Chapter Text
It’s dark. The scent of pine and earthy dampness permeates the air, and Emma Swan takes deep gulping breaths. She blinks against blinding flashes of green light, but they fade away within seconds, leaving her disoriented. She takes a moment to look around: she’s in the forrest around Storybrooke, that she is sure of. How did she get here? She doesn’t understand the stifling sense of dread: it it as though the entire forest has taken a deep breath, and the air hangs heavy and still, barring the lone sound of her heart beating frantically, expanding outwards, outwards in her chest like it is going to explode.
She immediately notices the sword in her right hand when she tries to steady herself against a nearby tree trunk, nearly doubling over to catch her breath. She blinks at it, confused. But, a moment’s examination alerts her that it’s the sword, there is no mistaking the carved insignia on the handle or the jewel. But that’s not what makes her breath hitch all over again like she’s hyperventilating. Her hand is dark, and wet, and the grip is slippery. Her attempt at collecting herself shatters like an illusion. Her hand immediately begins to shake uncontrollably. She drops the sword.
Is that … is that blood? It’s on her sword, and her fingertips. She feels sick to her stomach and can’t explain it. How did she get here? Why is there blood … on the sword. Oh God, there’s some on her coat too. She quickly checks herself for injury, and finds nothing. Her phone, to her complete lack of surprise, is also missing.
She needs to get out of the forrest. Needs to get back to town. Maybe someone there will help her explain this. She briefly considers leaving the sword behind, but eventually picks it up again, fighting desperately to keep her hand steady as she stumbles her way onto the road that leads into Storybrooke.
Just a bit further. Just keep going, she tells herself, even though her pounding heart does not abate. She barely makes it to Main Street when she feels the presence behind her, so ominous it seems like all the prior heaviness in the air had collapsed upon itself into one single point. She turns slowly knowing exactly who she will find: the hooded figure from her visions, sword brandished and seeking her blood.
“Savior,” he says. “I’ve been waiting.”
“Who are you?” She manages to croak out, her shaky voice betraying her paralyzing fear of this moment. Her destiny has finally come upon her, and her chest tightens even further with the realization that everything has been leading up to this. This is it, she will die here tonight.
The figure smiles at her.
“My name is Gideon.”
“Gideon. You’re Belle and Gold’s infant child?”
“I am no child. And I have come from the Dark Realm to take your light for my own.”
Suddenly, Gideon is upon her before she can even blink. He swings his sword with a desperate ferocity that reverberates painfully in her sword arm as she barely manages to block his blow in time. But he keeps coming at her, undaunted, each slash more powerful than the last, and although she dodges, parries, and gets in a few good hits of her own, she knows she cannot keep this up for long.
She can distantly make out David and Hook arriving from the corner of her eye, Henry not far behind. They are calling her name, but it feels as though they are yelling at her from behind a thick wall of water, all garbled and muted. Gold and Belle are suddenly here too. A part of Emma’s brain notes strangely that Regina is no where to be seen.
Immediately, her right arm begins to shake uncontrollably, like it had in her visions, and her sword begins to slip from her fingers. No … no, no, no.
Gideon seizes the opportunity and magics the sword away from her with a smirk. He throws her to the ground with a blast of magic, and takes a moment to give the sword an appreciative glance. But then he begins to slowly advance on her prone form, as she lies defenseless on the coarse asphalt.
Emma tries to call on her magic … but the shaking of her hand won’t stop. She grasps futilely at any wisps of power within her, but they seems to slip further and further out of her reach. Please, she thinks, as her fingers begin to twinge in pain.
She gasps when she sees Gideon raise the sword above her heart, ready to deliver the fatal blow. At that precise instance, a voice finally manages to cut through the fog muting her senses.
“Mom! You can stop him!”
It’s Henry’s voice. Henry, who has always had faith in her despite all of her failings. His voice is a spark in the darkness; it reignites her determination and fans its flames. Yes. She can stop this Gideon. She’s the savior, and she can fight this. She refuses to die here, cold and dirty on the side of the road while her family watches. Digging deep within her reserves, she manages to still her trembling fingers, and summon a ball of energy that she flings at Gideon with all her might.
The force of her onslaught shatters the sword in Gideon’s hand and blows him clear across to the opposite end of the street. Emma wastes no time walking across and roughly holding a sharp fragment of the sword against Gideon’s throat.
She’s livid. How dare this man come into her town and attack her.
Kill him, a small, insidious voice whispers in her mind. You will never be free of your destiny as long as this person is alive.
Gideon glances up at her defiantly, daring her to hurt him. But Emma is shocked to see that underneath his feigned bravado are lost, beseeching eyes. “Please,” She hears Gold entreat her from somewhere nearby. “He’s my son.”
She takes one deep breath. Two. She needs to calm down. She can’t execute this man. She needs to figure out how to restrain him, and interrogate him about his motives. She is the Sheriff after all. But her moment of hesitancy is enough to allow Gideon to make his escape: he vanishes in a flurry of red smoke.
Like a long exhale, all the surrounding sounds come crashing back upon her in a rush. Her family gathers at her side, and Emma is so glad to see them she can cry. Has she done it? Has she really managed to stare destiny down and win? At least for now, she will accept this victory, and ignore the fact that a very potent threat to her well being has just managed to get away.
“Mom! Are you OK?”
“Yes. I think so … I’m fine Henry.”
“Emma! You’re back. You’re hurt!” David says, as he helps her back to her feet. She leans on him heavily and is glad for his solid supporting arm around her waist.
“No, no I’m fine Dad.”
She smiles at Hook, feeling relief wash over her, and she gives him a one armed hug. Her relief instantly disappears when Hook regards her with a growing concern. “Emma, there’s some blood on your coat.” Before she can stop him, he’s already checking her for injury.
“Did he nick you, Love?”
“I … it isn’t mine, I’m not sure where it came from … I don’t …”
“Where’s Mom?” Henry says suddenly, glancing around as though he had somehow missed Regina in the crowd.
A hushed silence descends upon the scene as everyone present turns towards Emma. She blinks at their expectant faces: they seem to think that she must know where Regina is somehow, and something hard plummets in her chest.
“She’s not here?”
“No. She’s supposed to be with you.”
“With me?”
“She went after you, to wherever the wish sent you. She was supposed to bring you back.”
Emma runs a hand through her hair, and pulls at the strands. She tries wracking her brain for anything about the wish or Regina. but her mind draws a blank. Vaguely, she notices her right hand is shaking again.
“How did you get back Emma?”
“I … I don’t know. I don’t remember,” she exhales, frustrated and unsettled. “How can I not remember where I was, or … what happened?”
“Ok. It’s Ok.” David says, his hand on her waist squeezes reassuringly. “Memory loss has been common fare with us when magic is involved. What is the last thing you do remember?”
“I … the Queen granted my wish. I was in Storybrooke … then … was I gone? I don’t know what happened…” She closes her eyes, and replays the events from the forrest in her mind. She vaguely remembers a flash of green light, a loud whooshing sound. “I think there was a portal when I came to. I found myself back at the woods close to town again.”
“So you got back here through a portal? Do you think Mom might still be there?” Henry says, worry clouding his voice. “She’s not picking up her cell. She’s not picking up the phone back at the mansion either.”
“She came after me?”
“Yes.”
“Ok. Ok Dad get some flashlights and your truck and let’s go back to the woods. Hook you head out to her vault. Maybe she came back with me, and she’s …” She’s what? Hurt … or unconscious .. or … “We need to look for her.”
“Hold on Swan, you can’t just go traipsing around the forrest at this time —”
“Hook, Regina is missing. This is serious!”
“I’m not saying it’s not, Love. But look at you: you can barely stand. You’ve just come back from heaven knows where, and you’ve fought a grueling battle. Let’s not forget, your memories are gone. David and I will search the woods. You go back with Henry and get a little rest. I’m sure we’ll find her Majesty soon enough.”
Emma opens her mouth to protest, but her body betrays her. She finds herself sagging against David a little bit more, so she relents. She shows Hook and David approximately where she had been in the woods on David’s map, and Henry helps her walk back to her parent’s loft. Henry’s warmth by her side does nothing to set Emma at ease. But at least Henry fills her in with details of Belle and Gold’s abducted child, and the Evil Queen getting transformed into a snake.
She showers under hot scathing water, rubbing furiously at the red traces on her hands. Her coat is ruined, and she tosses it into the rubbish bin, but not before staring at it for twenty long minutes trying to force herself to remember. Her exhaustion is bone deep. The entire night, her heart had raced along like it had been running a marathon. Now that the adrenaline has dissipated, her chest feels hollow and her limbs leaden. Nevertheless she finds that she cannot relax, and lies awake staring at the ceiling for what seems like hours. When she does finally manage to drift off, she dreams she is a child again.
She’s waving a wooden sword at a brown-haired boy who appears about her age as they chase each other through the corridors of a castle. They run by the rich tapestries on the walls, brilliantly lit with flickering torchlight. As they scamper by, they try to reenact the scenes depicted within them, of brave knights slaying dragons, rescuing princesses, and defeating terrible foes.
“Cummon Emma!” the boy says. “Let me be the White Knight! I want to be the hero this time!”
“No …” Emma giggles. “I’m the White Knight! I’m always the White Knight.”
She runs along further, waving her sword and shouting a battle cry. But Emma stops when she notices that the boy isn’t following her anymore. She looks back to find him crouched by the wall, sobbing silently into his ams.
“Hey … it’s ok. Please don’t cry,” Emma says, as she walks back to lay a hand on his arm.
“But .. I just want to be a hero.” He looks up at her with shimmering earnest eyes. “I just want to save everyone.”
Emma’s heart wells with compassion. She wants to say that anyone can be a hero if they put their minds to it. She wants to say that being a hero isn’t all sunshine and butterflies. It is a hard road filled with loss and sacrifice. But before Emma can respond, the scene before her fades away and she finds herself in a bed within the castle chambers.
She’s supposed to be asleep, she knows, and when Mommy comes to check on her, she pretends to be snoring. But Mommy knows all of her old tricks.
“Can you at least try to get some sleep this time Emma?” Her mother chides, but there is a warm smile on her face, glowing even warmer in the light of the fireplace.
“But I want to play some more, Mommy!” Emma protests petulantly.
“Oh, my little duckling. You can play all you want tomorrow.” She moves to tuck Emma in tightly, but when Emma shies away from her, she tickles her gently in an attempt to coax her back into bed.
Emma retaliates with a pillow to her mother’s face. Subsequently, what had started off as a quiet bedtime affair quickly devolves into a pillow fight. Emma is barefoot and standing on the bed, and Mommy deftly deflects her haphazard attacks with a pillow shield. They’re both grinning and laughing wildly.
Emma only freezes when she sees Daddy standing in the center of the room, frowning at them disapprovingly.
“I’m disappointed in you two,” he says. “Emma is supposed to be sleeping Snow. I can’t believe you two are having a pillow fight.” Here, Daddy pauses for dramatic effect. “Without including me!”
And so it goes. Daddy chases her around the room with a pillow, while her Mommy laughs and laughs until she cannot breathe.
But something is wrong. A niggling feeling in the back of Emma’s mind keeps telling her that this scene isn’t right … this … whatever it is … it has never happened. Emma didn’t spend her childhood feeling warm and loved. She spent it alone.
As soon as that thought crosses her mind, the dream begins to darken and fray at the edges.
The light is immediately snuffed out in the fireplace. Long shadows creep about the room and cast its occupants in a sinister light. At once, her father pauses in his pursuit, and regards her with a fathomless sadness in his eyes.
“Your mother and I love you so much, Emma.”
Emma knows what happens next.
“Don’t!” She pleads, close to tears.
“Don’t go … please … Don’t leave me.”
Then, she blinks. The scene before her smashes into a new terrifying tableaux.
The Evil Queen has her parents’ hearts in her hands, and their faces are contorted with unimaginable pain. They need her help, they need her to do something, but she’s terrified.
“Come on Miss Swan! You don’t want their blood on your hands. Do you?”
Fight, Emma. Be a hero Emma. You’re the savior.
But she’s not. She can’t.
“Do you?” The Queen all but shrieks, and then, she squeezes her parents’ hearts to dust.
Emma screams a long, wounded wail. Her tears flow unfettered down her cheeks. Her heart feels like an injured thing, bleeding into her chest with every beat. The Evil Queen regards her with what appears to be exasperation.
But then Henry bursts into the room. He is saying something that Emma cannot hear. All she can do is focus on his courageous face, her fear multiplying. It is only when the Evil Queen freezes Henry mid lunge, his sword floating in the air, that Emma finally snaps out of her trance. Be the hero.
“Stop. Don’t hurt my son. I’ll come with you … to this Storybrooke that you talk of. Just, please, let him go.”
The Queen eyes her suspiciously, but also with a spark of hope in her eyes that Emma cannot explain.
“You still don’t remember, do you?”
Her eyes sweep over Emma, seemingly contemplating her next course of action. Emma avoids her gaze. Her parents are dead, and for no apparent reason than to satisfy this insane woman’s blood lust. So she focuses instead on the strange feeling bubbling forth from within her. Something has shifted in her heart. Like a seed that has been planted in fertile grounds, an anger blossoms in its core.
Eventually the Queen plucks Henry’s sword out the air, and steals Henry’s scabbard. She motions forwards with the sword.
“You don’t remember, but I suppose that will have to do for now,” she says, sighing dramatically, and Emma’s loathing for her grows tenfold. “Come along then. We have an appointment to keep with the Dark One.”
Emma stands, and wipes her tears. She spares her parents and Henry one last glance. But, as she walks ahead of the Queen, her mind settles on a cold, dark place. “I’ll kill you,” she whispers, a barely audible conviction, a promise. “I will kill you, Evil Queen.”
She wakes up with the promise poisonous and bitter on her lips.