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Storybrooke inserts itself into the Forests of Maine, unabashed. At once ancient and new, it pushes aside tree and rock and animal and bone to make room for itself; it brings Knowledge, sidewalks, roads, buildings, strange things made by Human Flesh at Storybrooke's behest, things The Forests of Maine have only heard whispers about from Maine—not the state of Maine, of course, but Maine. And it brings Flesh, too, odd, new, different Flesh that doesn’t fit, doesn’t make sense, Flesh with Lore that sends shivers up the stumps of The Forests of Maine’s trees.
The Forests of Maine remember how it feels to be invaded by foreign Flesh. They circle Storybrooke, uneasy. They send fire to Storybrooke, stretch out their claws and their deepest roots toward the new Border, waken their biggest hunters (bears and snakes and ghosts) from slumber and demand they invade and take back what Storybrooke has stolen, what is theirs, what they will not lose again.
All are turned back at the Border, a bubble that stretches from the Earth’s core to its sun and its moon, hanging high in the sky.
Branches groan, the snakes in their bowels hissing at Maine. What isss? Do not like. Hurthurthurtsss usss, it does. Ssslams into our backsss, digsss up our rootsss, chopsss usss down, huntsss our belovedsss. Helpsss usss, yesss? You were usss once, too, before Human Flesh and Lore gave you life, stole you away from usss to make you Maine, asss the newbad stealsss from usss now.
Hush, says Maine. We have little in the way of Lore. This is yours now, is ours. Embrace.
But in truth, even Maine cannot breach Storybrooke’s impenetrable Borders. Maine, too, tries to reach out to Storybrooke, but the Curse says nothing, cannot hear Maine or pretends not to.
The Forests of Maine groan, have no choice but to accept Storybrooke, and for twenty years, the Invader sits, still and silent, in the centre of Forests’ heart.
**
Storybrooke loves its Flesh. It keeps them safe in its glass bubble, preserves them in a jar with an unbreakable seal, a sandless hourglass that even Time cannot touch; its Flesh remains flawless, Timeless, not happy, not sad, but so alive with a steady beating drum, a tune that never changes.
Storybrooke feels the pulse of its inhabitants, its Human Flesh, its birds and bees and buds; it feels how they tread on its back, sometimes soft, sometimes trampling through its brambles, its streets, the woods it stole from The Forests of Maine. It feels how every day their paths are the same, a cycle that flows through its heart like the blood through their veins. It trembles at their touch, their voices and faces that never change; at night, it serenades them with a song they can’t hear, cradles them in their sleep. It memorizes their words, their stories, knows every inch of them, their tears and their laughter, their love and their hatred.
It gives them names, names that it knows are not their Names, but names which speak to it anyway. It gives them more than it was ever supposed to: lives, friends, families, work. It lets bits of their Fairytale Lore slip in and mingle with the stories it weaves, so that Mary Margaret has an affinity for animals that she never questions, Dr. Hopper becomes a psychiatrist, and Granny and Ruby run a diner, and none of them understand why.
And when it sees that Regina is lonely, it lets her bring in an Outsider-Flesh-Child. It Names him Henry, and it knows that Henry is special, essential, part of its Lore (not Fairytale Lore, but its Lore, Storybrooke Lore, which is new and exciting and wonderful). Storybrooke showers the boy with love as he grows.
Every so often, it feels the weight of the Others pressing against its Border, trying to break in, tear it to shreds, put new roots and things that don’t belong in its soil. But Storybrooke loves its Flesh, and it keeps them safe.
Once, it was only swirling mist born of flesh and bone and blood, a thick, gaseous, poisonous substance with insatiable hunger, that devoured everything it touched, grew as it ate, enfolded land and Lore and Flesh into its dark waves. It remembers the painful gnawing in its intransient stomach, its need for blood and bone and marrow, its desire to tear everything (but especially the Lore of Happy Endings) to shreds.
But when it comes to Maine, there is nothing left for it to eat; no Magic, no True Love, just Flesh. It Names itself Storybrooke, and sets about its duty in earnest.
Storybrooke loves its Flesh, and it keeps them safe.
**
The Forests of Maine feel the change in the air when Emma Swan comes to Storybrooke. She is Named when she introduces herself to a man with a gleaming grin, a gold tooth, and a walking cane--not that The Forests of Maine know this, still stuck as they are on the fringes, unable to communicate with the one they refuse to identify by its Name, the one they call Invader. Still, the Naming permeates all things, even the Border, thick as it is, and the Name spreads like wildfire through the countryside.
Emma Ssswan, Ssstorybrooke, whisper The Forests of Maine, swooning.
Emma Swan, Storybrooke, agrees Maine.
No, rumbles Storybrooke, reaching out to the Others for the first time. Its voice is loud, booming, an earthquake that shakes Maine at its core. Mine.
What’s yours is ours, says Maine, smiles toothily, once it’s recovered from the shock, but Storybrooke has already retreated to its bubble.
The Forests of Maine don’t mind. They feel the shift in the air as Time dances through Storybrooke for the first time.
**
The war begins when the Curse is lifted.
True Love blazes, rages, razes Storybrooke to the ground, comes at it in full force with live, beating hearts donning swords and armour that push and pull and prod at Storybrooke’s strings. A shockwave hits Storybrooke hard, sends cracks crashing through the centre of its streets, its buildings, almost snaps it in half.
It holds its ground against the onslaught.
Let them tassste earth, and freedom, whisper The Forests of Maine, feeling traces of the True Love that emanate from somewhere deep inside Storybrooke.
No, thunders Storybrooke, sending tendrils of dark clouds through The Forests’ skies.
**
Storybrooke thinks it unfair that its Flesh call it Curse, a false Naming that stings and burns after all it has done for them.
Even Regina doesn’t understand what it has become, that it is more than a Curse, more than the poison she used to spoil the land and sweep them all away. It loves its Flesh, even now that the hourglass has shattered, and Time and True Love and Happy Endings sweep through its Borders and streets.
Regina doesn’t understand how it hurts as the things she sent it to devour now try to destroy it. She thinks only of herself, of her suffering, of how now she’s lost again. She ignores the creation which she breathed into life with her father’s heart, the being which sings and tells stories and loves and hates, which hurts as True Love tries to pry it from its inhabitants. In retribution, Storybrooke starts sending dead Squirrels to Regina’s doorstep.
Storybrooke clings to its town with fervour, clenches its fists around every building, every street corner, digs its heels into cement and grass and dirt, curls itself around the Human Flesh it holds so dear, buries itself deeper in their hearts.
It sets up camp at the Borders of its town, weaves itself into the edges of the bubble, and builds its stronghold in a tight, unyielding circle around its town. True Love is strong, but not so strong as to be completely rid of Storybrooke, who’s had so much time to knit itself into the fabric of Time and Life.
And so Storybrooke remains, and if any of its Flesh try to leave, it shapes itself to a parasite that crawls into their brains, and sucks away their TrueLoveHappyEnding Life, until nothing remains but the flawless, beautiful Timelessness of Storybrooke’s making.
Because Storybrooke loves its Flesh, and it keeps them safe.