clients to see and business to attend, and the boy seemed well on the way to sealing his fate on his own, so Gold left it alone. Only after discovering that he'd become Princess Jasmine's new consort did Gold regret not having taken advantage of the Aladdin's exile.

Shane watched as the pawn broker raked his gaze over the station, glanced back at the doors and then reached inside his coat. Shane sucked in a breath, having had way too many close calls in West End that started with a guy reaching inside his bulging coat pocket. But what the old man withdrew wasn't a gun. Not even close. Wary and incredulous, Shane stared as Gold brought out an old, dusty, oriental-looking lamp. "What the hell is that?" he said.

"A souvenir," he replied, grinning as he passed the lamp through the bars, forcing it into the street rat's hands. Aladdin peeked inside its tiny lid and then turned it over in his palms. Gold held his breath, half expecting something to happen right then. Right now. But it didn't. Gold was disappointed but not surprised. Not enough magic, he mused to himself. Not yet.

"Yeah? And what am I supposed to do with it?"

"Nothing," he said, placing his fur cap back on his head. "For now."

Shane openly gaped at him, his rotten temper and indignation practically evaporated in favor of unabashed shock. "Nothing? You give me a shitty old antique and tell me to do nothing?"

"For now," Gold repeated as he made his way back toward the door. "Just…keep it safe for me. For a while—" he paused at the entrance and glanced back – "until you need it." And then he was gone.

…

***Sigh. And that marks then end of my summer vacation folks. Headed back to school on Monday. I intend to keep writing, but make no promises as to frequency of updates. I'm teaching HONORS this year…oy!

Can't wait for the upcoming season. Loving the pics leaked online of Henry with Grandpa Charming. Loving also the implications that we'll get a new villain out of Hook (two and a half villains in all of FTL was getting a little tired). And does anyone else think that Peter Pan's curse might have been having to grow up? I think it'd be a neat twist on the curse – you know, ALL the kids in Storybrooke got to stay young for 28 years EXCEPT the one boy who never wanted to?

Hope you enjoyed what I'm unofficially calling the kick off to MY second season of "Toll Bridge." It's no secret this story is an absolute bear! But with three couples awake and united, I felt the beckoning call of some other neglected characters coming into the fold. Plenty more in store for everyone as we move forward, including a very interesting adventure for Henry. Stay tuned and happy almost fall!

-Nikstl***