#*posts*

Emma gave him a small, tired smile and replied, “I know”. Killian shakes his head, lines carved into his face. The initial anger has run its course and hollowed him out, leaving just a tired shell in its wake.

“Why did you take that bloody oath?” 

“Because I didn’t have a choice,” she said flatly. “I love Elsa like my sister. You know that Killian. I wouldn’t be here today, nor would this kingdom be here, were it not for her.”

“And that means her war now has to be yours?” he asked. Emma looks down again, her already simmering anger growing. “I know Elsa is a dear friend, and Arendelle is a close ally, but Storybrooke has no quarrel with the Southern Isles-”

“If it had been your brother who was kidnapped,” Emma interrupts. Killian freezes. Hope squirms against Emma’s chest, as if sensing the tension between her parents, and she begins to cry. Turning her back to Killian, Emma whispers in her ear, “It’s okay, little one. Mama’s here. It’s okay.” She pats the girl’s back, the rhythm from an old, old song. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

As Hope dozes off again, Killian lowers himself onto the bed, unable to meet Emma’s eyes. Emma can’t bring herself to look out the window, to see the endless houses of people who will lose family members in this war. She doesn’t want to be reminded that it isn’t just her life she will be responsible for, but the 600 soldiers who come with her. 

She stares at the wall instead. For a long moment, neither one of them speak, the only sound being the rain against the window. 

“I understand why,” he says eventually. His voice is hoarse. “That doesn’t make it fair.”

“I know,” Emma says again. With cautious steps, Emma makes her way to the bed and lowers herself beside Killian. His hand moves toward her, fingertips grazing her thigh. “You know I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have a choice. I tried, I fucking tried-”

“I know,” he replies. “I know you tried. Bloody hell, you pled insanity.” He makes a soft noise, something that is either a laugh or a sob. Emma can still hear him screaming as they rip Hope from his arms, see her small body flying toward the sea. Her magic moving in precise, deliberate motions to catch her. The cold face of the general looking down at her.

“You seem sane enough, Your Majesty. We’ll see you on the front lines a week from tomorrow.”

Biting back tears, Emma presses her face into Killian’s shoulder. She slowly manouvers their daughter so that she rests in her arms. Emma committed every facet of her to memory, scared to look away in case something slipped her mind.

“Be a good girl for your Papa while I’m gone, yeah?” Tears roll down her cheeks and she kisses her daughter’s head. “And I promise, there is nothing, in this or any realm, that can stop me from coming back to you.” 

It was not the norm, but the baby slept in her parents’ bed that night. Emma had prayed to every god she knew that the sun wouldn’t rise, that this night would be endless and she could stay safe in this room. If she knew the right spell, she would have cast it there and then, oath and loyalty be damned.

But a force stronger than magic pulled the sun up the next day.

She shared a final kiss with her husband and swore she would come back. 

She stood at the end of the ship and watched, until her love was just a tiny speck on the horizon and then her kingdom was out of sight. 

That was then, and every day since her family had waited for her. The war ended, but days went on and her fleet never made it back. Her place was kept at the table, her side of the bed untouched, her clothes still hanging in the wardrobe. A telescope sat in the window, pointed at the horizon and morning, noon and night, her husband and daughter would check for a ship on the waves. Neither would give it up. Storybrooke sat, expectant, patient, waiting. 

For twenty years.

During that time, the various realms rebuilt. Evidence of the war was cleaned away, murals depicted to honour those who fell. The tragedy lingered like smoke, but the smoke faded from black to grey and the kingdom could start to see through its collective grief. Some could see through it sharper than others, to the empty throne the Saviour had left behind. With Emma gone, her son married to another kingdom’s princess and her daughter still to come of age, a question emerged about who would take the throne once Snow White stepped down. 

Questions turned to demands. Who could take Emma Swan’s place at the throne? Who could prove themselves worthy of marrying the Prince, of becoming a step-parent to the princess? Every month, a new suitor would arrive at the door, then every week. Then as Princess Hope grew older, it was nearly every day. Some came from Storybrooke and she had known them her whole life, some she had never seen before that day. Each one though was turned away, her father telling them that he was reserved for Emma and Emma only. The suitors had nodded, eyes dark as stormclouds, but turned away. Only one ever dared to ask what if Emma never came home. She went home with blood dripping from her cheeks, but the question could not be unanswered. The realm became hungry. Killian postponed and postponed, made arbitrary timelines for picking a suitor; Hope’s growth, solar eclipses, alignments of planets, anything that would buy Emma more time. Ten years ago, he told them he would choose as soon as he finishes the repairs to the Jolly Roger, smashing the wood each night so he would start again.

One day, they woke to a mob outside their home. No more pushbacks, they said, no more deadlines. Set a challenge, and someone will take the throne by his side. 

Now, they are here. 

Hope stands at her window. She looks at the sprawling gardens outside their home. She had spent her childhood running through that grass, letting it hold her when she felt she couldn’t go on. She used to lie on that ground and looked up at the night sky, whispering prayers to her mother and pretending she heard answers. It was her sanctuary, now trodden by the various suitors here to take her mother’s place. It feels wrong, a twisted violation that leaves her sick.

None of them pay her any attention and it’s a good thing too. They might notice the hatred in her gaze when she looks at them.

“Hope?”

She lifts her chin. Floorboards creak as her father steps towards her.

“They shouldn’t be here,” she tells him. 

“I know,” he sighs. “But I couldn’t hold them off. Not anymore.” She nods. In her short sleeves, they can see the scars from when the suitors broke in that terrible day.

‘Tell your father he’s out of time, runt. If he doesn’t choose someone to share his home with, he won’t have a home to come back to.’

She shivers despite the warm air.

“This won’t happen, Hope,” he tells her. In the mirror, his reflection eyes bore into hers. Hope has often wondered if he sees the mother who left them behind when he looks at her. “I’ll buy her some more time. That’s all she needs. Time.”

She’s had twenty years she thinks, but she daren’t say it. Neither of them can afford to think like that. Her mother will come home, and the strangest of all is that she knows it. The promise took root in her head years ago and it will not leave.

“I know,” she whispers instead. She strokes the circle around her neck, found in her mother’s dresser when she was nine and worn ever since. Closing her eyes, Hope presses her finger to the metal and tries to live up to her name. When she opens them, she sees the tear tracks on her father’s face and determination flickers in her gut. They can do what they want to her, but no-one will hurt her father. “First we need to deal with them.”

She takes her father’s hand and lifts her sword. Whatever course this day takes, she will be ready for it.

As the rising sun floods his vision, Killian steps out onto the balcony, his daughter at his side. No matter how many times he tells himself this is just to buy Emma time, and it is, he can’t help the disgust he feels at himself. None of these people, be they warrior or witch or whatever else, can take his wife’s place. None of them have the right to lead Misthaven yet that is precisely what he is promising them.

He checked the telescope before making his appearance. No sign of her. He won’t pretend it doesn’t sting, that he doesn’t wake up every day expecting her to be at the door.

Please my love he tells her as they step onto the balcony. If you choose any day to come back, let it be today. He looks down at the suitors, and his skin crawls. Something horrible twists in his gut, a shame he wants to reject but can’t. He felt so sure that she would come back before he had to resort to this, but it’s clear time has run out. They have one last chance to salvage this, and if he gets it wrong, everything will end.

We’re still here, love he tells her. Then, he clears his throat. 

“Friends,” he greets them. “I cannot thank you enough for your patience. As you know, Emma of Misthaven has been missing for twenty years. And in that time, the throne has sat empty. I know you have shown me your talents and your experience, and now I set the challenge to determine the outcome.” Killian lifts his head. The sun blinds him, but it obscures the tears in his vision. “Whoever can reconstruct my wife’s sword and throw it cleanly through the ten trees set before it, without nicking the wood or wounding a single creature, will be the new ruler and sit with me as their Consort.” 

Killian bites his tongue. Down below are the remains of Emma’s sword, shattered into fragments by the attack twenty years ago. He never thought he’d see it in the hands of another.

“Let the sword go once your aim is true,” he declares. “Because I will not grow old without the best of you by my side.”

As soon as he has finished, the pack of suitors descend on the sword. It makes Killian’s stomach turn, seeing them so rabidly and greedily grab at Emma’s sword like it’s just another trophy. He’s spent so many nights with that sword beneath the candlelight, searching for traces of her on it, barely touching it so as not to erase her marks on it. Now he has handed it to the vultures and he cannot apologise enough.

“Hope I need you to do something.” Hope blinks, her jaw clenched so hard he fears it may snap. When she looks up, he sees the red rim of her eyes and his heart breaks again. “I need you to go to your brother-

“Don’t do this-”

“Don’t argue with me,” he tells her.

Hope fixes him with a ‘I know you’re bullshitting me’ look, a look that is so distinctly Emma that Killian could weep. How is it that Emma spent mere months with Hope before she disappeared and imbued so much of herself in her?

“Hope,” he begins. “If this goes the way I think it will, we’ll have a lot of angry people with very powerful families on our doorstep. We’re going to need all the allies we can get. Go to Henry, tell him what’s happening. Tell him and Ella to ready their armies and declare their support when needed.” He clutches her shoulder. Nothing he is saying is incorrect, but there is something else and they both know it. “Henry is only a few hours away. I won’t decide without you here, okay? I promise.”

Hope holds her father’s gaze. Twenty years reflect back at her; the pain, the waiting, the hope for which she was named steadily falling away. The years she spent lingering in doorways and watching him stare out the window, silent tears streaming down his face. Denying it when she asked, putting on a brave face in front of the kingdom. He has spent twenty years being a rock for them. And she has spent years wishing she could help him somehow… perhaps this is how she can. 

“Okay,” she sighs. Then, trembling she jumps and wraps her arms around him. As he holds her back, Hope presses her face into his shoulder. She breathes in the scent of him, leather and ink and faint salt spray. All she has ever known is contained in that scent and when she comes back….

“It’s all right, Hope,” he whispers, reading her mind. “It’s always you and me. No matter what happens, it’s you and me.”

He’s wrong. Once she comes back, it is her, him and whoever passes this challenge, and with them comes their kingdom, their house, their agenda. Father won’t allow them to take more than they need to give, and her grandparents died without moving an inch. But the reality is that their time is up. Their world balances on a cliff’s edge and she will fall freely. Holding her father’s hand, yes, but nothing to break her fall.

Unless-

Hope shakes her head. The idea is more than impossible; gods know they have tried everything. They’ve consulted oracles and seers of light and dark, potions and enchantments and hung charms above their beds to make them dream. No-one knows where her mother is. 

Still, there was one weapon they never tried. They never dared, knowing what an ask it would be. They knew consulting the book came with a price and that messing with time is an affront of the gods. It was never an option.

Except now Misthaven’s future is at stake. If offending the gods means she can finally know where her mother is, then Hope will take the burden gladly.

They don’t make a tremendous fuss over her leaving. She packs her bag alone and slips out the back door. She couldn’t bear passing through the courtyard, not while they are there. She won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry, won’t give them another reason to think her weak or small. 

Hope makes her way to the docks on her own, her head held high and her trembling hands wrapped around her sword. The very few that are out at this hour look regard her with surprise. Truly, seeing the Princess outside the castle walls is a rare sight indeed.

When they bow, Hope wonders if it is to her or her mother’s shadow. 

As she sets sail, she watches her home grow smaller and smaller, until it looks less like the grand palace she knows inside and out and more like a child’s toy. 

And so, the day went on. The sky turned from baby blue to grey as the clouds rolled in, then finally to orange as the sun set. With the Prince Consort presiding over the challenge and the rest of the kingdom holding its breath, there was no-one to notice the small raft floating to the shore, the wood worn and scratched from its long voyage. Nor does anyone notice the woman sat upon it, with wild green eyes and red-tinged hands that look more like claws. Her blonde hair might once have been lovely, but is now matted and unkept, dirt and debris and gods know what else running through it. She staggers off the raft, ragged breaths tearing through her as she falls to the sand.

When she laughs, there is no warmth or merriment to the sound. It is the high and frantic laugh of a mad woman. She laughs until her shoulders shake and then she sobs. The tears fall softly on the sand, glisten like rare gems, and the sobs come from deep, deep inside of her. The kind of crying that most people experience once, if at all. Heavy with the weight of twenty years. 

“I’m home,” she whispers. “I’m back.” She looks up, frantic eyes honing in on the palace beyond. The woman gasps. “Killian, Hope, hold on. I’m almost there.” With an inhuman grunt, she pulls herself to her feet, green eyes gleaming.