She was born and raised in Norway. He was an Anglo-Saxon warrior. Betrayed by his king, he was taken captive and brought across the sea. But he proved himself and escaped his shackles, making a name for himself as he led raids against his former home. She knows about betrayal, too; the man she loved absconded and left her to face the consequences of the crime he committed, but she fought and survived.
At first, she didn’t trust the foreigner whose rage rivalled Thor’s, who fought like a berserker and made suggestive comments in strangely-accented Old Norse. He was trouble, however charming and fierce he might be. And he, for his part, wanted nothing to do with the fair-haired warrior with fire in her eyes and challenge in the set of her shoulders, as ruthless as she was beautiful; she was a threat to his heart, and he knew it.
But after a few reluctant alliances, a few battles where they fought back to back, a few quiet moments afterwards, a few drinks… well, perhaps this wasn’t the worst partnership after all…
My contribution to @cshistfic - Emma and Killian as Vikings!
Please don’t tweet or repost this. Reblogging is totally fine and welcome, thank you!
Emma and Killian at a royal ball. Yes, I took some liberties, like fixing the height difference and giving Emma her signature circle necklace because I love it.
{ support my art and see it early - patreon.com/svenja }
Please don’t tweet or repost this. Reblogging is totally fine and welcome, thank you!
English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU
“Are you ready to go love?” Killian asks. He’s in the kitchen, drying the last of the plates from dinner.
Emma peers her head out of the bedroom, a smile on her face.
“Almost, I just need shoes,” she says.
It’d been a week since Emma had made peace with the Queen. Killian is endlessly proud of her courage and wisdom. He knows for a fact that forgiveness isn’t easy. The fact that Emma was able to forgive the Queen so openly, well, he admires her for that.
It was earlier this week that Emma booked her flight home. Killian’s throat had caught as he looked at the date on the ticket- just a few days before Christmas. Less than two weeks away. He’s tried to imagine spending Christmas without this woman who had firmly planted herself in his life. The thought of Christmas with Ruby and Granny, which had previously been a comforting thought, now makes him feel empty.
It was from this anxiety that he’d suggested they take one last trip to the opera house together. Emma had admitted that she was uncomfortable asking the queen for tickets and Killian agreed. Instead, she’d gotten them from the international student center at the university. It was for a ballet and Killian thought it would be a nice goodbye to a place that had been part of their journey together.
He’s pulled from his thoughts as she walks out of the room a moment later with a smile on her face. She’s dressed in a knee-length black dress with long sleeves and a jeweled belt around her waist to accentuate her thin frame. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, curling over her shoulder. Killian’s eyes linger over her dark eyelashes and bright red lips.
“Do I look alright?” She whispers.
Killian swallows, thinking about how lovely she looks, and how little time they have.
“Wonderful, love,” He manages, before offering her his arm.
Emma grabs her purse, opens the door, and leans on him as they walk out of the apartment. The path to the tram from Emma’s apartment is second nature to Killian now, as is the signature way they board the tram- Emma first with her card and Killian with his leap.
With the change of season, it gets darker now. The tram ride is a blur of light against the dark backdrop of the night sky. Killian weaves his arm around Emma and pulls her close. He cherishes each tiny moment of closeness they get. He wants to feel her for every moment they have left.
They get off at “Opèra” and make their way up to the opera house. The seats aren’t in the private box this time, but among the other International Students in the balcony.
“Maybe we should have invested in opera glasses at this point,” Killian mutters, as he finds his seat. They are still velvet lined and comfortable.
“Nah, it’s nice to see the formations from here. Balcony is good for ballet,” Emma tells him. She glances down at her program. “It’s a guest performance by the Royal Ballet. I saw them do a different show in London. They were spectacular.”
Killian smiles at her, impressed that she’s become a ballet aficionado. Killian doesn’t even know what the show is. He reaches for Emma’s program.
“Anastasia?” He asks, looking at the font swirling on top of a grey background. It’s unfamiliar to him.
“Didn’t you even see the animated movie growing up? With Meg Ryan?” She replies.
He shakes his head after racking his brain and coming up with nothing.
“It was a classic at one of the group homes I was at,” Emma says. “I’d watch it all the time.”
“Is it about the Romanov girl?” He asks, thinking to a history class he had in England.
She nods. “Yeah, well, the movie is like completely fairy tale. It’s about an orphan who discovers that she’s Princess Anastasia and for some reason she’s in Paris and Rasputin wants to kill her. The songs are great. And there is like this cute, little singing bat.”
Killian laughs, trying to picture it. “We’ll have to watch it sometime.”
Emma nods, “Anyway, weird that there is a ballet about it.”
Killian flips through the program, looking for more information. Emma folds her hands on his shoulder and rests her chin on them, peering at it.
“But look, this ballet was made way before that kids’ movie,” she points out.
“What does that mean?”
But then the orchestra begins the overture and the lights dim. They both take their gaze from the program to the stage.
The first two acts are lively, full of pre-Revolution Imperial memories. It’s balls and family and ornate displays of royalty. It’s like the kind of vision that lives on the corners of Killian’s memory.
When the third act comes, everything changes. The ballet is now set in a mental hospital in Berlin. The girl who believes she’s Anastasia is dancing madly across the stage. Her steps are crude and wild. Killian shivers, gooseflesh appearing on his arms. She’s delusional. She’s mad. It’s terrifying.
Beside him, he notices Emma gripping the armrest of her chair, her eyes glassy and distant. He reaches out and strokes her arm, then cards his finger through a few strands of her hair. She glances at him, stirred by his touch. Her eyes are haunted and tired. He’d hoped that his touch would soothe her, but she looks so tense.
He tries to understand what could have provoked this. She’d seemed fine at the interval. Then a realization dawns on Killian: she could be remembering.
He’s kept his suspicion quiet for months, ever since Emma asked him not to mention it. He understands her request. No point getting your hopes up about something that might not ever happen.
But he still thinks she might be the real deal. A bit of his soul starts to soar as he thinks of it. For a moment, he lets himself imagine Emma remembering everything and discovering that she is in fact the Lost Princess. He imagines her being fitted for gowns and going to balls, looking brilliant as always. He imagines her moving into a castle, being taken care of properly for once in her life. He imagines her finishing out her PhD here, writing her dissertation while balancing her royal duties. He lets himself dream of her life being here in Misthaven, instead of oceans away on a continent he’s never been to. He likes the certainty of her in this fantasy and perhaps that is the true fantasy of it. A life where Emma is firmly beside him for good.
The final bows are taken and curtain drops. Emma reaches for his hand.
“Can we hurry out? I really need some air,” She tells him.
He nods, squeezing her hand and following her down the aisle. They don’t linger in the lobby. He follows Emma’s lead and they go right to the door.
Once they are in the cool winter air, he watches her take huge gulping breaths. He pulls her towards him into a hug. She doesn’t resist him and she rests her head on his shoulder. He realizes she’s shaking a bit.
“Are you okay, love?” He asks.
She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Not really.”
He doesn’t want to ask her, but the fantasy, the hope of epiphany, can’t leave his mind.
“Have you, erm, remembered anything that’s disturbed you?” He asks softly, letting his head drip down to speak into her ear.
She looks up at him, her forehead wrinkling, “What do you mean, remembered anything?”
He frowns, not knowing how to keep from her from realizing what he thought. Before he can explain, she makes the realization.
She draws away.
“Oh my god, Killian. You can’t still possibly think that I’m Princess Emma. That can’t be further from the truth and you know that as well as I.”
He grimaces, upset that he triggered this reaction in her.
“Sorry, I’m sorry, love,” He says, as Emma takes a few steps back. “I just saw your face and you looked so disturbed. I hoped, foolishly hoped, that it was because you were having some sort of lovely epiphany.”
“Well, I’m did and I’m not,” Emma retorts.
“So what is on your mind?” He asks.
“Let’s go sit by the river,” Emma says.
He knows she’s stalling some sort of conversation, but he follows her nonetheless. He’s pleased that Misthaven is having a small winter heat wave so that it’s tolerable to sit outside. They cross the love-lock bridge and sit along the quai, legs dangling over the water.
He thinks of their first night together at the opera, when they sat together in this same spot, sharing a bottle of champagne. That’s when he tried to kiss Emma for the first time and she shied away from his kiss. So much has changed since then. A wave of reassurance falls over him. If they can go from that embarrassing night to where they are now, they can surely overcome whatever is disturbing her now.
“I was just thinking about how that Anastasia, or I guess her name was Anna,” Emma says. “She had an excuse.”
“What do you mean an excuse?” Killian says.
“For what she was doing, all the pain she is causing,” Emma tells him.
“I don’t believe you’ve caused pain to anyone,” he says, perplexed. “If anything, you’ve made my life, the Queen’s life, much better.”
She shakes her head.
“I did have an epiphany during the show,” Emma says. “But not a good one.”
“Oh?” He questions, daring to reach out and stroke her hair again. She doesn’t draw away from his touch this time. He’s grateful for that.
“I was thinking about Alice,” she says. He can’t help but grimace at the name, a fresh wave of pain flooding over him. “And how disappointed you were that she wasn’t your daughter. You were so upset. I was too. It was like a true loss to realize that someone you thought was your daughter wasn’t.”
Killian nods, the grief still lingering in his bones.
“And I realized that it was exactly what we were doing to the queen,” Emma says. “We’re leading her on, celebrating our sabotage.”
Killian runs his hand down her back. “Emma, love, I don’t think that we’ve been trying to misinform her for a while. I think that she’s come to care for you regardless. Didn’t you say that she said that to you?”
“But it doesn’t matter if we’ve given up on it,” she protests. “That was our intention. We wanted to hurt her. We wanted to take advantage of her pain. We wanted to profit off of it.”
She looks up at him. “It’s despicable. I can’t imagine that we wanted to give that pain you went through to anyone else.”
“Oh Swan,” he says. “I know that was our intention, but can you accept that we’ve done more good than bad? You’ve made the queen so happy.”
“No, there’s no excuse,” Emma says sharply. “We aren’t crazy. We aren’t in a mental hospital, imagining that we are someone else. We were greedy. We were unable to see the Queen as a human person with emotions. It’s disgusting. I’m sorry I was a part of any of this.”
Killian frowns. “Sorry you’ve been with me?”
“No, no, Killian, never,” she says. “I just feel guilty.”
“I know,” he says.
He pulls her towards him. She rests her head on his shoulder.
“I love you,” she says softly.
He kisses her hair, “I love you too, darling.”
“What if we visited the Memorial Gardens tomorrow?” Emma asks.
“Of course, love. Your wish is my command.”
“I just feel like I need to make reparations with the real Princess Emma,” she says.
“I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” he teases. “But for now, let’s go home, shall we Swan?”
–
The cobblestone path curves up the hill, flanked by rows of houses. The architecture of the houses match the castle in a way. Emma thinks it’s nice. She’s never been in this part of Misthaven before. It’s on the Old Town side of the river, up the hill from the Opera House and Saint Anne’s.
The cobblestone path gives way to an elaborate iron archway made up of floral designs and patterns. A plaque against the wall next to it reads, “Misthaven Memorial Gardens.”
Emma swallows, thinking how bizarre it is that this path leads right to these gardens. It’s as if it’s always been leading her this way. It’s as if Misthaven itself in its fundamental architecture was leading her to these gardens. It’s funny then to think that she hasn’t been there yet. She’s been to art galleries and parks and mountainside hikes and to the opera house. Yet, she hasn’t been to the part of Misthaven that seems to truly lie at its heart. This place that has existed to capture and memorialize the pain of a nation. Emma’s engaged in that pain through stories, through personal testimonies, but she hasn’t let herself be fully immersed in it.
Until now. That’s why she’s here. She wants to feel it all. She wants to understand Princess Emma who was lost, who was murdered on this night. Maybe if she can make sense of it, she’ll stop feeling guilty for a crime she didn’t commit.
The gardens are wooded with the same lovely old trees that Emma noticed in their other forest walks and in the woods near the Du Bois house in Belgium. There isn’t any snow today, because of the unusually warm weather. Indian Summer is what Emma used to call it in America. She wonders if it has the same name here.
She reaches for Killian’s hand and leans on his shoulder. They walk through the forested path till they reach a clearing. It’s all neat gardens here, arranged in a European style with a long pool down the middle, flowering artfully arranged on either side.
“There is a walled garden over there,” Killian says, pointing. “And a bog garden over in that part. There is even a Japanese garden in that area. The Royal Family put it in while I lived there.”
Emma sighs. “I want to know more about that.”
“About what?” Killian asks.
“I want to know what it was like when you lived here. When you left here, that night. Can you tell me?” Her voice is small, soft.
He nods and tugs on her hand. They walk around the castle. Her eyes are drawn to the high ramparts, the swirling towers of the castle in the imposing grey stone. In this back part of the castle a long meadow stretches out, forming a grassy plane that gives way to the forest.
Killian beckons her to a bench. They sit.
“I don’t remember it perfectly,” he says softly. “I was very young.”
She nods, scooching over so that their legs touch. His arm wraps around her back. The other points up at a tower.
“Do you see that? It’s the princess’s tower,” he says. “We knew it was coming for weeks, that there was a threat to the kingdom, a barbarian rebellion brewing deep in the town. There were preparations made. The King and Queen worked out a plan with Liam to make sure the Princess could escape. They knew that their fates were likely fixed, but they wanted Emma to have her best chance to live.”
Emma looks at the tiny tower at the top of the castle, imagining inside a little girl’s bedroom.
Killian continues, “Liam was posted to Princess Emma’s room and stayed there day and night with her till the threat passed or came to fruition. I was ordered to stay there with her as well, so I’d have a chance to escape under Liam’s protection. Liam was to go to America with the girl to seek asylum there. I wasn’t allowed to go, there was worry that one more child would make the thing so risky.”
Emma nods, watching the story dance across Killian’s face.
“Gods, Emma, I wish I could forget that night. It’s haunted me my whole life. Sometimes I still dream about it.”
Regret seeps through her. She’s asked too much of him.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “You don’t have to keep going. I didn’t know-“
He shakes his head, before reaching out to stroke her hair. “Emma, I want you to know all my stories. Even the hard ones. The haunting ones.”
She reaches out to run a thumb over his eyebrow, then along his jawline.
“That night there were gunshots in the castle that awoke us and everything was put into motion. Liam smashed the window, the beautiful stained glass one in the Princess’s room. He had this repelling kit that was already ready to go. He had me hold onto his back and put the Princess flush against his chest. We repelled down and it was terrifying. We didn’t know if there were snipers in the woods. If there were, I’d be the first shot. There were arrows, no guns. It’s hard to get weapons inside of Misthaven, so we think now that they only gave those to insurgents. Anyway, the arrows flickered by my head and I wondered if I was going to die.”
Emma can’t imagine a boy so young dealing with such a terrifying realization.
“When we were half way down, I heard the worst noise I’d ever heard. There was a gun shot, then a scream. I recognized as the Queen’s and I knew she’d been murdered. If she was dead, then surely so was the King. I remembered how kind they were, caring for me and Liam after everything we’d been through. They gave me a chance at an education, a chance to have a good home, to be well-fed even. And now they were gone.”
Emma gulps. She thinks of the woman she knows who is full of more compassion than she’s ever known. She suddenly sees a new side of Mary Margaret. The side that cared for Killian as a child. She might not be her mother, but she was something of that for Killian. Emma’s heart soars at the thought. She can picture Mary Margaret doting on a tiny Killian, reading him books and giving him bon bons.
“My brother told me to run when we reached the ground. He told me I’d be safe at my grans. He took off in one direction with the Princess and I went in another. I didn’t know that’d be the last time I’d see him. I thought that maybe one day he’d return to me. Or he’d call or send for me. There was nothing. I ran through those woods on my own, my heart thumping in my chest, wondering if I’d get caught, if I’d be found. But I wasn’t. I made it to my grans’ safely. She was surprised to see me. She wasn’t particularly nurturing, too old to be as grandma-like as I’d hoped, but she provided for me.”
Emma senses his story ending and leans her head against his shoulder.
“I’m shocked that the queen survived. I’m still upset, sometimes, that Liam didn’t. I used to lie in bed at night as a teenager, when I was in the young offender’s institution, and look at the ceiling and think about that scream. I used to be so angry at the Princess. She was off in America with my brother and here I was alone and betrayed. It’s sad now, I suppose. They both are dead. I was the one who was better off.”
She presses a kiss to his cheek. His arms wrap around her back and he pulls her to him.
She doesn’t realize that he’s teared up until he says in a choked-up voice, “You don’t know how much joy you’ve brought to my life, Emma. I was so sad. I was struggling for so long. And you’ve given me so much hope.”
“Oh Killian,” she replies. “You’ve given me so much too. I’m so grateful for you. Every day.”
There was a part of her that was fighting for so long; that was angry and walled up and hurt for so long. But Killian broke those walls down. Mary Margaret did too. Misthaven truly has been responsible for everything good in her life.
She wishes she could thank it. She wishes she could give something back to this place that has given everything to her.
Her eyes sweep across the field, as she imagines little Princess Emma running across it with Liam. It’s almost too real, too vivid before her eyes.
Where the field meets the forest, she sees something for a moment that she thinks is a figure. At first she shivers, thinking they’ve been watched this whole time. But the figure is too still to be real. There’s three figures.
Oh.
“Is that a statue over there?” She asks Killian.
He nods.
“Let’s go see it,” she says.
They walk across the field slowly, hand clasped tight. The field is dotted with wild flowers, beautiful in the bright light of Indian Summer, but for a moment she imagines them as arrows. She can see the scene of horror, almost too vividly, almost too real, like a ghost of trauma that existed here. It’s like pain dwells so deeply in this space that she can see it before her, as if she was there.
They read the statue. It’s brass, shiny, showing how new the pain is. This isn’t the kind of revolution that happened years ago, but one that floods the memory of everyone in this small country.
The statue is of a family, the Royal Family. She sees Mary Margaret at once. Her hair was longer then, wavy and young. She was so young.
And the King. Emma’s not thought much about the King, as if he was just a side character to this story, but she sees him now, kind-faced and noble. She wonders if he played little games with Princess Emma. She wonders if Mary Margaret loved him as fiercely as Emma herself loves Killian. Yes, she thinks, she must have.
Her eyes finally find the Princess. Emma can’t help but take a step closer. The small girl, with ringlets and a familiar tiara. With a lurch in her gut, Emma knows why it looks familiar. It’s the same she saw in the pawn shop where they met the hooded man in August. It couldn’t be… but she knows it could.
She follows the little girl’s features, her wide eyes, so full of curiosity and hope for the future. Emma fills with rage at everything taken from her, that future ripped away from the small girl.
Emma’s gaze finally lands on her chin. Without thinking, Emma lifts her hand to let her thumb rub over the tiny dip in her chin, just as Killian has done many times to Emma herself. They’ve all been right. They are the same.
It’s so silly, she thinks now, that they wanted to plan this giant con based on blond hair, an accent, and a dimpled chin. It only makes her feel more stupid, more guilty.
So guilty, in fact. It slams Emma in its enormity, tears springing unwillingly to her eyes. So much has been taken away from this family, from Queen Mary Margaret, and she was willing to continue that. Emma wanted to continue to hurt this woman who has been hurt more than anyone deserves in one lifetime.
Emma feels nauseous, dizzy. She can’t be here. She can’t be part of this. In even planning out the impersonation, she participated in this violence against Misthaven. She’s perpetrated the same crime that has been carelessly carried out by greedy girls, by violent men, by rebels who sought to hurt the country that has given her everything.
“Emma,” Killian asks, grasping her arm as she begins to sway. “Are you alright, love?”
She doesn’t want his companionship right now. She’s struggling for breath and the only thing that can free her is admission of the truth.
“I just need some space,” she says. “Do you mind if I walk a bit on my own? I need to clear my mind.”
“Yes, of course, Swan,” he says, dutiful as ever. “I’m going to read for a bit in the English gardens, just around the other side. Come find me when you need me.”
He presses a kiss to her cheek, as her eyes stay glued on the statue.
“Emma,” he whispers. “Look at me.”
She turns to him. He cups her face in his hands, his eyes sincere with concern.
“Don’t get lost in your thoughts, love. Don’t build higher walls.”
She tries to nod, but instead, he lurches forward to put a kiss on her lips. There is an edge of desperation to his lips, as if he is trying to keep her with him. As if he knows what’s on her mind and wants to keep her grounded, before chaos erupts. As if he knows they might only have now.
“I know,” she says, trying to give him a smile.
He squeezes her hand before he walks away.
Emma stays at the statue, her gaze meeting the Princess’s for a few moments as she watches Killian round the castle and out of sight. With her mind made up, she turns. She feels like she’s possessed by a force not of her own. It’s like her feet are willing her in the direction of castle, regardless of what her mind says is foolish or right.
She approaches from a side entrance. There are security guards there with metal detecting wands. They search her bag and let her enter. Inside, sits a desk with a receptionist. She’s struck by how tiny Misthaven is. If this was anywhere else, she wouldn’t even be able to get this far.
“Hi, I’m Emma Swan,” she says. “Is it possible I could speak with Prime Minister Mills? She knows who I am and I think she’d like to listen to me.”
The woman looks surprised, maybe at Emma’s accent or how forward she is, but she nods and picks up the phone. She speaks something in French for a few moments, before turning back to Emma.
“The Prime Minister will be down in a few moments,” she says.
Emma nods, trying to stay calm. She looks around what she thought was a lobby, but now she recognizes it as an entrance hall to a castle. There are twin tapestries on each wall, ornate gold cross hatching across the roof. A magnificent chandelier dangles in the middle of the ceiling.
She wanders closer to the wall, almost in a trance. She wants to reach out and touch the wall, feel the cold stone under her fingers. She feels like she’s lost in one of her old childhood dreams of castle corridors. She shivers as she pulls up the tendrils of memory from those dreams- being a Princess, waiting for someone to save her. She thinks again of social workers from her childhood. The ones who told her that her brain made up those stories, those dreams, to mask whatever truly horrible thing had happened to her as a child. She wonders if she and Princess Emma are akin in that way- having brunt trauma as a child. There’s that.
“Emma,” a voice interrupts.
She was expecting to hear the crisp tutting of, “Miss Swan,” from the Prime Minister. But instead, Emma turns to see the Queen. Her heart swoops.
“What are you doing here?” Mary Margaret asks.
Emma shakes her head, “I was looking to see the Prime Minister, but actually, you’re just the person I wanted to talk to.”
“Oh?” The Queen says.
“I think we should talk,” Emma says.
“Yes, okay,” Mary Margaret replies. “There is a quiet sitting room in the center of the castle. I’ll tell Prime Minister Mills to meet us there when she can. I was just visiting her earlier today and I know she’s quite busy with errands today. Poor dear, on a Saturday too.”
Emma doesn’t have words to form, so she simply nods. Her stomach feels queasy again and dizziness floats through her. God, her hand is shaking.
Emma knows what she has to say. She knows what she has to do.
She follows the Queen through the hallways, until they approach an insignificant looking door. The queen pushes the door and it leads to a small chamber. It’s a bizarre place, with octagon walls and only two doors- one of the floor and one at the top of a tall staircase that curves around the room.
“There are only two entrances,” the Queen explains. “One from the ground floor and one from the Royal Offices, which is now the Prime Minister’s office.”
“Oh,” Emma says, looking up.
An octagonal piece of stained glass covers the ceiling, filling the chamber with colored light everywhere.
“Shall we sit?” Mary Margaret asks. “I can ring for some tea if you wish.”
“No tea,” Emma says.
She feels weird being with the Queen not at her Summer Palace, or the Southern Palace. This space that feels so loaded with sad memories.
They sit in two armchairs in the room. There isn’t much in the chamber- an ornate rug, a fireplace, and a trunk being used a table. It’s so cramped in the small space, yet so much empty air hangs between them.
“I have to tell you everything,” Emma whispers.
“Tell me what, my dear?” The queen asks.
“I have to tell you about what we did, or tried to do,” Emma says.
“Whatever do you mean?” Mary Margaret reaches for Emma’s hand.
She pulls it away. “Killian and I. We befriended you under selfish pretenses, awful pretenses. And I feel wretched about it.”
Emma feels the tears returning, sticking in her throat. “I think I’ll feel awful about it till the day I die.”
The queen frowns and nods Emma to continue.
“We both were in need of money. I needed, and still need, to fund my last semester of graduate school. Killian’s always wanted to open a bookshop. We both had these dreams that needed funding. Killian was approached by a man who wanted to offer us money for me to impersonate the Lost Princess. We were both uncomfortable with the situation and said no,” Emma pauses to sniffle, to breath, to force the words out.
The Queen mistakes that for the end of her admission. “Thanks for telling me. You did the right thing.”
Emma shakes her head. “We didn’t. The more we thought about it, the more we realized that I am very similar to how the lost Princess, your daughter, might be. I have an American accent. I have blond hair, green eyes-“ Emma looks up at the queen, at the bits of her face that mirror her own. “I have your chin. We both knew that you might believe that I am your daughter. We sought out your friendship in hopes that we might profit off it. It was selfish and greedy. We celebrated each time that you thought I might be your daughter.”
“Oh,” Mary Margaret breathes. Her face is disappointed, as she should be.
“We kind of gave up on it over time. I think I realized that my friendship with you was enough. That I didn’t need to convince you to think I am your daughter for you to treat me with that same care. But if I really knew better, I’d have told you up front about our plan. I still deceived you.”
The queen swallows and frowns.
“I’m sorry,” Emma says, burning with shame. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to tell you. I’m sorry I got mad at you for keeping secrets when I was keeping secrets of my own.”
“What makes you tell me now?” The queen says.
“Ever since Killian found out that the child, Alice, wasn’t his, I’ve been realizing something” Emma murmurs. She realizes that there are tears on her face. “That same pain that Killian was going through, it was exactly what had happened to you time and time again. You’d gotten your hopes up. You thought you’d found a family, but you just were being tricked. And I was doing that to you too.”
There is a moment of silence between them, tension waivers in the air. Emma waits for her admonishment. Or a prison sentence. Or whatever she feels she need to tell Emma.
But Emma is free now. The guilt that has clung to her grossly, sticking behind her knees, making her scratchy, is gone now. She wipes away the tears that linger the creases of her eyes. Whatever comes, she said what she needed to.
“I’m leaving in just a few weeks or so,” Emma says. “But I can leave sooner. Or if there is some other punishment, whatever it is. I’m sorry.”
The Queen’s assembles her visage, before closing her eyes and sighing.
“Emma, this isn’t your fault,” Mary Margaret tells her.
“But-” Emma starts, looking at her hands. She twists them awkwardly, too ashamed to look at the queen.
“I told you months ago. You are valuable to me. You matter to me,” The queen says. “I didn’t say that to you because I thought you were my daughter.”
Emma looks up.
“I said it because you are my friend, my mentee,” the queen said. “I do admit, I got my hopes up at first that maybe you were her. I wanted to share things I loved about her with you. I wanted you to fill her void. But that day, when Regina found us when we were riding, I realized that I cared about you Emma Swan, not Princess Emma. I connected with you. With the girls that came before you, they were fake in their interests. They weren’t lovers of literature, like you are. They didn’t care about opera or tea or intelligent conversation. You’re different, Emma. You’re authentic.”
The queen’s speech makes her feel dizzy. She doesn’t know if she should fall into her arms and together share a soulful cry, hearts joined in a combined lost-and-found reunion. Another part of Emma, the part of her that is instinctual and conditioned from a lifetime of loneliness, just wants to start running.
Before Emma’s internal conflict can come to fruition, a voice interrupts them.
“Your majesty, your highness,” A voice says from above.
Both of their heads turn to take in Prime Minister Mills walking down the stairs.
“Prime Minister,” Emma says.
“Regina,” Mary Margaret echoes.
“I thought I’d interrupt,” Regina says, midway down the staircase, “I hope you don’t mind. I heard you were looking for me, Miss Swan, and I am in fact, looking for you as well.”
Emma turns to face where Regina has curved around the room on the stairs. Her stilettos beat out a staccato against the steps.
“Oh right, sorry to bother you Prime Minister,” she mumbles. “I heard you are very busy today.”
“No, you were one of the people I needed to see today, so honestly it’s perfect timing,” Regina says, walking down the final curve. “I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation, your Majesty, but I also believe that I am about to make an entrance at the perfect time as well.”
Emma and Mary Margaret exchange confused glances.
“This week, during our usual meeting, you mentioned that Emma had forgiven you and that you’d agreed to be friends again. As you both know, I’ve been concerned about your friendship for a while. While you both protested that there was no false hope between either of you, we both know that was a lie. You’ve both just said it yourself.”
Emma wants to protest, but she knows that the Prime Minister is right. They did just say it.
“So, I went ahead and did something a little wild. I hope you forgive me, but I am, in fact, Prime Minister. I had samples of DNA taken from each of your places of residence and tested. I must admit, I was a little impatient to get to the bottom of it and find out once and for all who this woman is.”
She gives a vague wave at Emma.
“The lab tests came back this morning. Emma Swan, Your Royal Highness, you are Her Majesty’s daughter.”
The news slams into Emma. She grips a table to steady herself as the world seems to move around her.
She’s the lost princess? She’s Princess Emma?
But she can’t be. It must be a joke. A prank. It must be some sort of “get this little orphan’s hopes up and then crush them.” Because she can’t actually be the kind of person that anyone cares about this much. She’s a fake. She’s an impersonator. She’s the kind of person who has had to work her whole life to every tiny thing. She can’t be a princess.
But yet, she looks up and Queen Mary Margaret’s eyes are full of love, tears rimming her eyes.
“Yes, of course, she is,” Mary Margaret whispers.
Emma tries to think of Mary Margaret as her mother. She tries to apply the word mom to the elegant queen before her. But all she can think about is how small the room is, how oppressive the walls feel, and trapped she feels. She knows she’s not trapped. She knows that she finally has a family, which is honestly what she’s wanted her whole life. But all she wants is to run.
“Sorry,” Emma says. “I just… I have to go.”
She doesn’t turn back to look at the shock on Mary Margaret or Regina’s face. She doesn’t try to process the tears in her own eyes or the fact that this lifelong instinct of running is kicking in. All she can think is that she has to get out.
–
Sorry for a long long delay on this chapter! Let me know if you read it so I can figure out if I should keep going on finishing it!
Today we have not only Sunday - CS Day, but also Christmas Eve!
Merry Christmas to all shipmates who celebrate it!
And i wish you all, my dear Friends, not matter if you celebrate it or not, days (not only the few next, but all of them) filled with love, friends, family, laughter, joy and happiness!
On Sunday and next two days (because in Poland Christmas last two days - 25th and 26th of December) i’ll be rebloging CS Christmas posts. Most of them i found at @lizacstuff blog thanks to her perfect tagging ->x <- you can check it too.
“This is so cool, mom! I can’t wait to ride with Hope!! *Henry smiles at his baby sister*
“Hmm… Killian, you’re not actually considering this, are you?” *Emma says in a worried tone*
“Come on love, it was a gift from your father. And besides, our Hope is a pirate princess, it’s time she learns how to ride.”
“Time? She’s 4!”
“Aye, love, that she is. But she’s also our daughter and you and I both know quite well that she’s not going to be happy until she masters this skill. It’ll be fine. I’ll be with her the entire time.”
“I just don’t think….”
“What is this really about, Emma?”
“*Sigh* I’m just scared. She’s growing too fast, Killian. Soon she’ll be leaving us and going on her own adventures.”
“Oh, my love. We still have plenty of time before that. And remember, we have to live the moments the best we can. Let’s worry about that when time comes. And you know… we can always make more little ones *wink*”
That makes Emma laugh. She then looks at her two kids and her husband and thinks it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have one more. But the horse thing… well, she’s not really ready, but she knows that she won’t be able to say no to her little girl.
