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You’ll be the last…
The crown weighs heavily upon her head and her voice is hoarse from hours of repeating her kingdom’s oath, committing it to memory. I solemnly swear to uphold and maintain the law and justices of my kingdom. I solemnly swear to uphold and maintain the law and justices of my kingdom. I solemnly swear…
Emma slams the book shut and shoves it off its stand, the satisfying crash only lasting a brief moment before her frustration settle in once more. Why couldn’t she remember the final line to the oath? The one thing she has to say in the entire ceremony and she can’t even get it right! How is she expected to rule a kingdom, an entire realm when she can’t even get the wording right?
The White dynasty will fall!
Will his voice leave her alone? Her hand reaches up and yanks the crown off her head, only hissing when one of the encrusted jewels takes a small bit of hair with it. Emma holds the relic out in front of her and critically studies it. It was a crown meant for the greatest of leaders, gifted from Merlin to Frederick the Magnificent’s coronation. For nearly five centuries her family has worn this crown and now it was her turn to follow in their place. She’d dreamt of this moment for so long, imagining how excited she’d be taking the throne in her mother’s place, adorned by the rich cloaks and diamond-studded sashes presented to her at her coronation. But this isn’t how she wanted it. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
The last to rule will fail…
Stubborning, she shoves the crown back on her head and stares at her reflection. The blood red rubies glisten at the slightest movement and for a brief second, she wonders how many lives were lost mining these jewels. Did Merlin make them or did he kill someone for them? She doesn’t know, but her expression softens to remorse and the crown slips further down her head. It’s impossible to keep the nine pound crown on, her head aching under its weight, but Emma keeps staring at herself, turning just slightly to her left. From this angle she looks almost like her mother, the warm light flattering her wintry white skin, her lips plumper than normal from worrying on them so much. Almost spitting image of Snow White, she thinks, but her eyes are all wrong, big and wide like a child’s, betraying her inexperience. Her long blonde hair is tied to the side in a messy braid and she untangles it until small curls cascade over her shoulder, just like how her mother always wore it, but even that can’t hide how young she feels. It was like she was a child playing dress-up, standing here with a crown that is much too big for her head.
She’d wanted to wear the tiara her mother had given her for her tenth birthday, but the Royal Council objected profusely, deigning the simple tiara as frivolous and lacking in command. The people needed a queen who will help guide them through this most difficult time. The loss of a monarch was never easy, but their kingdom had to deal with that as well as the war the kingdom was fighting against Camelot. Now more than ever did they need her guidance, but Emma didn’t know how to lead them. Her mother had never prepared her for this, dying so unexpectedly as she did. How is she expected to lead her people if no one taught her? Sure, Emma knew how to be a princess. That part was easy. All she had to do was smile at dignitaries when they visited, make a few appearances at charity bazaars, and dance with every eligible prince until her feet sang louder than the orchestra. But lead an entire kingdom during war? Inspire them to fight in her honor?
She felt like a child, a fraud, wearing this crown.
You will fail.
It’s impossible to say how long she stands there. Her crown slowly shifts down her head, shadowing her eyes in the dim light. The combination of Rumplestiltskin’s words echoing in her mind and the weight of the crown make her feel small and powerless. She doesn’t even realize that she’s hyperventilating until large warm hands pull her out of her sea of doubt and she can breathe again.
“Emma,” Killian says, his voice distant next to the deafening ringing in her ears. “Emma, love,” he says again, wiping her cheek with his thumb. “You were screaming.”
“I was?” Her voice sounds scratchy from overuse, and when did she start screaming? What time is it? Her eyes flit across the room at the grandfather clock and widen at how late it is. That can’t be right. It was only ten o’clock the last she checked. How was it past two in the morning now? Why was she still up? Her aunt will be here at sunrise to help her properly dress for the coronation—
Oh wait—that is today. In a few short hours!
Her heart speeds up because it’s too soon and Rumplestiltskin said she’d fail and why would anyone trust her to be queen? And just like that, the weight is lift off her head, the soft glow of the candles glowing brighter. Killian sets the crown aside and sadly smiles at her, hands going back to her hair, her cheeks, reminding her to breathe.
You will fail.
“Breathe, Emma.”
The dynasty ends with you.
“It’s just us.” Killian’s words wrap around her like a cocoon, protecting her from the prophecy. “That’s it. Trust me, love. I’m here, listen to my voice.” Her arms shake, but she pulls him closer, needing him. Soon she can hear the waves outside the cracked window instead of her heart pounding, his low whisper instead of Rumplestiltskin. Emma feels a bit silly now for reacting the way she did.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she whispers into his chest, still not ready to let go.
“What are you still doing up?” His hand rubs small, calming circles into her back, relaxing her muscles.
She’s never lied to him before. Not even when he caught her sneaking out the first night they truly met. That night they hadn’t been Her Royal Majesty, Princess Emma of Misthaven and the carriage driver, they were simply Emma and Killian. No secret was ever kept because secrets caused small cracks to appear. She didn’t want that in any relationship, but especially not with him. Standing in his arms, feeling small and unprepared for what faced her in a few short hours, Emma considers lying to him. If he knew where she’d been today, he’d only be upset with her and she can’t bear that.
She clings tighter.
“Is it about the ceremony?” Of course it’s about the ceremony. She nods. “It’s not too late to post-pone,” he reminds her, pulling himself out of her tight grasp to look her in the eye. “The kingdom will understand.”
The people’s hatred will divide the land in half.
“I can’t,” she stutters. “The people—they—my mother—” She looks away and frowns. If her mother were here, she wouldn’t hesitate to do what was right. Snow White was a queen first and a mother second. She was a queen for her people, a ray of hope after the tyrannical reign of the Evil Queen. A simple thing like death wouldn’t stop her from offering hope to her mourning kingdom and Emma knows the same dedication is now expected of her.
“I have to do this, Killian.”
“Your mother just died—”
“And hundreds continue to die in this frivolous war!” she retorts back sharply, breaking apart from his grasp all together. “They need a queen to give them hope, Killian, not a coward.”
“Mourning your own mother’s death isn’t cowardice.” His eyes plead with her, begging her to see his reasoning. “Misthaven may have lost their queen, yes, but you lost a mother. The people will understand.”
She thinks to the dank prison they keep Rumplestiltskin locked away in, his manic laughter painting each horrific image he shared of her future, and shudders. They will hate you, he told her. The White dynasty will fall with you, dearie. Merlin predicted it centuries ago. You stood no chance.
“They won’t,” her voice hard with certainty. “They expect a queen who is brave enough to face anything, even…” Emma gulped, tears threatening to fall. She closes her eyes for a moment to steady herself. “Even her own mother’s death.”
“You sound so sure you’ll fail,” he worries and grabs her hand, pulling her back to him. I will fail. She looks away, her eyes landing on the crown once more.
“I know I’ll fail. It’s been prophesied that I will.” Her voice already raw goes up an octave. “I’m going to fail and they will hate me.”
“Prophesied? By whom?” But the way his eyes darken under the question, lips pursing into a straight line, she knows he knows. Who else did they know who accurately predicted the future; who’d enjoy inflicting this type of pain on her?
“Rumplestiltskin.” Killian’s posture goes rigid at the name and her shoulders drop at his silent response, a new weight adding to her load. He needed to know, though. They never lied to each other and she didn’t feel like starting her reign as queen with one. She waits to see what he’ll say but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t yell for breaking their agreement.
It’s hard to say which is worse.
“I’m sorry,” she tries to explain, “but I had to. I had to know so I could prepare myself for the worst.”
“I’m not quite following, love,” he says at last. “How is being told you’ll fail and have a hoard of strangers loath you any reassurance to your nerves, because I’m finding it a bit difficult to follow. Could you please elaborate?”
She’d much prefer the yelling than this, this cool and sarcastic demeanor he wore to mask his frustrations toward her.
“I’m sorry! I just thought if I knew I could prevent it, you know? That I could stop it from happening, but then he started saying how I’m the last one and how the people will hate me so much lands divide, and I’m not ready! I’m not ready to be the queen everyone hates. I’m not ready to wear heavy crowns and diamond sashes, or be the one to decide if a man should be hanged or speared. I’m not ready for any of it!”
“Emma,” he quiets her down, his hands rubbing up and down her arms to help her relax. Everything in her chest feels tight and it’s difficult to breathe, but he’s forever patient with her and waits until she gives him a curt nod that she’s fine. He kisses her forehead and it’s the most magical feeling in the world, the softness of his lips on her skin.
When it’s clear that it’s fine if he continues, he ruefully smiles at her. “I’m not upset you chose to see Rumplestiltskin, or that you believe this nonsense the magic imp’s spewing this time. No, I’m upset that you thought you’re alone in this, that you chose to see him by yourself. That’s what upsets me.”
“Technically, I wasn’t alone. There were guards.” He gives her a look and she blushes slightly. “Sorry.”
“You know exactly what I mean. As for the imp’s words, I place no weight on them. The future is as clear as the murky waters of the ocean. Only the gods know what will happen after today, but what I do know is that you will make a remarkable queen. A fair and honest leader, already sacrificing for your people.”
“He says I’ll fail.”
“Then he obviously doesn’t know you,” he teases. “You’re still the stubborn princess who purposely made herself seem horrendous to any suitor your parents brought along and then proceeded to threaten not marrying anyone at all if you were not allowed to marry for love instead of status. A heavy crown with jewels glued one doesn’t change that person, love. She’s in there, screaming to be let out. Let her.”
“But Rumpletstiltskin—”
“Is an insane magical man who will do anything to crush his captor’s spirits. His words should remain empty at all cost.”
“His prophecies have come true before,” she argues. “In fact, there isn’t a time where I don’t remember them not coming true.”
“Then prove him wrong, princess.” The title throws her and she opens her mouth to object to it. He hasn’t called her that in years, not since their wedding. His eyebrow cocks up in a challenge and it’s so obvious what he’s doing. A challenge; the only way he could ever get her to do something she didn’t want to. He smirks and picks up the crown, brushing back her hair before placing the crown atop her head. “Show him who his queen is.”
“Queen?” she scoffs, crossing her arms at his optimism. “The Dark One has no queen, Killian.”
“Of course he does,” Killian smiles, and much to her delight, stepping closer. Their fight already forgotten. “You.”
“I’m no queen. I’m just a silly little princess in way over her head.”
“Ah,” he breathes, his face inches from hers now, “but you’ve always been a queen to me.” Her cheeks flush, but whether from his flirtatious compliment or his closeness, she isn’t sure. “And tomorrow,” he continues with a soft chuckle, “everyone will see it, too. Believe in yourself, love.”
His kind words warms her heart and she smiles up at him, the crown tilting a bit back. It’s hard not to believe in him; the most beautiful speaker she knows. The way he can turn simple words into a sweet melody that settles any doubts she’s in this alone. Rumplestiltskin says she’ll fail, but what if that happens when she believes in his foreboding prophecy? Perhaps Killian is right. She isn’t alone in this. He’ll be there, helping her council a war-raged kingdom and he’ll be there to help comfort a guilty conscious when ordering the guilty to death. He’ll be there, just like her father was for her mother.
The room is warm, and it has nothing to do with the fire. The gap between them becomes too much. His face looks expectant, waiting for her to make the next move. She doesn’t know what to say, so she closes the gap and kisses him instead.
Later on, when she’s asked to speak those dreaded words, she gulps and looks over to where her family sit, her father now standing in front of her. Killian gives a slight nod of encouragement, his lips mouthing what she needs to say, and she smiles.
“I, Queen Emma of Misthaven, do solemnly swear to uphold and maintain the law and justices of my kingdom.”
And just like that, a new era begins.