A/N: After over 2 years of being absent, I have returned to finish this story. I am so sorry it has taken me this long to come back to it. Please feel free to re-read the previous few chapters (or the entire fic!) to see where we are picking up. I've also had the chance to revise and proofread this entire fic from its beginning until now. If you're still reading this, thank you for patiently waiting for this update and for anyone who has just found this story, thank you for taking a chance on it. We only have 2 chapters after this one to reach the epilogue. In the end, I hope it's worth the wait.
News travels fast in a town as small as Storybrooke.
Scarcely two days have passed, and the chatter in the streets only circles the election for town constable. When Emma and Mary Margaret pass people on their way to purchase fresh eggs or fish, all they hear are rampant discussions about David's inexperience and Keith's apparent history as a lawman. The limited time both candidates have to woo the townsfolk adds to the anticipation in the air, as tantalizing as the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting out from open windows of nearby cottages.
August and Marco's preference is clear. The inexhaustible supply of paper from the carpenter's shop is now emblazoned with the words "Vote for David Nolan" in bold, capital letters. They must have cajoled at least a dozen children into handing these out to passersby. Then at Granny's store, a large banner hangs above the entrance with the same lettering.
On the other hand, George Spencer has invited the men of the town to an evening of unlimited rounds of ale and rum at "The Rabbit Hole" as his incentive for Keith Garrison. Even now, they can see him guiding Keith down the main road, accosting any man or woman unlucky enough to cross their path. Despite her personal feelings, Granny cannot refuse such an ostentatious paying customer — especially the town magistrate, in all his staggering conceit and arrogance. With a single word and snap of his gloved fingers, he can take away her store and the tavern in one day.
This is a clear competition between a man who has lived in Storybrooke all his life and another who presumes to own it. Will the residents be loyal to one of their own or cower in fear because the other has the means to destroy them?
The election takes place on Saturday morning, as a matter of urgency. The truth will break free then.
Meanwhile, Emma is relishing the chance to spend time in the company of a dear friend — as well as her charming suitor, who has faithfully appeared at her doorstep every day for their usual evening stroll. Ever since they professed their love for each other, Killian has trudged from his post down the winding paths to spend an hour with her after dinner every day. It is a long trek from the lighthouse to the town below, but he never complains. If anything, his face brightens more and more each time he sees her.
These days, they are both smiling like lovesick fools in public and in private. If no one knew they were courting before, they do now. Between Killian's charming smirk and her bashful blushing, they make quite a pair. Covert kisses along the beaten paths, his arm around her waist, his hand brushing aside the low tree branches in their way, a fragrant flower slipped behind her ear as a token of his admiration…
She feels like she is living a dream. She has found love here, by the sea and sky. In the last place she expected. No more fear and no more hesitation. What she and Killian share is real and alive, breathing as surely as they are.
Yet beneath this shimmer of warmth are shadows. David and Mary Margaret are avoiding each other.
One may assume their silence is partly his involvement in the election, his desire to convince the town that he deserves to be the constable. However, Killian and Emma know better.
Soon enough, David learned about the exchange of her land for his. She told him face-to-face before local gossip spread about the boarded-up windows and doors of her humble cottage. Initially, he was livid. Killian himself could personally attest to his friend's shouting and yelling. Then that anger swiftly died out, becoming a thick, permeating smoke between the couple. They cannot see each other clearly because of it.
Thankfully, Ruth's health seems to be on the mend. When Emma visited with Mary Margaret the other day, she was well enough to sit up in bed and partake of the soup and bread they brought for her. David must have told her what happened. But her gaze held no judgment, and her words bore no scorn. She kindly lay a hand over Mary's and asked, in the gentlest tone and with genuine concern in her voice, how she was coping. The next moment, her friend was sobbing, enfolded in her future mother-in-law's loving embrace.
It hurts to see David and Mary estranged. When she pauses and thinks about their cold indifference, guilt stabs at her for being blissful with Killian, confident of his love. But misunderstandings heal with time. She cannot ask for time to hurry so they can reconcile. That is not within her power.
All she can truly do is support David's efforts and help her friend through these difficulties.
As Killian guides her under bowers of flowering vines, her hand clasping his, he entwines their fingers. "You look radiant this evening, love. A fallen star from the heavens."
Smiling, she shakes her head. "It was my understanding you are an artist, Mr. Jones. Are you a poet as well?"
He grins in return. "Only around you, dear Miss Swan. I think I could write volumes upon volumes of poetry, if need be."
"And draw hundreds of sketches? Create a thousand paintings as well?"
"Aye. Capture your beauty in my canvas, with every brushstroke." He leans in to softly kiss her cheek. "Art can safeguard love so well. Every time you see mine, you will never doubt my feelings for you."
She considers the idea, but it leads her right back to their friends' predicament. "And if we ever bicker… If we are angry with each other. What then? Will we suddenly refuse to speak to each other?"
He stops short, keeping her in place. "We may not always agree, Emma, but rest assured, I will never turn my back on you. I will do what it takes to make things right. Do you believe me?"
"I want to believe you, Killian. I do." She sniffles. "David and Mary Margaret are the kindest, dearest people in this town. The most loving. Now every time he sees her, he cannot wait to leave. He even crosses to the other side of the road so he will not meet us."
The thought that they may break their engagement over the sweet girl's sacrifice is heartbreaking. Will they see eye to eye again?
"Dave is being stubborn. And pig-headed, I will admit." He clicks his tongue. "But he will come around. You will see. He has a forgiving nature, and he loves the lass. He cannot stay angry forever."
"He acts as if he will," she grumbles, urging him forward so they can continue their stroll. "He has not come to visit her once."
"Be glad of that. It was I who absorbed much of his ire instead of her."
"It is his pride, Killian. His vain, foolish pride when he should be thanking her—"
"On bended knee, perhaps?" He shakes his head. "To accept such an enormous gift is humbling, lass. His hurt is deeper than a parcel of land. Spencer's threats, Ruth's illness. All these events piling on the poor fellow at the same time. I cannot blame him for being angry."
"I do not blame him. But I wish…" She pauses again, and he almost loses his footing. "I wish they would make peace. For both their sakes."
"We can only hope." He smiles at her. "Perhaps the debate on Friday will help."
Oh, that outlandish prospect. When David was speaking to a group of townsmen August had gathered this afternoon, Keith Garrison made a point of openly mocking him. What did a shepherd know about keeping the peace and upholding the law? David's swift rebuttal about the biblical Goliath elicited more than a few chuckles from the crowd. As a result, Garrison's face turned purple, and it looked like he would resort to violence. Then George Spencer stepped in and said, in a calm, controlled voice, that they should hold a public debate instead of arguing like peasants in the streets. This way, the entire town could listen to what they proposed to do as constables.
She thinks it is ridiculous. They are not running for mayor but to guard a makeshift jail that does not exist yet. And if it is built, it will house three people at most.
A soft blossom, dangling in front of her face, tickles the tip of her nose. She chuckles, breathing in its sweet scent.
"Let us speak of pleasant things. Books and flowers, paintings and sunsets," he said quietly. "Seize the day, aye?"
"The evening. It will be dark soon."
Chuckling, he tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. "Aye, the evening with my darling Emma, whom I love dearly."
His voice is utterly sincere. He almost looks frightened that she will deny she loves him in return. Despite their mutual confession, their hearts are still fragile.
She leans forward, tilting her head just so. "And I love you, dear Killian. My heart is yours."
The warm kiss they share, under sweeping pine trees and violet sky, echoes their love, until she feels all it promises in her very bones.
The days continue to pass slowly until Friday. In this way, Mary Margaret's constant presence in the small cottage is a welcome distraction.
Little by little, Emma discovers that she has truly missed sharing her space with another living soul. Silence and emptiness are gone, faded into the shadows. Now they share the task of preparing supper, and they chat late into the evening hours. At times, her friend speaks of her past, her childhood with her father. During others, they both stare into the fireplace, lost in contemplation. They have to share the only bed out of necessity, but it is a comfort to listen to someone else's soft breathing during the lonely night. Amid all the suffering and anguish, they both know they are not alone.
After years of silence, Emma speaks of Neal again. His betrayal, her heartache as an orphan, her journey as a governess, all of it. It is liberating to have a soul she trusts acknowledge her pain. And Killian knows her history as well. She confided in him first, in hushed whispers, as twilight reached them from the distant horizon during their strolls.
The overwhelming sense of peace that has settled over her shoulders is a breath of fresh air. She no longer needs to hide within herself, afraid to be seen. She has people she trusts now. She has friends. She has Killian.
If Storybrooke is to be her home, she must fight for it.
Unwilling to drag the townsfolk out of their homes at night, the town council has settled on a midday debate in the church. By the time Mary Margaret and Emma arrive, the pews are nearly full, anxious faces staring ahead at Pastor Hopper. He is wringing his hands and shifting from foot to foot, looking at the other council members, already seated, and the growing crowd.
Off to the side, David and Keith Garrison are with their fervent supporters. George Spencer is whispering something into his protégé's ear, while Killian is clapping David on the back as a form of reassurance.
Finally, Pastor Hopper gestures that they all quiet down. "Welcome, everyone. We all know why we are here today. In front of you are two fine candidates who are hoping to become our new constable. One is Keith Garrison, recommended by our magistrate, George Spencer. The other is one of our own, David Nolan. We ask each of them to come up here and tell all of you why you should vote for them to hold this position."
David glances at Keith, who is smirking. "Both of us, Reverend? At the same time?"
"One at a time, if you please," he says kindly. "Who would like to go first?"
With Keith's haste to rise to his feet, it almost appears that Spencer pushed him out of his seat. At first, his steps are awkward and unsteady. Then he gains confidence behind the podium, eyeing the people like a fox eager to raid a henhouse.
"Good afternoon. I know I have not been among you for long. When Mr. Spencer told me about your need for a constable, I leapt at the opportunity to come here. See, I grew up in a small town. My mother was a laundress. One day, she was robbed of her coin as she was coming home. Our town had no constable, so the thief escaped. No one was punished. That was all her wages, so we nearly starved that month."
There are deep murmurs rippling through the aisles.
"That day taught me a valuable lesson. Some believe they should take whatever they can from this world. Others believe they should give as much as they can. I vowed to give my life in service to righting those wrongs and fighting for justice. I first became a guard in a city prison, and then, after years of dedicated service, I rose to be the chief warden. Later, a respected sheriff. It would be my honor to serve as your constable."
He clears his throat before continuing.
"Unlike some individuals here," he says with a pointed look at David, "I have always upheld the law. And I will do so here, treating all with the same courtesy and respect. Our jail will be erected in record time. And if anyone breaks the law, I can assure you they will be punished accordingly."
His fine words sound like a thinly veiled threat. And who will he answer to — George Spencer? Did that snake write that entire speech for him and force him to memorize it?
Nodding at Pastor Hopper, he descends from his post and swiftly returns to his master, smug and triumphant. They both seem very pleased with themselves.
Emma turns to look at Mary Margaret, whose eyes are fixed on David as he hesitantly stands up. He almost stumbles on the steps, then regains his balance. His hands hang awkwardly at his sides, and he is pulling out pages of what appear to be notes. He glances up and down three times, as if unsure how to begin.
Finally, his hands find the solid wood of the podium and rest there at ease. And this time, when he stares at the crowd, his gaze doesn't waver.
His mouth opens, then closes. Emma can hear Keith and Spencer snickering on the side. But she sees Mary's face, luminescent. All at once, David has noticed her. And he is not looking away. Slowly, his lips curve upward.
And his beloved's answering smile outshines the sun.
The courage and strength in his voice keep it steady. "Good people of Storybrooke — good afternoon. I planned to come up here and tell you all about why I am qualified to be a good constable for this town. I have sheets and sheets of words for you, and some are very long."
The crowd chuckles in unison.
"Mr. Garrison has the experience you want. And his credentials seem sound. I cannot compete with that. But what I do have is what I share with all of you. I have lived here all my life. I know our town. I know its people. I know you. I may not be able to mingle and join in our socials because I have a farm. I raise sheep. Like you, I work hard to take care of myself and my mother Ruth, whom you know. I also plan to marry the woman I love and raise a family here."
Mary Margaret's eyes are glistening. Emma dares to peek at Killian, who offers an encouraging smile and wink.
"I may not have years of serving a jail or a county, but please believe me when I say that I will serve you well. Honesty and justice are important to me. I cannot undo the wrongs of my father. I cannot change the past." He is determined, open, genuine. "But I can protect your rights and defend you. I will always protect this town. Because I care about this town. I always will. Storybrooke is my home. You and I understand that, but Mr. Garrison has just arrived. You know me. Please give me a chance. Let me show you how well I can take care of your safety and your property."
For the rest of the day and well into the evening, Mary Margaret says little. It is understandable given how taut their nerves are after the debate. It is a wonder either of them sleeps that night, distressed over tomorrow and what it will bring.
When the morning comes, they hurry through dressing and breakfast to reach the church. The voting begins early, and, sadly, only men can vote. Emma has heard tales from Killian about the success of Spencer's evening of unlimited liquor. It is worrying. If he has swayed them in his favor, David will not win.
And yet…
They stand on pins and needles, among the women and children who stare at the church doors. It will take hours for all the men to cast their votes. Then Pastor Hopper, the appointed mediator, will count them.
For hours, they wait. It seems like an eternity. They do not speak, they do not move. Silence reigns supreme.
Then the men join them as the polls close. Killian is immediately by her side, taking her hand in his. George Spencer and Keith Garrison stand together, saying nothing as their eyes flicker from the doors to the ground. David, on the other hand, is pacing by himself. He may create a new path with the way he is tramping back and forth.
Suddenly, minutes or hours later, the doors open. Pastor Hopper comes out, waving a piece of paper in his hand.
"People of Storybrooke, thank you all for coming. I have in my hands the results of our election for town constable. I am pleased to announce that in a historic landslide victory, the honor of this position goes to our very own David Nolan. David, congratulations."
Everyone present is cheering, whistling, applauding. Spencer looks like he has swallowed a nasty bug he cannot spit out. Keith seems crestfallen. And David — his elation and surprise are wonderful to behold. Emma hasn't seen him this happy since their family picnic with Ruth. He eagerly shakes hands with all men within arm's reach, caught between a state of disbelief and excitement.
Then she sees his expression change into one of wonder. Single-minded, seeing no one else, Mary Margaret approaches him. The way they look at each other, expressing so much without words, bashful and uncertain, stirs Emma's heart. Their growing smiles, reserved for each other, are breathtaking.
They have found each other again. They will be alright. Deep down, she knows this to be true.
And as she leans into Killian's embrace, she hopes with all her might that Robin Locksley has received her urgent letter and will be in Storybrooke imminently.
If the fury on Spencer's face is anything to go by, her former employer cannot come soon enough.
A/N: A/N: Thank you for taking the time to read this story. Reviews and feedback are welcome and appreciated! I am also on Tumblr ( 4getfulimaginator2022) and in the CSMM Discord group ( Talia).