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?

34. The Seer

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 Seer

Joel got out of his car as he did every morning. He ascended the stone stoop to his little book shop as he did every day. And he opened up his tiny store as he had done for, well for as long as he could remember. But for some reason, though his routine was the same as every morning and every day for as long as he could remember, something felt…different. He paused and turned to the street, breathing in the crisp, wintery air and inspecting the state of things in Storybrooke. All seemed as it should be. Marco was headed into his auto shop, flipping on lights and lifting the heavy metal chains that protected his front windows. The rich scents of marinara sauce and melting mozzarella sauce was already wafting from the vents of Tony's restaurant and deli. And many of the town's elderly were already out enjoying their early-morning walks. Yes, all was well in Storybrooke. In fact, the only thing he could see that was even remotely different in the morning routine was the young man jogging across the street – one of the paramedics, he believed, whom Joel normally didn't see jogging, especially in this cold. But it all seemed quite harmless. So, with a shrug, he fully turned his key and walked into his book shop, muttering a simple prayer to himself that maybe, just maybe, the holiday cheer inspired by last night's ceremony would bring some customers to his counter.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, however, that strange, eerie feeling again descended on his soul. The lights were off and the shop was still, but there were muted sounds coming from the stock room. "Shh!" he thought he heard. "Stop shovin' me!" came another muffled response. Joel should have turned right around and called the sheriff. There was an intruder here – possibly two! And quite the clumsiest crooks he'd ever heard of. But a strange curiosity possessed him and he found himself moving towards the stockroom, rather than away from it. Passing through the thin door, Joel reached around the corner and flipped on the light.

"Hey Joel!" came the first, hasty voice.

"You're gonna thank us for this someday, buddy," replied the second. Then everything went dark.

…

Every time his door creaked, Thomas's eyes sprang open, and he jerked his head over, certain it was another of Regina's allies come to finish the job. Even as perfectly innocent nurses tended to his breakfast and checked his vitals, Thomas couldn't help feeling as if he were every moment in peril. Jafar's attempt on his life last night was iron-clad proof that the queen had placed powerful people in high places – people loyal to the cause of destroying happy endings, keeping Storybrooke's citizens forever stuck in this town. Had it not been for Adam…

Thomas didn't even want to think of it – how close he'd come to simply letting the old Vizier poison him. And that wasn't even the scary part. Rushdi's old advisor was a legend in his own mind, and his attempt to overthrow Agrabah was certainly headline news among the realms, but few had ever actually met Jafar. The villain didn't accompany the sultan and princess to other kingdoms, and when Agrabah entertained guests of its own, Jafar usually made himself scarce. How many more evil-doers were lurking among them here, completely undetected? How many adversaries were walking around town, easily blending in with the crowd simply because they need not fear of being recognized?

As it was, the only one among them who had actually seen Jafar before was Christopher, who was likely still chiding himself for not following his instincts and insisting that he be allowed to stay in the room when Fisk came in. Thomas had spent a good portion of last evening, once Christopher had returned from the cafeteria, reassuring his father that it wasn't his fault …but the king's guilt wasn't so easily assuaged.

"Good morning," came a deep voice from the door, and Thomas once again jerked in his bed. Instantly he relaxed as said king entered his room.

"Pop," Thomas sighed as his father approached them with two steaming cups of coffee. He glanced out the window and chuckled softly that it was still relatively dark. "You're here awfully early."

"And you're surprised?" returned the king as he settled in the chair next to his son. "Any more attempts?"

Thomas shook his head as he took a refreshingly hot gulp of coffee. "No, but every time that door opens…"

Christopher nodded. "I understand. I wish you had let me stay last night—"

The prince shot his father a stern, though still light-hearted look. "Yes, but you had other affairs to tend to. Is it done?"

The king nodded. "Yes," he said with a placid smile. "She accepted without reservation. Ella and Alexandra are back at the manor."

Thomas took another swig, deciding he'd chalk up the sting behind his eyes to the piping hot coffee rather than the overwhelming joy at knowing that his family was finally under one roof again. "Good," he managed, his voice shaky.

Christopher smiled, thinking fondly of the look on Ella's face last night as she'd carried little Alexandra into the recently prepared nursery that had once been 'Sean's' room. After everything he took from them, it was cathartic to be able to give something back. The king sipped his coffee and then glanced down at his son's covered legs. "Any change today?"

Thomas shook his head. "Doctor Whale said the swelling has gone down substantially, but I still can't move them."

"Dr. Whale?" the king straightened up. "He's still treating you?"

Thomas nodded.

"There's something…off about that man."

"I know," admitted the prince, "James and Snow have said as much, but I don't think he's…aware of what's going on. He may be an ally of Regina's, but I don't think he has much power. Not here anyway. Otherwise Snow wouldn't have been able to manipulate him so easily."

A pause settled between them as Christopher took another generous gulp, gathering up the courage to say what must now be said. "Thomas…I'm so sorry."

The prince rolled his eyes, "Pop, we've been over this. There's no way you could have known what Jafar was going to—"

"I'm not talking about Jafar," said the king, staring down at his cup, filled with shame.

Thomas looked quizzically at his father. What in the world did he have to feel— "Father," he said at once, figuring it out. He shook his head "Don't—"

"Please, you must allow me to say it," he said, finally meeting his son's gaze. "What I did to you, as 'Mitchell' is perhaps…explainable." He glanced down again, fresh tears welling in his eyes. "But I will never forgive myself for the way I betrayed your wife."

"Father please—" Thomas leaned forward, cursing the paralysis that kept him chained to the bed.

"No, you must listen," Christopher insisted, rising to his feet and standing before the prince. "I had a long talk with James last night. He called and asked if we needed help moving Ella and Alexandra back into the manor. I asked him to tell me everything he'd learned about this…this curse, and he shared his theories."

"Pop—"

"He told me he believed the curse amplifies our weaknesses. Accentuates are severest flaws. I believe…" Christopher's voice hitched in his throat. "Thomas, I believe he's right."

Thomas was still shaking his head, hating Regina even more. It was bad enough for the curse to have created these heinous personas, but even awakening from them had its price – how were they ever to get over the guilt of having been such abysmal versions of themselves? "It was the curse, Father. Not you. You can't be responsible for how you acted as Mitchell," Thomas tried to explain.

"Perhaps not," continued the king, "but I am to blame for the impetus that bore him." Thomas stared as Christopher continued. "I…I blamed her."

He blinked. "What?"

"I blamed her, son. Ella. For your disappearance."

Thomas closed his eyes. "Oh father…"

"When Ella returned to Seven Gales without you, when she told me that Rumpelstiltskin had cast you into Limbo after his capture, I…Gods forgive me, Thomas. I tried not to, but I couldn't fight the grief. I was…lost without you, son. And in my misery I became bitter, resentful…of her." He glanced up again, forcing himself to face the prince. "I carried that resentment with me into the curse. Had I not been so weak…the curse, it wouldn't have…I wouldn't have been so easily…" he couldn't finish, for the shame robbed him of his very ability to speak.

Thomas was silent for many moments, allowing his father the space to recover. He again cursed his injuries, wanting so desperately to pull the king into a fierce hug and assure him of his forgiveness. But he would have to settle for words. "Pop," he said softly, reaching out to clasp his hand over Christopher's wrist. "I know the curse…these years…have been unkind to both of us. And I know there's nothing I can say right now that will relieve you of the guilt you think you deserve." He gave his hand a squeeze, prompting the king to look up. "But I beg that you not let it consume you."

The king shook his head, "Son—"

"There's nothing to forgive. When it mattered most, you were there for her," Thomas insisted, sitting up as straight as he could on the cot. "It was your love that freed her from the curse, Father. Not mine. And I know there's no one we're looking forward to having in Alexandra's life more than her grandfather."

Christopher opened his mouth to reply, but he could not find the words. His son's forgiveness was more than he deserved, but for their sake, he would try to be worthy of it.

"He's right you know," came a sweet, soft voice from the doorway. Both men turned to see Ella herself gliding across the floor, Alexandra cradled against her shoulder. "She already misses you when you go away," she smiled, holding out her baby girl to the wearied king. Christopher smiled gratefully and scooped the sleeping babe against his chest while Ella moved past them to join her husband, lacing her hand with his at the edge of the bed. "I told him all of this last night, you know," she murmured against Thomas's cheek after she leaned in and kissed him.

"I have no doubt," Thomas smirked, reaching out to stroke his fingers through her hair. He glanced sideways at the king and whispered very loudly, "the old man's too stubborn for his own good."

Alexandra was having the same healing effect on Christopher as she often had on Ella, so the king was at least able to crack a smile at his son's light teasing. Thankful the reprieve, though no more absolved of his guilt, he allowed the matter to drop for the sake of his granddaughter and his lovely daughter-in-law.

"I hear you two are getting settled?" Thomas asked his wife, shifting himself over on the bed so she could hop up beside him.

"We are," she said with a grin, watching their daughter squirm and coo in Christopher's arms. "Alex loves her new room."

Christopher started to rock, calming the girl once more, and looked up. "Though depending on how long we're…here," he said, "we might have to think about redecorating. There are few too many sports trophies littered about for a princess of Seven Gales." He glanced down at his son. "Your alter ego sure had a thing for baseball, Thomas."

"No more so than his father," Thomas rejoined, thankful there were at least some parts of their contrived pasts they could think on without pain.

"And who's to say our daughter won't grow to be an athlete like her father?" Ella turned to Thomas with a glint in her eye, loving that she could at last look upon her husband without Ashley's doubts and worries in her head. "If I recall, my step sisters once raved about having been invited to see the 'handsome Prince's latest tennis match with the Duke of Whalen."

Thomas rolled his eyes, unsure which annoyed him more – the fact that he'd been obligated to invite step-sister Marguerite as a member of the court, or his substantially embellished reputation as the realm's best tennis player. "Every nobleman knows to let the 'prince' win, Ella," he tried to explain. "The Duke of Whalen threw the match."

"But Philip did not," his father quipped, reminding him of the rather sore loser from Braemar.

At this, Thomas grinned. "Well, tennis was never Philip's game."

It seemed almost surreal to Ella that they were sitting here so jovially when not even twelve hours ago, they were screaming at each other, putting on the performance of their lives. Irked somewhat that the decision to relocate to Christopher's manor had been decided upon without her, Ella nevertheless agreed that it was the best option considering the circumstances: Thomas couldn't possibly go back to faking his coma after last night's encounter with Jafar. He had to be on high alert as long as he was still in the hospital. And if 'Sean' was awake in Storybrooke, everyone would expect a reconciliation between Mitchell and Ashley as inevitable. So it was decided. The "Hermans" would publically come together as a family again – and Ella and Alexandra would move in with Christopher immediately to ensure protection against certain relatives who were liable to be quite angry upon hearing of their reunion.

"How are you feeling today?" Ella asked softly, brushing her fingers gently across lingering bruises and scrapes on his jaw and arm.

"Better now," Thomas replied in that low, velvety rumble of his that made her ache for him.

Christopher cleared his throat. "Well, Alexandra, I think it's time you and I took a little walk," he joked, but as he turned to retreat from the pair of lovers, they were all surprised by a new guest in the room – Graham.

"Sheriff!" Christopher said, glancing back at his son. "Back so soon?" Graham had stopped by very briefly the night before to take down the report on Adam's attack. In doing so, the huntsman had quickly confirmed the two were "awake" (as he was informed of by Emma) and revealed his true identity to the king and prince of Seven Gales.

"With more to report, your Majesty," said Graham in a hushed voice as he approached the group by the bed.

"Your majesty?" Ella cried, looking between her husband and father-in-law. "You mean he—"

"He's awake," Thomas nodded. "Yes. Graham, I believe you know Ashley Boyd – my wife, Ella?" he said.

"Of course," Graham paid her a brief, though genuine, nod. "Glad to 'ave you back, your Highness." Ella did not reply; rather her mouth hung open as Graham looked back to the king.

"What is it Graham? What news?" asked Christopher.

"Regina 'ad already been informed of the attack by the time I got to 'er," he said quietly. "There was a man with 'er when I arrived. A tall bloke with a cane. Real slick, carries an ol' pocketwatch."

"Mr. Gold?" Thomas guessed with clenched fists.

"No, this chap was young," said Graham. "Goes by the name of John W. Foulfellow. I don't know 'im…not as 'Graham the sheriff' anyway. But I recognized 'im…from the past."

"From our world?" asked Christopher as he handed a squirming Alexandra back to Ella.

"Not…exactly." Graham briefly explained the memories, the flashes he had upon his awakening, of a strange place in the woods – a place that seemed to belong to neither world – the boys' home where he had last seen the Zimmer kids.

"Those poor children," whispered Ella, clutching Alex a bit more protectively to her chest.

"You've spent a considerable amount o' time with Rodmilla Tremaine and the Queen, your Majesty," Graham continued. "Do you recall meeting this fellow? At a party perhaps?"

Christopher sighed, folding his arms and glancing up at the ceiling, trying to sift through years of city council meetings and high society banquets. But like his son, the only man he'd ever seen handling a cane in this town was Rumpelstiltskin. "No, I'm afraid neither the name nor the description is familiar to me. Do you think he was involved in last night's attempt?"

"I think 'e might be involved in everything," Graham replied, and the gravity with which he said it sent an icy shiver down Ella's spine.

"Well we have to find out who he is," she said, sliding off the edge of the bed with Alex still in her arms. "You and Emma can access the town records can't you?"

"I checked already," scoffed Graham, still fuming from his early morning visit to City Hall where he found records for both Dr. Fisk and John Foulfellow conspicuously missing from the Storybrooke census report.

"Wait a minute!" Thomas cried, suddenly remembering something crucial. "Was this fellow real skinny, kind of…slimy looking – dressed real old-fashioned, almost like…like he was from Wonderland?"

Graham's eyes widened. "Yes," he hissed, "that's him. Do you know 'im?"

"I saw him with Regina last week at Garcon's. Just after—" he paused and glanced at his wife, "just after 'Ashley' and I got engaged. And I think it was the nightbefore the Zimmers disappeared."

"Had you ever seen'im there before?"

Thomas huffed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to sift through the haziness of Sean's memory. "Once or twice I think – no, wait," he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the past to the forefront. "More than that." He opened his eyes. "Now that I think of it, he was hovering around Garcon's a lot the last few weeks. I remember Belle told me he started showing up in West End about the same time I did."

"West End," Graham sighed. "Then he was probably sent to watch you."

"Sheriff," Christopher stepped in. "Are you saying this man is aware of the curse."

"Aware of it?" Graham tried to keep from sounding too exasperated in front of the king. "I think he's likely pullin' Regina's strings."

"What?!" cried all three together.

"From what I saw last night," Graham explained hastily, "it's at least a safe bet that he's dangerous." He paused, an idea igniting a light bulb inside his head. "You said you saw 'im often down in West End?"

Thomas nodded.

Graham pressed his hands together, a grin slowly splitting across his face. He closed his eyes, and before him flashed the image of a very angry young man in a jail cell: You think the mayor is gonna concern herself with the likes of me? Hell this isn't even something she'd sick on her cane-waving errand boy! "Of course," he whispered, more to himself than the party eagerly waiting to be let in on his mini-epiphany. "Shane."

Thomas instantly straightened up against his pillow. "Shane? What about him?"

"Who's Shane?" asked Ella.

"Guy who used to come into the bar a lot," said Thomas as an odd sense of déjà vu tickled his brain. "Few nights a week anyway. Used to run a poker game down by the docks till—"

"Your Highness, listen to me," said Graham, pulling up a nearby chair and straddled it backwards, right in front of the prince. "Do you remember the night of your assault at Garcon's?"

Thomas gulped, glancing between the sheriff, his wife and his father. Between having been awakened by Ella, reunited with his father, and then almost immediately put in peril again at the hands of Jafar, Thomas had barely given the initial night of his attack much thought, partially due to choice – who would want to remember a beating like that? But in truth, all he had of that night were fragments. "Not…not entirely," he said, embarrassed. "No." Ella's hand grasped his and he squeezed hard.

"Try your 'ighness," Graham pushed, regretting the command in his tone, but the information was crucial. "Emma spoke with the paramedics on the scene that night. They said you were barely conscious as they loaded you into the rig. That you were mumbling something over and over again… 'Find Shane'," he said slowly, barely above a whisper himself. "Find Shane, Prince Thomas. Do you remember that?"

Thomas creased his brow, staring past them as he tried again to go back to that night, the images still a fog, the memory still hazing through his mind. Find Shane…he thought…Find Shane…

Again, Ella squeezed his hand, giving him strength, and suddenly he remembered. "Yes!" he said, springing forward, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up his spine reminding him that he couldn't move like that now. "Yes I remember," he thrust his hand out midair, as if he could touch some apparition of that evening, visible only to him.

Graham took another deep breath. "Was Shane there that night?" he asked. "Is he the one who attacked you?"

The suggestion jarred Thomas back from his semi-illusory state. "What? Did Shane attack me? Of course not. Why would you think that?"

"Because he's sitting in our jail cell right now havin' confessed to it."

"What!?"

"He's confessed to the crime, Thomas," Graham repeated himself, ignoring the utterly confused glances he was getting from the king and princess. "Walked right into the station and copped to the entire thing."

"Why the hell—"

"We think they've got something on him. He alluded to an entire network of villains working in tandem. Or at least, that's what he was leading up to before he shut down and said he was done talking. Most likely, they've threatened his ex-wife or his father-in-law."

"Goddess, no," Ella gasped, shaking her head at the dreaded thought of it.

"He's taken all the blame for your attack Thomas," Graham continued. "And only your sworn statement will absolve him of it."

"Then for Gods' sake, absolve him already!" Thomas returned, punching his fist into his mattress. "Shane didn't assault me, Graham. Shane saved me."

The huntsman couldn't repress the grin that split his face as he pushed back from the bed and returned his chair to the corner. They were hardly out of the woods yet, but this was a small victory…a victory for Emma. He couldn't wait to tell her she was right. "Thank you, your Highness," he turned and nodded to the others. "Excuse me Princess. Your Majesty… There's someone I need to see."

…

Tobias Stone wasn't one for superstitions. His medically-minded psyche never allowed for feelings of déjà vu or sentiment to cloud his judgment. For this reason, the past few days he'd spent treating Rose French's father and getting to know SG's former volunteer, Mary Margaret, left him a little wary in the hallways of strange visitors. Though he'd grown quite fond of both women in a short amount of time, a part of him was quite unsettled with the strange impressions they'd left upon him.

So when Tobias arrived early in the morning to begin his rotation and was stunned to see there was a new patient on his boards – none other than Doctor Damian Fisk – Dr. Stone immediately dismissed the crazy notion that there was some sort of correlation, that there was any connection between the bewitching Mary Margaret and rumors of an escaped mental patient attacking his caregiver.

"Apparently we missed all the fun," said Nurse Charles as she accompanied him on his rounds.

"Certainly seems that way," mused the doctor, though his head involuntarily darted up or down or over at every person they passed who seemed even remotely out of place as they headed for the intensive care unit.

"Happened in Sean Herman's room," Dawn went on, "the fight was apparently so violent, it woke him up!"

"Yes," nodded Stone. "I heard that too."

They arrived at Fisk's beside rather quickly and Stone examined the chart, knowing full well that blunt-force trauma wasn't exactly his area of expertise but, well, they were a bit short on doctors today. "Keep me posted on his vitals throughout the day," he said. The nurse nodded and the two parted ways once rounds were completed. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in my office," said Stone to the woman manning the nurse's station, a sudden headache coming over him. There was something screwy going on in this hospital. Something messing with his sense of order. And he didn't like it…not one bit. Unlocking the door to his office, the good doctor stepped inside, praying that today would be a quiet day so he could wrap his head around what exactly was bugging him. No sooner had he stepped inside, however, than what felt like three pairs of hands shot out of the darkness and grabbed him.

That was the last thing 'Dr. Tobias Stone' ever recalled.

…

Emma didn't even bother going to the school first to check in with James or Snow. She supposed they were there waiting for her, waiting for her to arrive and confirm that her son was missing. Waiting to formulate a new plan. Emma was sick of waiting. Waiting for them to be "ready." Waiting for more people to wake up. Waiting to get her son away from a mad woman she'd distrusted from the very beginning. Waiting…and for what? A few choice fairy tale characters hiding out in some underground cottage?

Reason could not contain the fury that drove her to Regina's office that morning, could not control the maternal wrath with which she marched up the steps of the court house. A small part of her dearly hoped that the office door would be shut just for the momentary release she knew would come from kicking it down. But as she entered the sterile, white marble vestibule of Storybrooke's City Hall, she was disappointed to find the queen already on her way out.

"Tending to some more early morning business Regina?" Emma called up to her as the mayor descended the rotunda's spiral staircase. Regina pointedly ignored her. "Where is he?" Emma seethed as the met at the base of the stairs.

"Excuse me, Deputy," Regina said icily as she brushed past her.

Emma's arm shot out almost on its own and seized the mayor by the wrist. "Where is he?"

Regina looked down at Emma's hand on her arm and then slowly met her eye. "Where's who?" she said.

"Don't even start with me! Where's my son?"

"My son you mean?" Regina yanked her wrist back.

"Regina—"

"Or has it possibly slipped your mind that you legally declared to the world that you wanted nothing to do with the boy? And that your presence in this town is merely tolerated, not welcome?"

Reminding Emma of how carelessly she'd given up Henry 10 years ago did nothing except amplify the rage coursing through her, but she maintained at least a semblance of sanity as her grip closed once again around the witch, this time clamping down on her upper arm. "Where. Is. Henry." Emma hissed.

"If you must know," coughed Regina, failing to wriggle from her grasp this time, "Henry and I had a long talk about his education last night. He doesn't feel he's being challenged enough at Storybrooke Elementary so we transferred him to a boarding school in upstate Maine—"

"Bullshit!" spat Emma in her face.

Regina narrowed her already icy stare. "I don't think I like your tone, Miss Swan."

"I don't think I give a shit, Miss Mills. You really expect me to believe that the kid who hates you, who stole a credit card from his teacher and traveled across state lines alone to find me, up and left with you in the middle of the night for boarding school?"

The veins in Regina's neck bulged at Emma's reminder of her own failures with Henry, and she barely found the words to respond. "I-I h-hardly expect you to understand the kinds of decisions one has to make as a responsible parent—"

But Regina didn't have a prayer of finishing that sentence, for Emma's gloved fingers closed around her neck as she shoved the evil queen back against the wall. "Don't fuck with me, you miserable bitch!" she seethed, her voice so crazed, she barely recognized it as her own. "You really think you're still foolin' anyone with this act of yours? Save it for your minions out there, Regina. I know who you are!"

Regina glared down her nemesis, oddly unfazed by the iron grip Emma had around her throat. Her eyes were locked with hers in a death-like stare that, were she at full power, would have set the deputy's blonde hair ablaze. "Is. That. So," said Regina, slowly bringing her hand up to grasp Emma's wrist and pry it from her neck. "Well well well," she said carefully, as the two straightened a few feet apart from each other. "The lost princess emerges at last."

Emma gulped. She hadn't counted on that, though she supposed she wasn't too surprised. Regina couldn't be that thick. It was only a matter of time before the queen figured out her true parentage.

Regina herself considered the moment a private victory. Up until about ten seconds ago, she wasn't 100% certain of her theory. 'Stiltskin never did give her a straight answer after all, and it was possible that the deputy's reason for being here was entirely due to her being Henry's birth mother – nothing more. But Emma's face, lacking confusion or even a hint of denial, confirmed it once and for all. Emma Swan…was the daughter of Snow White. "So what shall I call you, my dear?" Regina crooned, slipping quite easily into the far more comfortable role of queen now that there was no more need to keep up the façade of mayor. "Princess Charming?"

"Just Emma, thanks" she replied through gritted teeth, as the queen began a cat-like circle around her in the City Hall rotunda.

"Very well," she said, her black heels clacking against the marble tile as she continued her rhythmic loop of the deputy. "So Miss Swan, you have it all figured out, do you? You think you know what's going on here?"

"I think I know a lot more than you want anyone to know." Emma began to mimick the queen's huntress-like revolution around the vestibule and soon they were equally paced.

"You think I give a damn what people know about me?"

"If not, you've gone to an awful lot of trouble for nothing, your Majesty– poisoned apples? Stolen hearts? Turning people into your slaves? And for what Regina?" Emma found her voice again, advancing now into the center. "Is this yourhappy ending?" She stretched her arms out and took one step back, letting her voice echo in the hollowness of the empty hall. "Mayor of a town whose citizens despise you? Mother of a boy who figured out you were evil even before he knew you were the queen?"

Regina clenched her fists but didn't reply.

"You know from the moment I met you, you've always seemed miserable," Emma continued, moving back toward her, "And now you've dragged my son into it. And I'll be damned if I let you—"

"Don't assume for a second that just because you think you know something, the tides have magically turned here, deputy." Regina placed her hands at her waist, turning her nose in the air. "Or have you forgotten that I own this town? That I'm still the only one with power?"

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, resting her weight over her right hip. "I think not," she said, her eyes gleaming. "In fact, I think your power is diminishing by the minute."

"Do you now?" Regina's lips suddenly curled into a disturbing smile, as if Emma had just fed her the line she was looking for. "Well, if that's true, then…do something about it." The deputy flinched, and the queen grinned even broader.

"Don't tempt me," she seethed.

"Tempt you to what? Come on, Emma, here's your chance," Regina held her hands out at her sides, palms up. "Take your revenge. After all, I'm the reason you grew up without parents. I took yourson from you. Go ahead," she leaned in, sneering, "give it your best shot."

Emma was rooted to the ground, her hand hovering near the holster on her belt where lay the pistol Graham had assigned to her. The queen's words were gnawing at her soul, hitting her exactly where Regina knew it would hurt most. But try as she might, she could not bring herself to move.

"I thought not," Regina said with a mirthless chuckle, as she finally retreated from the woman (who now bore such a striking resemblance to Snow, she wondered how she could have ever missed it). "No. You see, if you truly know who I am, then you also know I'm the only one who knows where Henry is," she said as casually as if she were conversing about town meetings or parent-teacher conferences. "And since you are your father'sdaughter," she added with extra bite, slinging her purse over her shoulder and heading for the door, "I'm betting you're not willing to take the risk that you might never see your son again." She opened the door, and the cold December wind rushed in with an iciness that mimicked their confrontation. "So you can stand there, all high and mighty like your mother if you want to, but make no mistake, princess. I'm the one with the power. So I'd just watch my back if I were you." And with extra flourish, feeling more herself than she had in weeks, Regina wrenched the door fully open and headed out into the cold.

The frigid air seared past Emma's cheeks as she watched her enemy slipping through her fingers. No, she thought, as the strange petrification that had befallen her subsided. No, she won't get away with this. Not again. And just as the heavy door fell closed, Emma pulled it open again and rushed after her, stepping out on the concrete walkway leading up from the street. Regina was already halfway down the sidewalk on the next block, though her pompous pace seemed to suggest she wasn't at all rushed to leave the scene. Her mistake, Emma thought as her blood turned to ice water and she walked out into the street. Regina was clear in her sights, and there wasn't a soul around to stop her. There probably wasn't a soul around who would care.

She's bluffing, she thought with frightening certainty as she slowly peeled one leather glove from her hand. There are other ways of finding Henry. Other allies of hers that will know where he was taken. Her bare fingers closed around the black grip of her pistol. Plenty of leads. I'm a bailbondsman for God's sake. I'll find him without her. As if in slow motion, she lifted the gun from its holster, Regina's oblivious form still in plain view. And she'll never hurt anyone again… Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered someone calling her name, someone far away, but she was too focused to care. She'll never…hurt anyone…again…Faces flashed in her mind: Snow's tear-stained cheeks as she forced herself to say goodbye to baby Emma. James as he took one last look at his wife before leaving to face certain death. Henry – her son. Begging her to come back to Storybrooke and save them all. Save them from the queen.

A single tear formed in her eye and she raised the gun and took aim. Again, someone screamed her name, drawing near to her even, but she was too close. Too close now to turn back. Regina had to be stopped. She had to pay. For everything she took – for everyone she'd cursed. Emma held her breath, steeled herself against the little voice in her head, Henry's voice, warning her of the hole this would surely leave in her heart. But she didn't care. She wasn't Snow – her mother who was too good to surrender to darkness. Emma wasn't her mother. She would succeed where Snow once failed. She would do what was necessary. And this…she'd convinced herself…this was necessary. With terrifying calm, Emma narrowed her gaze and squeezed the trigger.

…

Matt Clancy wasn't typically one for jogging in the morning, but for some reason today, despite the biting cold, he was feeling especially restless. There was no reason yesterday should have felt different than any other monotonous day in Storybrooke. No reason the tree lighting shouldn't have felt like every other yuletide festival he'd ever attended. But all night and well into the morning, Matt had a very strange and distinct sense that something significant had changed. His date had ended, well, like most all of his dates – with breakfast. But he took no satisfaction from having successfully wooed an Andersan sister (particularly since it wasn't even Marina). He felt no urge to call Trent and brag, or to go back out "on the hunt," so to speak, tonight. The ceremony itself had been about as fun as lame Christmas brouhahas ever were, but he'd spent a ridiculous amount of time searching for that new deputy, despite that fact that at one point he'd actually had two beautiful women already on his arm.

Emma Swan, he decided as he pumped his fists back and forth and pushed through the cold air, jogging along the path that led from his apartment to the town square. Emma Swan was what had changed. To Matt's recollection, he had never ever been so preoccupied by a woman before, but there was something about her visit to the station yesterday, something about her presence, their connection, that had lingered far longer than he was comfortable with.

"Clancy?" he heard someone shouting his name. "Hey Clancy!" Matt turned to see his partner driving slowly along the same route, rolling down the window of his old beat up Chevy. Matt chuckled and angled his run toward the street, clouds of breath puffing thickly from his mouth as he approached the passenger door and leaned in the window.

"Davis? What're you doing out so early? Shift's not until this afternoon."

"Me? I'm not the idiot jogging when it's 30 degrees out," replied Trent, sweeping his hand over his short, buzzed hair. "You headed somewhere? Can I drop you?"

Matt sighed, glancing down the lane, the smell of snow in the air. It was incredibly cold today; still, something told him to stay put. "Nah, thanks though. Where are you headed?"

Trent nodded down the road. "Putting in some hours at the hospital before our shift."

Matt paused…then cocked an eyebrow and grinned. "Oh really?"

Trent shot him a pointed look. "Yes really," he mimicked, "You know I need at least 80 hours to complete my degree."

Matt drew back from the car and crossed his arms. "I see. And exactly how many hours do you have already?"

Trent scoffed and shook his head, but then looked down sheepishly. He couldn't exactly lie. "82."

"Uh huh," Matt tapped his foot, chuckling again. "Sounds more like hours you intend to spend drooling over Nurse Charles, man. Not working on your M.D."

Trent rolled his eyes. "Does everything have to be about women with you?"

Matt thought for a moment. "Yes."

Trent slammed his car back into drive, still holding down the break. "As usual, I wish I'd never asked. You enjoy freezin' your nuts off there Clancy."

But Matt braced his hands in the open passenger window and leaned down. "When are you just gonna come out and admit it, Davis?"

"Admit what?"

"You're crazy about her. Always have been."

"Will you get off my car please?"

"You know I saw her at the festival last night," he teased, "She wasn't with anyone."

"Fascinating," Trent replied dryly, regretting more and more having confessed his destination. Especially since Matt was…well, right on the money. "I'd like to drive now, if you don't mind?"

Matt pushed back off the door. "Suit yourself."

Trent sped away, and Matt resumed his jog, much more amused with himself now for having already filled his daily quota of Trent-abuse. He loved the rookie – really. Would already trust him with his life. But Trent didn't know shit about women, which was unfortunate because Matt really thought that if old Crew-Cut ever actually made a move, Dawn Charles would probably welcome it. They'd spent years making eyes at each other, as far back as when Trent had been just a paramedic, still training at the firehouse. But for some reason his partner always felt he wasn't good enough. That it somehow wasn't his place.

Poor guy, he thought, wondering (not for the first time) if maybe it was finally time for a little Clancy-intervention. He'd offered time and again to be Trent's wing man, but the guy just wouldn't bite. Maybe I'll head to the hospital and do a little match-making on my own, he thought to himself, but the abrupt clang of a steel door being flung open arrested his attention, and he snapped his gaze toward City Hall.

Mayor Mills was trouncing down the concrete steps, covered in a sleek black trench coat far more befitting for late spring than early winter. The cold didn't seem to bother the ice queen though, Clancy noticed with a slight shiver as he watched from across the street. Her 'Royal Cattiness' (as the guys at the station were fond of calling her) seemed every bit as haughty and impressed with herself as always. Matt was about to turn around when he saw the door fly open a few moments later…and Emma Swan rushed outside.

Matt gulped – there she was: the blonde deputy who had so preoccupied his mind for the past 24 hours – Emma Swan, suddenly emerging from Regina's building, not 100 feet from this atypical morning jog of his. And yet the expression on her face did not remind him of the sharp, witty young woman he'd taken her for yesterday. Spotting the unmistakable visage of a woman filled with hate, driven by revenge, he watched in a sort of slow-motion stupor as the deputy made a bee-line for the mayor. Matt could do little more than gape at the surreal scene unfold before him. He might have stayed that way too, ready to watch whatever cat fight he thought was sure to ensue…until Emma's hand dropped to her hip, and she withdrew her gun.

"Emma?" Matt called, finding his voice. Immediately, he broke into a sprint, praying he'd reach her before it was too late. "Emma!" he screamed again, but the deputy seemed not to hear him. Oh Christ! he thought as she held the grip firmly and took aim. "EMMA NO!" he cried and, fueled solely by adrenaline, launched toward her, grasped hold of her wrist, and knocked the gun from her grip just before the shot fired.

Matt stared down the lane to where the mayor now turned the corner, seemingly oblivious and luckily unharmed. "Emma," he rasped, catching his breath. "What the – what the hell?" He looked up into her eyes which remained eerily fixed on her retreating target. "Emma!" he cried again, grasping her by the shoulders, shaking her violently. He wrenched his gaze back and forth between Regina and the deputy, thinking maybe once the mayor fully turned the corner, Emma would snap out of this petrified trance. But even as Regina disappeared from sight, Emma would not budge. Instead she stood completely erect, her hand still partially raised at her side. She didn't even seem to notice that her gun no longer resided there.

Clancy's heart was racing as he glanced around, checking to see if there were any heads peeking out of windows or passerbys staring and pointing at them. Thankfully, the entire scene seemed to have gone undetected, but Matt knew it wouldn't stay that way for long. He'd take her to the station. Night shift was getting off soon, and it was only a few blocks away – but how to move her, he wondered. Surely the sight of an off-duty paramedic carrying the new deputy in a fireman's hold would attract the exact kind of attention he wanted to avoid. He steadied her before him, peered into stone-cold eyes that, though they were leveled with his, did not gaze back. "Emma," he tried again, his voice a bit gentler. Boldly, he lifted his grip from her arms. "Deputy, snap out of it!" he rasped and cupped her face with his bare hands.

All at once, the world swirled before Emma and she gasped for air as if emerging from a watery abyss. A nauseatingly familiar vortex yanked her from Storybrooke and plunged her back through time. What now? she wondered, her mind finally regaining awareness as she felt Clancy's cold hands on her skin. Bracing herself for what her scattered mind now thought of as her "landing", she expected to be plunged into some memory of her parents' as she had before – some scene from their past that perhaps involved Matt – or rather Philip. Instead, she was thrust into what seemed to be a dark, underground tomb, pitch black save for the four flickering candles that burned atop four wooden bedposts.

"Ph-philip?" she heard, squeaking from the blackness. Emma struggled to adjust to the light and focus on the scene before her.

"Yes," came a hesitant response. "It's me."

Two silhouetted figures came into view, and Emma gasped as she beheld a familiar scene before her – one she was acquainted with not through Storybrooke itself, but through the famous annals of fairy tale history: Sleeping Beauty lying on her bed, her prince at her side.

"Where…how did you…what—" stuttered the princess, groggy and disoriented from who knows how many hours or days (or years?) of sleep.

"Shh," said Matt – er, Philip, as he slipped a supportive arm beneath the princess's back and helped her sit up. "Relax, Aurora. It's over. You're safe."

Emma watched as Aurora squinted and rubbed out her eyes, then looked frantically around the dark room. "Wh-what happened?"

"Maleficent," Philip explained, looking down at his hands. "She cast a sleeping curse on you and tried to take over the kingdom—"

"No, I know that but—" she paused, staring back at Philip's eyes. Emma couldn't be sure, but what she found there was a great deal of uncertainty…even, fear. "You," she reached out to him, tentatively cupping his cheek, though not with the tenderness Emma might have expected from Sleeping Beauty. "Youwoke me?"

Philip cleared his throat. "Y-yes?" he said, not dropping his gaze.

Aurora's brow creased in confusion, but she didn't look away. "With…true love's kiss?"

Philip's lips curled into a gentle smile as a small laugh escaped him. "Yeah," he chuckled and shrugged. "Who knew?"

Aurora shook her head, letting her palm drift down his cheek and rest on his arm which still supported her at the waist. "I…I don't…" she muttered, then looked up again, searching her chamber once more. "Where's—"

"Aurora," Philip said softly, removing the blanket that covered her and helping her ease out of the bed and swing her legs over its side. "Come, we should let your father and mother know that you're safe."

"Yes, but—"

"And we have a wedding to finish," he added with a light smirk, taking both her hands in his and squeezing.

The princess stared at him for a long time, searching him wonderingly, curiously, still struggling to gain her bearings. But Philip's patient gaze remained and at last, she seemed to come to some sort of internal decision. Taking his hands now more firmly in hers, she leaned forward and brushed her lips softly against her own. "We do, indeed," she whispered. And with that, Emma was lifted from the chamber and thrust back into Storybrooke.

"Ah!" she cried and at last wrenched herself from Philip's grasp. "Philip, what the hell—"

"Philip?!" said Matt, now thoroughly confused. Is it possible he was drawn to this woman because she was insane? He shuddered to think this a possibility. Matt Clancy didn't do crazy. "Emma, what's gotten into you? It's me, Clancy."

Emma shook her head, darting her gaze from street lamp to fire hydrant, feeling a bit like she imagined Aurora had just now, disoriented and catching her breath. "C-clancy," she mumbled, pieces of the puzzle finally falling back into place. "Right, sorry."

"Jesus, Swan, what the hell was that about?"

"Huh?" she gripped the side of her head.

"With Regina?" he said.

"Regina?"

"Yeah Regina! You know, the woman you just tried to shoot?"

Clarity finally returned to the young deputy and she started to search her surroundings again, this time looking for her gun. "Right, Regina. Hey!" she turned on him, suddenly venomous. "Why did you do that?" She placed her gloved hands on his chest and shoved him aside.

"Excuse me?!"

"The gun! You knocked it out of my hand," she muttered, going over to the frozen lawn to retrieve it. "Why did you do that?"

"Are you fuckin' kidding me, Swan?" he spat back, following her down the sidewalk. "You almost put a bullet through the mayor's head!"

"No I didn't," she grumbled, checking the chamber and then re-holstering the gun.

"You didn't?" he yelled.

"I was just trying to…to scare her that's all," she lied, cursing the need now for a plausible excuse.

"Right," said the fireman, not at all buying it.

"Look, this is none of your business, all right?" she started to move past him, but he grabbed hold of her elbow and stopped her.

"Like hell it isn't," he said, forcing her to face him. "Look, I don't know what your deal is, but it's kind of my job to prevent people from killing each other in this town?" he gave her another shake, hoping to jar some sense of reason in her. "Don't think for a second I'm gonna just leave you to go after her again—"

"Get out of my way!" she yelled and tore away from him, stumbling vaguely along the path until she came to a small patch of ice pooling around a sewer drain. In the sudden and deadening calm of winter, she came face to face with her reflection in that ice…and saw a face she barely recognized. Suddenly the magnitude of what she'd just attempted overwhelmed her and the weight of too many burdens bore down: Regina, Henry, Snow, James, the strange visions she kept having, each more confusing than the last. And now having exposed her knowledge of the curse to the queen, and Matt Clancy having witnessed everything…how much worse could this day get?

"Emma," Matt came up behind her. He too seemed to sense the weight of the world come crashing down on her, and tentatively he reached out and touched her shoulder. "What happened?"

Emma turned a tired look on the firefighter. "My son," she said with a vulnerability in her voice she detested but could not help. "She took my son."

…

Tom Clark had owned the drug store at the corner of Diamond Lane for years, and never, in as far back as he could remember, had the air seemed so chill, so full of mystery and danger as he sensed today in his shop. It wasn't anything concrete that he could put his finger on. It was just…a feeling, a strange sort of omniscience that had haunted him for days now, ever since the young Mills boy had been caught shop-lifting here with his two orphan friends and they'd ended up shipped off to Boston not even a full day later.

For a while, Tom had been trying to figure out what bothered him so about the whole ordeal, and last night's tree lighting hadn't at all soothed the impression that something was definitely amiss in Storybrooke. That same boy, Henry Mills? Why, he'd spent almost the entire evening clutched to his mom's side at the Emporium, looking quite terrified! Of what, Tom had no idea, but there was an unpleasant aura that surrounded both of them, separating them from the rest of the crowd even as the mayor addressed them all during the award presentation.

The jingle of the front door bell knocked him out of his ominous musings and Clark turned his attentions toward the short stout fellow who had just walked in. Samuel Bash, Storybrooke's friendliest mailman, had arrived with the day's deliveries. "How goes it Tom? Did you go to the tree lighting last night? Weren't the fireworks spectacular? Oh, and that cute little number the Andersans did?" asked Sam as he walked briskly up to the counter.

Tom rolled his eyes. Honestly, didn't the guy know that such outgoing blustering didn't really befit a mailman? Why there wasn't a single job more suited to solitude and quiet than delivering the Storybrooke mail and yet, Sam felt the need to turn the occasion into a full-blown conversation nearly every day. "Yes Sam, quite entertaining," Tom nodded, taking a letter opener from the register drawer and setting immediately upon the bills.

"I tell ya, I have never heard a lovlier voice than that Marina Andersan, you know?"

"Quite right," Tom replied mechanically, not looking up from the mail.

"You know it ain't polite to ignore your brother like that," came a different voice. Tom's head jerked up at the intrusion, and he barely had time to utter a meek 'hey-what-the' before spotting a rather bewildered looking Samuel being stuffed into an oversized potato sack. Seconds later, darkness consumed him as well and all the lights went out.

…

Aladdin dodged what might have been a fatal blow from the otherwise blunted training sticks with which he'd equipped his pupil. The Princess of Agrabah was every bit the quick study she'd promised she'd be, and it was with grace and swiftness that she swept across the makeshift combat floor, nearly besting him in this latest round of sparring. The longer she fought without success, however, the more impatient she became, and though her skill was far beyond what he might have expected by this point, she had not yet learned to control her own frustrations.

For almost two months, the two had kept to a rather rigid and consistent routine: archery and swordsmanship on Mondays, staffs and rattan sticks mid-week, and by week's end, hand-to-hand combat. Aladdin was surprised, to say the least, how quickly she'd mastered the bow and arrow, though less startled by the way the "Ice-Princess" wielded a sword. However, victory with the less traditional forms of combat remained elusive for her, and it was with too much impatience that she took another swing at his shin, trying to drop him after what had to have been almost an hour straight of sparring. He dodged her once again, and she flew into a rage, lunging toward him and abandoning the sticks altogether. Aladdin sighed, seeing that her clumsy, hastened approach left her vulnerable to an easy counter. In a flash, he'd sidestepped her, hooked his leg around her ankle, tripped her backwards and pinned her to the floor.

"Once again, princess," he growled at her, "What's rule number one?"

Jasmine shifted and torqued in his grasp as she fought his hold on her. "Never run from a fight you know you can win," she grunted, though there was a teasing grin in her face.

"Wrong," he spat. "That's rule number three. What's rule number one?"

Jasmine rolled her eyes, panting heavily as her tutor's weight pressed her to the worn mat. She had hoped to throw him by mixing up his silly rules. "Never…" she wheezed, "attack in anger."

"And yet you keep doing it!" he laughed, tightening his grip on her wrists as he drew over her, unable to keep his pulse from racing as his eyes bored down into hers. "It's been months, Princess," he said, "when are you going to learn?"

Jasmine let out another grunt as she stared over his shoulder at the ceiling of the old dome. They were in one of the palace's oldest and remotest towers, secluded from the hustle and bustle of life at court below. Old tumbling mats from a generations-old festival of lights were stored here, and a wooden railing circled the room about eight feet from the wall which created a sort of miniature arena that Jasmine decided (and Aladdin concurred) was ideal for the type of training she had requested. On one side of the rotunda hung an assortment of weapons on steel pegs slapped into the marble: a few swords, two bows, several quivers of arrows and some of the more curious types of weaponry that Aladdin had become acquainted with on his travels. On the other side of the tower, closer to the entrance was a small table with a wash basin and some haphazardly arranged towels.

Several floors beneath them, however, was a scene of a much more elaborate nature: Rushdi's best cooks and bakers were anxiously preparing for tomorrow's feast. Her father had invited yet another suitor to court, and he would be arriving tomorrow afternoon with a large party of ladies and gentlemen. Jasmine was, of course, dreading this latest visit not only because she knew her father's efforts were a complete waste of time, but that Prince Achmed's stay would further delay her training. She couldn't very well adhere to as strict a schedule as they had maintained if she was expected to entertain the prissy prince for an entire fortnight.

She curled her hands into tight fists, straining against his grip, but try as she might, she couldn't overcome Aladdin's strength. "Perhaps I'll learn once you stop holding back!" she grunted, still trying to squirm out from beneath him. "I could drop you at any time, but where's the fun in rushing a victory you make so easy to attain?"

Aladdin smirked, "Ah, so that's it? I'm going easy on you? That's why you're the one pinned to the floor?"

The princess grunted a third time, but Aladdin didn't miss the sparkle in her eye as she replied, "All part of the plan, Professor. I just needed a little rest!" Swiftly, she worked her leg out from under his calf, kneed the inside of his thigh, and used the few seconds of complete shock in his face to flip him over and pin him back, wrapping her fingers around his forearm and bracing him against the floor. "See?" she said coyly, folding her legs in over his, cutting off circulation (as he had taught her), which made it harder for him to counter with strength.

Aladdin was too stunned to feel much pain in his leg where she'd struck him. He stared up at her, breathing heavily as she mimicked his own movements from earlier, drawing over him, leveling her gaze with his. She was pleased with herself; that was certain. Her eyes were smiling, though her lips were not. And there was something else there…something more. Something they'd both been ignoring for weeks now.

"Impressive," he granted her, and then she couldn't suppress her grin. "Truly, I have no idea how I'll ever—" but he cut himself off and swiped her arms out from under her, causing her to collapse across his chest with nothing left to support her weight. He wrapped his arms around her and trapped hers at her side, rolling over so he was once again on top. "Oh!" he feigned confusion. "Would you look at that? Trapped again!"

"Grrrrmgah!" Jasmine let out an impatient growl, twisting in his grasp, but he'd definitely won the volley – in fact, he'd won both the round itself and their verbal duel (arguably the more enjoyable of the two) and she knew she would have to concede. "All right, Professor, let me up," she rolled her eyes with an acquiescent laugh.

But Aladdin didn't budge. He hated this part. This moment right before the spell was broken. Right before the magic disappeared in the space of a few heartbeats that he got to hold her in his arms.

Jasmine's heart suddenly pounded so loudly she thought it might beat right out of her chest. Why did he have to look at her like that? "Aladdin," she said with another nervous chuckle. "Come on, it's getting harder to breathe."

But again, Aladdin couldn't bring himself to move. If he moved, that meant they were finished for the day. If he moved, that meant she would soon be headed downstairs to help her father prepare for Achmed's arrival– Prince Achmed. He loathed the man already, and he'd never even met him. There wasn't a chance in hell that Jasmine would succumb to this latest sham of a courtship – of this Aladdin had no doubts. But the undeserving prince would still be allowed to offer her his arm, share a meal with her, take her out on horseback…lead her in a dance. And the simple knowledge of it filled Aladdin's heart with such envy as could barely be borne. "Jasmine," he whispered before he could stop himself, his head so close to hers he could almost feel her soft lips touch his own before—

Abruptly the spell was broken, and Jasmine wrenched herself away from him. "That's all for today," she said, hastening over to the railing where hung the towels over the water basin. "We'll resume our lessons at the usual hour tomorrow." Her voice was tight and controlled though her heart beat wildly. Damn him, a voice screamed inside her head, though what she truly desired was far from his damnation. She hated what he did to her. Hated the feeling that she wasn't in control – that any moment impulse and passion would conquer reason and she would undo everything she'd been striving toward.

Aladdin cursed under his breath, pushing himself up off the floor. Damn her, he thought as he strove to master the urges coursing through his veins. How much longer was he to endure this glorious hell? "Isn't um," he cleared his throat and watched as she bent gracefully at the waist, cupping her hand into the basin and splashing a palm-full of cooling water on her bronze neck. Too much he thought as she drew the crisp white towel over her glowing skin. He turned away. "Isn't Prince Achmed arriving tomorrow?"

"Not until late afternoon," she replied without turning around. "We'll have enough time for a lesson before he arrives." Delicately, she refolded the towel and replaced it on the railing.

Aladdin took a deep breath, at last gaining control of himself as he bent down to retrieve the training sticks. "All right. Tomorrow morning then."

Jasmine wrung her hands together, and, with a heavy sigh, she finally turned around. "Actually," she called after him, gulping down a lump in her throat, "tomorrow evening too."

He paused just under the tasseled awning draped across the archway; his bag, full of various combat items, was slung over his shoulder along with his own sweaty towel. "What?"

Jasmine took another deep breath as they both started walking back toward the center of their makeshift arena. "My…father," she started, steadily, "has asked me to extend you an invitation to attend tomorrow night's welcome feast."

Aladdin's jaw slackened on approach, and as the two met in the middle of the padded floor, Jasmine had to stifle a laugh (despite her own embarrassment) at his flummoxed expression. "Me?" he choked, bringing his free hand to his chest. Jasmine nodded. "Why?" he asked, almost exasperated.

"It's…tradition," she explained, though her tone was equivocating. "When a nobleman of Achmed's stature comes to court, it's…customary for the king's most trusted advisors and tutors in his uppermost circles to round out the party's official welcome."

Picking up on her evasive tone, Aladdin turned a slightly sardonic look on her, tilting his head and waiting for her to continue…for he was sure there was more.

Jasmine looked down, having honestly hoped she might spare him this embarrassing admission, but she also knew he was far too intuitive to believe her first explanation. "And," she sighed at last, "it doesn't hurt that you're living proof of my father's…merciful and…benevolent rule."

"Ah, there it is," Aladdin shook his head. The old street rat, no longer a bit surprised, tucked his set of sticks inside his bag and readjusted the strap near his neck. "In other words, I'm to be paraded in front of Prince Fancy-Pants as an example of your father's successful crime reform."

The princess's stare remained fixed on her hands, folded and fidgeting at her waist. "If you…choose to put it that way, I won't argue with you."

Aladdin blew out a sigh, settling his weight over one hip. "Uh huh," he said, crossing his arms. "And…what happens, your Highness, when this lofty party requests a…demonstration of your two months' tutelage?"

Jasmine glanced back up. "That…won't happen," she chuckled nervously.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Your father thinks I'm tutoring you on the flute, princess. Frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't asked for a concert already."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. The thought had never even occurred to her! In arguing with her father that very morning on the matter, she'd simply objected to the idea of turning Aladdin into her father's visual aid. He'd…done enough for her already. "If that happens, I'll…plead a case of stage fright. I assure you, we won't be asked to…demonstrate anything."

But Aladdin gave a little snort and rolled his eyes. "If Rushdi knows you even half as well as I do, he knows you…don't do fright. Stage or otherwise."

Her cheeks grew warm at the compliment, but she chose not to comment "Still," she cleared her throat. "I'll make sure he…doesn't ask." She started to move past him. "Suitable attire will be sent to your chamber this evening. Just tell me tomorrow if something doesn't fit—"

"Jasmine," he said in a lower, gentler voice and clasped her wrist as she passed by. She froze mid-step as he regarded her thoughtfully, and an exaggerated silence settled between them as he took a step closer. "Do you want me there?"

Praying that he couldn't feel how much her heart pounded from her chest, Jasmine hastily replied. "What I want doesn't matter. The Sultan requires your presence. The request is merely a formality. You—"

But he gave a slight tug on her arm and forced her to face him, gazing down at her with those big brown eyes that so often set her off balance even in the midst of their toughest training. "Do you…want me there?" he asked again, letting his fingers trail down from her wrist and slip naturally into her hand, lacing his fingers together with hers before she had a chance to object. Aladdin knew he was playing with fire again. In fact, she usually pulled away long before this point, and his heart soared as she not only didn't pull away, but actually – instinctively – squeezed back.

"Yes," she whispered, not looking up. Though her father's motives were embarrassingly political, she couldn't deny the small comfort she knew it would be to have a…friend there.

Aladdin smiled down at her. "As you wish, Princess," he said softly, finally letting his hand drop. "It's a date."

"Good," replied Jasmine, in a voice, suddenly foreign to Aladdin's ears. "Now, rise and shine would you?"

Aladdin drew back. "Wh-what?"

"Oy, lad," she replied, though she was moving further away from him. "Come on, time to go."

"Huh?!" he cried.

"Shane!" she shouted once more, "Get up!"

Shane Pilfer jolted awake, feeling the heel of someone's shoe shove him hard at his back. "What the f—" he grumbled against his flattened pillow. He twisted his body around, and Sheriff Graham came into his upside-down view from the bed.

"G'morning, sunshine," said the sheriff in that droll Irish brogue of his.

"Graham," Shane coughed, coming fully awake as he righted himself on his slab, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. It was the second time in less than a day that he'd dreamed up something so lucid it felt more like a memory. But whereas the first one was mildly entertaining – he, sporting a bow and arrow, saving princes and dukes from harm – this one hit a little closer to home. Too much of it – well, too much of her, the princess – reminded him of Jade. And though he couldn't fathom where or how his mind had cooked up this elaborate, Arabian world, the beauty of the woman's emerald gaze was Jade Amira's, plain and simple. He couldn't bear to face that gaze again. Not after everything that had happened. So he resolved to forget this dream. As soon as possible.

Still disoriented, Shane didn't immediately realize that his cell door was wide open, and the sheriff was actually standing right beside him, hand on his hip and foot tapping impatiently. The prisoner looked up and spotted the dusty old antique in the sheriff's palm. "What are you—"

"Mind telling me what this is?" Graham asked, holding the object in front of his eyes for inspection, "and how it got in here?"

"Someone," Shane scratched his head, looking up at the lamp as the rest of Gold's ominous visit came back to him. "Someone dropped it off…last night. Slipped it through the bars."

"I see. And I suppose you're gonna lie about who did that now too."

"What—"

"Just a hunch of course," Graham continued as he rolled Emma's desk chair inside the cell and plopped down in front of him.

"What are you—"

"Sean's awake, Shane," Graham said loudly, clearly, no room for interruption. Shane merely stared at him, but didn't respond. "And, as I'm sure you'll be shocked to learn, 'ad a very different story for what 'appened between you two in that parking lot." With a heavy, metallic thunk, Graham set the lamp right next to Shane's hip and then propped his elbows up on his knees. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, willing himself to be calm. "Why'd you do it, Shane?" he asked, his voice considerably less irate. "Why'd you cop to something you didn't do? Something, you actually 'elped prevent?"

Shane couldn't reply. He just kept staring at the lamp, the events of the past few evenings speeding through his mind on fast-forward. Son of bitch, he thought to himself, realizing that Graham had just confirmed everything Gold had told him that last night – like clockwork: Sean was awake, which meant Shane was exonerated and Damian Fisk was no longer in the position of being able to harm Jade's father. Still, pockets ran deep in Storybrooke, and Fisk was just one of many players. "Someone…needed a favor," Shane shrugged, looking down at his lap.

What Shane intended as evasion, however, Graham mistook for nonchalance, and something about Shane's indifferent tone made him snap. "That's it?" said the sheriff, gathering some of Shane's tee-shirt in his fist. "I put myself on the line for you, lad. Defended you. Saved you weeks' worth o' prison time. For years I watched out for you, and that's all you've got to say?"

"What do you want from me, man?" Shane shrugged himself free, though he couldn't help feeling a bit guilty at the reminder of how much he was indebted to Graham.

"The truth," Graham implored. "For once in your life, Shane. Just…tell me the truth. Tell me wha' you know." He needed Shane to trust him, needed a straight answer. Too much was riding on what little information he and Emma were piecing together, and in the wake of such an eerie interview as he'd had with Regina and John Foulfellow last night, Snow White's faithful huntsman felt like he was running out of time. Shane knew something – maybe he didn't even know what he knew, but he knew something. Something crucial. Something about Foulfellow that would help Snow and Prince Charming and Henry…and Emma. "Why'd you do it?" he asked again.

Shane was silent for some time, occasionally eyeing the door, then the lamp, then the door again. But at last, he relented, looking up at the scruffy sheriff, and sighed. "A woman came to see me," he said quietly, staring down at the lamp.

"A woman?" Graham drew back. "W-woman? Not a man?" his heart sank.

"No," Shane shook his head, almost laughing, "Definitely a woman." He couldn't forget that chick's curves even if he wanted to, he thought, remembering the rather distressingly beautiful seductress who had approached him at the docks the night after the attack.

"Any idea who?" Graham asked.

"No, and I don't know how she found me either. She just…did."

"What did she want?"

Shane let out a huff, dragging his palms down his face. "She told me that if I didn't confess to the assault on Sean Herman…" he paused and shook his head, almost laughing now at his utter stupidity. Gold was right: You really should leave deal making to the professionals, my boy. What good had it done to make that deal? He was no better off now than before, and neither was Jade's father.

"Shane?" the huntsman said, urging him to continue.

Shane took a deep breath. "He said Dr. Fisk would see to it that Magnus would 'suffer the consequences.'"

"Magnus," repeated Graham.

"Jade's father," nodded Shane.

Graham cleared his throat, hesitating before he probed further. After all, he didn't want the young lad to feel as if the information wasn't helpful. "Shane," he tried again, "was there anyone else…with her?"

"With her?"

"This woman who threatened you. Was she working with someone?"

Shane drew back. "Like…?"

"Like," he took a deep breath, "a man perhaps? Young? Lanky? Carries a cane?"

Slowly, Shane sat back on his slab, clearly disturbed by the image that Graham had conjured up.

Graham continued. "Answers to the name of John W. Foulfellow?" The young thief visibly cringed.

"You mean Honest John," said Shane gravely.

The sheriff shot forward, the force of it literally propelling him closer on Emma's rolling chair. "Honest John?"

"That's what she calls him."

"Who?"

Shane sighed, looking down once more at the lamp, feeling an odd sense that it and everything they were discussing tonight were somehow intricately related. "Regina," he muttered at last.

Graham struggled to contain his feeling of triumph. Finally, he thought. Now we're getting somewhere. "Regina," he repeated; Shane nodded. "He works for her?" Another nod. "Shane," he said softly, causing the boy to glance up at him from the tops of his eyes. "Where can I find him?"

At this Shane threw his head back against the concrete wall and snorted. "You don't find Honest John, sheriff," he replied with a scoff. "You pray he doesn't find you."

…

Six men watched sadly from afar as Buster Largo stood on his tiptoes and peered over the lip of a garbage dumpster, scavenging for food. Having stopped by the Brooks' shelter for the aged and infirm down the road, they learned that Storybrooke's resident wanderer rarely stayed at the home anymore and had taken more often preferred the streets to the warmth of a guaranteed bed. The day's amusement that had come from clocking each other on the head and dragging each other back to the haven of their cottage now waned as they all implicitly understood and wordlessly agreed that with 'Buster'…or rather, with Dopey, they must take a different approach. They did not want to scare him. In fact, they were fairly certain all that would be required was a bit of kindness and the promise of a hot meal. And so with tremendous love in their hearts, and the anticipated joy that would soon come from being united once more, the seven of them together, Storybrooke's Leroy, Walter, Tobias, Tom, Samuel and Joel set out to awaken Snow White's seventh and final dwarf.

…

Against all odds, Emma had extricated herself from Matt Clancy's tenacious curiosity rather quickly. Having insisted on taking her back to the station, the fireman was adamant that she retreat to a place where she could calm down and approach her troubles with a cooler head. For this, Emma was immensely grateful – the thought of what she'd almost done, what she had allowed herself to be driven to – it stopped her heart cold. So it was fortunate Clancy had been there to stop her.

Once sufficiently calmed, however, Emma grew desperately impatient to leave. For one thing, she wanted to avoid seeing any further recollections of 'King Philip's' that Matt clearly had buried in his brain. Seeing him awaken Aurora, a woman she swore she recognized, did nothing except excite further apprehension inside her over these strange visions…and if she were completely honest, she didn't really feel like bearing witness to this 'wedding' Philip had alluded to.

Explaining to Matt that it was a simple custody dispute turned ugly, and insisting again (and profusely) that her intent had been only to scare the mayor, Emma managed to escape Matt's impromptu interrogation. She had a feeling the paramedic wasn't entirely convinced, but she had at least succeeded in assuring him that his immediate concerns had been rectified: there would be no more attempts on Regina's life (not at gunpoint anyway).

Still, it was nearly 11 by the time she left the station, and though there was nothing she wanted to do more than continue the relentless search for her son, she knew now that her confrontation with Regina put them all at risk. She couldn't pursue anything further without warning her family. So she set out for the school.

"Oh thank the Gods!" hissed her mother as Emma rushed into the blessedly empty classroom. Snow, who had been sitting at her desk, had sprung up immediately, sending her leather chair rolling backwards. James, whose arm had been braced against the far window, turned with a very visible sigh of relief as both parents crossed the room to meet her.

"Are you all right?" asked her father.

"Did you find Henry?"

"Where have you been?"

Emma glanced between them, steeling herself against the reaction she was sure would come. "I went...to see Regina."

"You what?" cried Snow.

"Emma, are you ok?" James grasped her shoulder, but Emma shrugged away almost immediately.

"I'm fine," she said tersely, hating the way it sounded, hating the frustration she felt at seeing them just sitting here – sitting here waiting for her. As if that would help them find Henry. "She has him. She has Henry."

Snow and James exchanged terrified looks. "She told you that?" asked Snow.

"Yes."

"You're sure?" said James.

Emma, having reached her mother's desk, gripped its edge and gritted her teeth. "Well, I dunno, James," she whirled around, "she said 'I took your son from you', so yeah, I'm pretty sure."

Stunned by her biting reply, James threw Snow a worried glance which his wife returned. "James isn't trying to…be difficult, sweetheart," said Snow, coming around her desk to join her. "It's just—"

"Regina doesn't typically volunteer information like that," James explained. "Not without some sort of cover up—"

"Yeah well, there wasn't much chance of her doing that," she muttered. "She knows."

Again, husband and wife exchanged glances. "She…knows? What do you mean?" asked Snow.

Emma didn't look up from the desk. "I told her…that I know who she really is."

"What?!"

"That she's the queen…and…that I'm…your daughter," Emma said hurriedly, far from oblivious to the palpable panic overtaking the room. "All bets were off at that point."

"Emma – what have you—"

"Look," she whirled around, pounding her fist on the desk, "the last thing I need is a lecture, ok? If you haven't noticed, the head of Operation Cobra is missing – kidnapped. Gone because I didn't follow my gut and get him away from her yesterday. So I'm sorry if I've blown your precious cover, but I warned you both last night: I don't care if that's what happens. If it gets me closer to my son, I don't care!" Her face flushed with a sort of heated mixture of indignation and embarrassment. She turned to face the chalkboard, knowing full well her pitiful defense only went so far. After all, it hadn't gotten her any closer to her son.

Snow's face paled as her daughter spoke, and a reproachful anger bubbled up inside her as she fought the urge to admonish Emma's rash stupidity with Regina. But she was determined not to make the same mistake now as she had back in the forest. Revealing to Emma the truth of her parentage had not …gone well. And, she couldn't very well attack her daughter for doing no less than she would have had she faced the queen head on. "Emma…" she tried patiently, "you have every right to be—"

"Don't do that," she said in a harsh whisper. "Don't tell me what I have a right to do, all right?" she turned back to Snow. "This is about Henry. What's Henry got a right to? He's got a right to a family – to a mother who actually loves him. To finally being happy in a world that forced him to be miserable."

"Emma—"

"I had a chance to give him that, and I blew it."

"There's no way you could've—"

But Emma cut them both off. "Look," she held up her hands, holding them at bay. "I know I screwed up, ok? I know what I revealed to Regina forces us all underground, and I'm sorry. I just – I just needed to find – to …" she trailed off, an uncomfortable silence overtaking them all before her father stepped forward.

"To protect your child," said James, gently. "At any cost."

Emma looked up and met his eye. The judgment and shock there were both gone. "Yeah…" Emma nodded, holding his gaze, grateful for his understanding. "Yeah exactly." The silence settled once more, all three of them seeming to adopt a 'what's-done-is-done' attitude and move forward. "So, listen," she said, readjusting the zipper of her parka and pulling her gloves out of her pocket. "You guys all need to head down to the cottage as soon as possible. Take everyone with you too – everyone who might be targets now – people she'll know we've been talking to: Archie, Marco, Kathryn…Ella and Christopher, Thomas if you can figure out how to move him—"

"What about you?" Snow followed her to the door.

Emma took another deep breath. "I'm going…to see Gold."

James and Snow stopped dead in their tracks. "What!?"

"Emma, no. You—"

But Emma's stern gaze cut them off, resentment building as she once again felt the need to justify herself to her parents. Christ, this was so much easier when she worked cases alone in Boston. "Regina claims that only she knows where Henry is hiding. I think that's crap. From what I've read in that book, I'm pretty sure Rumpelstiltskin is actually the one calling the shots around here. And I'm betting he knows something."

"Emma, you can't!" James insisted, crossing over to the bulletin board just inside the classroom where his daughter had stopped.

"Like hell I can't."

"Stiltskin doesn't give out information for free," he argued, almost furiously. "Who knows what he'll ask you for in return?"

"So what?" Emma pulled on one glove. "I already owe him one favor. What's one more if it gets me to Henry?"

"Emma, stop. I can't let you do this—" said a panicked James as he practically lunged for the door and grabbed her bare wrist. Emma tried to pull away, tried to prevent him, but his hand touched hers and instantly, Emma felt herself yanked backward, flying through her vortex.

Not again! she thought as James's vise-like grip closed around her arm. She'd figured it out with Philip. The second she touched someone, the second someone's skin came into contact with hers, she was cast into a vision. Praying she'd end up somewhere familiar this time, she held her breath as the nauseating vortex threw her back in time…and landed her in Gold's shop.

"What the—" she muttered as the imp-turned-pawn broker came into view. He was arguing with someone at his counter – a man in a familiar looking jacket. "Gold!" she growled, knowing he couldn't hear her. But she stalked up the aisle anyway, determined to see why fate had shown her—

Gold tapped his cane against the floor and grinned up at the man standing before him. "Now what would I gain by revealing your secret?" he asked. "If I did that, I would have to reveal my own."

"That only means you're waiting to do so when it's of greatest profit to you," replied the man, and hearing his voice before she even reached the front, Emma recognized him instantly. It was James.

"And why not? When you're in the business of information, timing is half its worth. Old news is…well, old news," said Gold with a tinny little laugh. "For instance time seems to be, oh shall we say, running out for your daughter out there? Seems she needs this little bit of information quite badly." He held up a small index card which Emma instantly recognized. Of course, she thought. Thiswas that confusing night at the shop last week! That night when she'd gone to Gold to discover what she could about the Zimmers' compass. "Too bad for her, you interrupted our bargain. I wouldn't have asked for much," Gold added.

Emma held her breath, watching as James's hand shot forward and stopped the old imp from replacing the card in his file.

"Here's what's going to happen," muttered her father through gritted teeth. "You're going to give me the name that Emma needs to solve her case. You're never gonna make another deal with…or about Emma again. And…you're not gonna breathe a word to anyone about what we've spoken of today."

Emma gasped as she moved further down the far aisle, gaining a better view of them both. Gold laughed sardonically and slithered out of James's grasp. "And why would I agree to such terms?" he asked as Emma now watched them both head-on.

"Because of what I'm offering you in return," said her father. What was it, she seethed, watching James with near rage now. What had 'dear old dad' traded away to prevent Gold from ever dealing with her again?

James placed both palms on the glass counter, swallowing hard. "Amnesty," he said.

Emma watched in utter disbelief as the two continued to negotiate. So that's what he'd been doing when he sent her out of here. That's the deal he'd made to get her Michael Tillman's name? No more deals with Emma, huh? she cringed, folding her arms over her chest. We'll see about that.

"No more deals with or about Emma I know – that is written plainly as you see here," Gold was saying now as he waved the prince off dismissively. "But I want some insurance for the one I already made."

"What do you mean?" grumbled James.

Gold leaned forward and hovered his hand once more over the contract, weaving a new clause at the bottom. "As a condition of this deal, I want your word that when the time comes for me to collect on my favor …You. Will. Not. Interfere."

Emma saw James literally gape in pain, the weight of this last request seeming to have the effect of a sword plunged into his gut, and despite how angry Emma was now, she couldn't help but feel sorry for what she knew must be agony for him. Gold hovered the quill further into view and he looked up. The tower had started peeling from the distant square, and James swallowed hard as the two stared at each other for a long while. Finally, the imp leaned forward and whispered, "Well?"

Emma caught her breath. No, she pleaded in her head, like she was watching an old movie for which she already knew the outcome but still hoped for a different result. No no no no! Don't do it! But she knew he'd agreed. He'd headed right out to the car soon after this, she remembered, where she and Henry had been waiting for the information about Tillman. Having seen all she needed to see, the vision dissolved and she was yanked out of the past. The last thing she saw was James reaching over the countertop to shake the devil's hand.

"Get off me!" Emma yelled, wrenching herself away from her father as the present rematerialized around her and she was back in the classroom.

"Emma – what—"

"How could you?" she asked, treacherous tears forming in her eyes.

"How could I what?!"

"You made a deal with him," she rasped, clutching at her heart and catching her breath. "You made a deal with Gold. About me!"

James's face went stark pale as his wife came up beside him. "How did you—"

"Who the hell cares how I know?" Emma cried. "Tell her!" she pointed over to Snow who was watching the whole scene now with the most horrified expression. "Tell her about the deal you made. Tell her how you fixed it so Rumpelstiltskin won't ever be able to help me again!" She knew she sounded hysterical, but in deciding to try Mr. Gold's for information, she'd managed to convince herself that he would not only be able to help her, but that he would have all the answers.

"I already know, Emma," said Snow, standing by her husband, placing her hand firmly on his shoulder.

This almost comical display of parental solidarity drove Emma wild. "Oh, you knew!" she slapped her palm to her forehead. "Of course you did. Sure. That's right, the two of you always make the decision to betray me together."

"Emma!" cried Snow, but James at last had recovered and stepped in front of her.

"I didn't betray you, Emma. I was trying to protect you."

"From what, the truth?"

"From this," he insisted, grasping her by the shoulders. "From caving to this exact temptation. Rumpelstiltskin preys on the desperate. And there is nothing more desperate," he paused and glanced back at Snow, "than a mother searching for her child."

"So you thought you'd fix it all nice, did you?" Emma spat, shrugging out of his grasp. "I see it was all right for you to make a deal."

"And I told you that at the time—" he argued, but Snow cut in.

"What do you mean you see it, Emma?" she implored, not wanting the mystery of Emma's sudden enlightenment to get away from them. "How did you know about that deal?" she asked, advancing on her. "It seems almost like it just…came to you."

Emma looked back and forth between two scrutinizing gazes and then up at the classroom clock. This was getting them nowhere – Regina already had a head start from this morning—

"Emma," whispered Snow and Emma jumped. Her mother seemed to have glided across the room and was now standing directly in front of her. "Tell us," she pleaded. "What's happening to you?"

Emma stared at them, huffing and panting in short, raspy breaths, feeling a sort of childish anger towards her mother for deflecting what was left of her indignant rant against her father. But in Snow's gaze there was neither condemnation for her outburst, nor accusation in her voice – just worry. A mother's worry. Something she finally understood. "I…I saw it," she muttered, with a tired sigh. "In a vision."

"A vision?" James too moved forward.

"What kind of vision?"

Emma started. "There are different kinds?" she spluttered, then shook her head. "Look, I don't know why it started. I just…ever since last night I've been…" she glanced nervously at the floor, that familiar panic settling in her stomach as her parents' expressions went from worry to fear. She was going crazy – she knew it. She was going crazy—

"Are you saying you've had visions of the past?" Snow asked, "Our past?"

Emma nodded. "Whenever someone touches me," she added, "I get thrown back into this…this swirling…mess, and I land in someone else's memory. I saw James' deal with Gold. I s-saw the two of you…give me up. I even saw something of Philip a little while ago and—" Finally, she gathered the courage to look her mother in the eye and was astonished to find only wonder and amazement where she was sure she'd find dread. "What?"

"James," Snow whispered, glancing back at her husband. "She's a seer."

Emma's gaze juddered between them, startled by her father's thoroughly dumbfounded expression. To Snow he merely nodded, his mouth hanging open. "W-what's a seer?" she asked.

James managed to swallow, shook himself out of his stupor, and replied. "One who…sees the truth."

"What?" Emma drew back. She certainly didn't like the sound of that.

"Seers can see truth in even the darkest souls," Snow explained.

But the deputy just shook her head, "Wait, what are you saying—"

"I've only ever heard of them in legends," Snow went on, now regarding her daughter with a kind of unnerving reverence. "But it is said that seers can peek into your past. Can journey with you to a point that perhaps even you had forgotten, and draw forth the truths that need to be spoken."

"Now, just hold on a second—" Emma pulled back, feeling not unlike she'd just been placed on a slide under a microscope.

"It's a very rare gift, Emma," said Snow who was positively beaming. "I've never actually encountered any before now—"

"A gift?" she cried. "You call this a gift?!"

"Why not?" put in James, still gazing at her in wonder, though at the same time sensing his daughter's aversion to all things magic. "You called it a superpower."

Both mother and daughter glanced back at him. "What?" Emma started.

"A superpower," he nodded, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "One of the first things you ever said to me." He came around a row of desks dividing them and was pleased that this time she didn't pull away. "Even before you believed in the curse, you told Henry that you had a superpower – you could always tell if someone was lying."

"I-I just said that to the kid…to get him to tellme—" she stuttered, though her father's point made a frightful amount of sense.

"I don't think so," James shook his head. "You've been right about everything, haven't you? You were right about Snow? About me? These visions you're having must be…an evolution of that power. Something you've always had, Emma.

Miniature visions now flashed before her eyes – the many times since arriving in Storybrooke that her "superpower" had led her in the right direction, that her instincts about people, from Archie to Regina, had always proven right. Could it be? Could what she'd been playfully referring to as a "superpower" for Henry's sake actually be just that? A power? A part of the intense magic she felt brewing inside her ever since Jefferson's?

"Emma?" Snow touched her shoulder, though she was careful to only brush the material of her jacket. "Do you know what this means?"

"Yeah," she muttered, staring blankly before her. "It means," her eyes darted around, processing the information. A few days ago, this might have been all a little too much for Emma Swan to take, but the discovery of her visions as an extension of her magic filled her with a rather intoxicating notion. "It means," she paused and looked up with a sort of maniacal gleam in her eye. "It means I don't have to make a deal with Gold," she realized out loud.

"What?" cried both her parents, clearly expecting a different response.

"He's gonna tell me everything," Emma said with a grin, "Without even knowing it." She turned once more to the door, pulling on her other glove.

"Emma wait, that's not—"

"Just because you can see doesn't mean you can control—"

"Listen," she spun around to face them, adamant that this time they respect…or at least accept her decision. "I know how much you two…" she struggled, searching for the words, "I know you mean well." She glanced up at James. "I even know, deep down…you meant well with that deal." James looked away as she continued. "You both have this-this sense that…you need to protect me. That you need to – to make up for lost time or something—"

"Emma," said her mother, "that's not it—"

"But what I need now is a lead," she insisted, "not a parent." The remark clearly stung them both, but Emma pressed on, determined they understand her. That they believe in her. "You sent me through here to give me my best chance," she said, her voice hitching in her throat. "And I got it. It wasn't the best life, but it taught me to be strong – to look out for myself." She took a step toward her mother, seeing her own pain reflected in Snow's eyes. But there was strength there too. And pride. And in spite of everything, she smiled. "Now, I need to look out for Henry…to give him his best chance."

"And that chance is Gold?" said James, his impassioned grunt still chocked full of doubt.

Emma took a deep breath and stepped towards her father. "Maybe, maybe not. But we're not gonna get anywhere by playing it safe. You knew that when you set out to capture him in the first place."

James's crossed arms fell to his sides and he gaped. "What? How did you—"

"I've read your story…Dad," she rasped. James gasped and tears welled in Snow's eyes. "I know the risks you take to protect your friends. To protect your family." She turned to her mother, "Both of you."

Snow clasped her daughter's wrist and squeezed. James remained stunned, staring at her through his watery gaze. Had she really just called him…Dad?

"Now you've gotta let me do the same." She slipped out of her mother's grasp and headed once more for the door. "I do need your help," she said as she pulled on her hat. "I need you to get everyone else to safety, to protect our friends…so I can save our family."

…

***So! Hmm…yeah, it's been a while! Happy Thanksgiving everyone! (And Labor Day, and Halloween, and pretty much everything else that's happened since I last updated!) And to my international readers out there who do not celebrate such things, happy end-of-autumn!

As I have explained to some of you in individual messages, September through November for me is VERY hectic, and school is especially tough this year having taken on an additional prep. I'm basically in charge of four extra-curricular activities/events at school, all of which operate solely in the fall semester. So I apologize for the huge gap in updates, and will only add a HUGE thank you for allowing me back into your graces this fine Saturday eve and hope that you continue to enjoy the story as it unfolds.

Many of you have messaged, asking me if I'm going to include Neal, if I'm going to change my Aurora and Philip stories, if I'm going to account for the incredibly good-looking Hook we were introduced to a few weeks ago, etc. To those questions, I will simply reiterate what I have said before on similar occasions last year when the show diverged from my own concept: I intend to include as much canon as I can so long as it doesn't interfere with what I already had/have planned for these characters.

It's good to be back, and I hope you continue to stick with "Toll Bridge" as Emma tracks down Mr. Gold and James and Snow try to arrange a mass exodus of allies down to the caverns. And then there's that pesky Regina and how SHE will react to all this. Stay tuned if you dare!

And thanks again for your continued readership!

-Nikstlitslepmur***