Chapter Text
Storybrooke lake is still and flat, the last rays of the sun lighting it up in shades of orange and pink. Emma sits on a bench and stares at it, unseeing. Kicking a nearby rock, she sighs.
Henry wants to stay in Storybrooke. Her parents want them to stay. Killian wants her to stay —Of course he does, — and…Emma closes her eyes as the memory of Regina's stunned, angry expression rises to the surface. Regina wants them to stay. She doesn't want to lose Henry again. Emma can understand that, and yet, they had it so good in New York. Emma misses the quiet mornings, the simplicity of it all. Waking Henry up for school, getting his dinner ready, taking him to practice (convincing him to go, more like.)
It had all been so—
Emma's thoughts stop in their tracks as a bolt of orange light splits the sky in half. She gets up, it's magic. Some sort of magic, and it's coming from Zelena's farmhouse.
It's minutes later, when Emma is pulling up to the house. Magic thickens the air and she fights against the artificial wind it creates to make her way towards the barn, where the light spills from under the closed doors. She tears them open with some difficulty, one hand on her phone as she begins to dial her father's number.
Wind and magic whip at her hair, forcing her eyes closed, the sound of it is deafening and then — Emma steps into the barn, everything quietens. Her ears ring with the deadness of the air. In the very center of the barn is a vortex, the bolt of light had come from there. It spins, yellow and gold, almost inviting.
Emma narrows her eyes and clenches her fist, her phone pressed to her ear with her other hand. It rings quietly, but David hasn't picked up yet. She steps towards the magic, and the air changes again. Suddenly, she's being dragged forward, forced towards the yellow abyss.
A scream leaves her lungs as she falls, her phone flying too far to reach, and magic drags her along the dirt ground. Panic engulfs her, the screeching sound in her ears reaches a crescendo, and she falls.
There is nothingness. For a moment. Then Emma opens her eyes.
She's no longer in Storybrooke.
Lying on the ground, she looks up at the blue sky, framed by the crowns of trees, their foliage green and bright. Wherever she is, it's early morning.
Whenever she is, is probably more accurate, she realizes with a jolt. She sits up. All around her is forest. Nothing but forest as far as she can see. Trees, their brown barks covered in moss, birds singing up above, the soft rustle of small life in the undergrowth, dappled light filtering through and bathing everything in gold and shadow.
Emma gets up and dusts her jeans off. Checking to make sure nothing hurts —it doesn't— she looks around. She stifles the panic that threatens to overwhelm her and starts to walk. Leaves crunch underfoot as she does.
Where is she? When is she? What now?
Emma glances around a picks a direction. Zelena had been building a time portal. That was what Emma fell into, but other than that, she has no idea how it works, or, more importantly, how to get back.
Having walked aimlessly for some time, Emma stops and leans against a tree. Its rough bark digs against her skin, it's a welcome feeling, reminding her that she's not dreaming, and she's not going insane.
A breeze blows past her, and makes something flutter on the other side of the trunk she's leaning against. Emma walks around and her breath catches in her throat.
Oh.
Now she knows when and where she is. Reaching out gingerly, she rips the flier off the trunk and stares at it. Her mother's face stares back at her. She looks exactly the same as the day Emma had met her, as Mary Margaret, in Storybrooke. It feels like a lifetime ago. Snow's hair, in the drawing, is longer, and she isn't smiling. Underneath the image a text reads:
Snow White, Bandit. Wanted dead or alive. By order of the Queen.
Emma swallows thickly. The Queen. Regina.
She's only heard stories of her famed cruelty. Her reign of fear and death. Now, she's in it.
In that fairytale realm she has insisted is not her own, in those stories she now barely remembers, having refused to study Henry's book too closely, even after she'd found out it was all true.
She needs to get home, and quickly. This isn't her world. Emma had more than enough of the Enchanted Forest when she and Snow had fallen through Regina's hat portal. She has no interest in facing off ogres, evil witches or giants again. She just wants to go home.
Starting to walk again, she tucks the rolled up poster in her pocket, and hopes she picked the right direction. If Neverland was any indication, all she has to do is believe that she can get home, and somehow, the stars will align and things will just…happen. Emma finds it incredibly hard to believe, but she hasn't got a better plan at the moment, so she walks and tries hope.
It must be nearly midday, the sun high in the sky and making her sweat, when Emma reaches a road. It's definitely a road, although it's narrow and dusty, it looks well used. What she thinks are fresh carriage tracks run along the center of it, and Emma squats down to inspect them. Because that's what she'd seen adventurers do in movies. She stares at them for a second, then huffs out in frustration. They tell her absolutely nothing, and Emma hates it.
She's a good tracker. She can find anyone, anywhere. At least in the real world. The one with cars and cellphones and internet connection. Well, no point reminiscing now. She glances at the tracks again, and decides they were heading left. Rising, she goes left.
Just as she's beginning to doubt her intuition, Emma spots smoke above the trees. Moments later, she smells it. Wood fire smoke, like that from a chimney. She can't help it, she speeds up, almost jogging around a bend until she sees a cluster of houses up ahead.
It's a small village, she can see maybe six or seven homes huddled around the road, and a few more deeper in the forest. But she's exultant. Life, people! Even if they can't help her get home, maybe they can help with the rumbling in her stomach. Back in Storybrooke, it must be dinner time. Emma scoffs at the thought of having jet lag between realms and times.
As she reaches the first home, a squat little building with white walls and a thatched roof, she slows down. Something is wrong. Smoke rises out of the chimneys, but the village is silent. She hadn't expected the usual sounds, cars rumbling along, the ringing of telephones, the angry car horns of disgruntled drivers, but she had expected something.
A strange, primal instinct stops her, stomach turning in fear. But there's not much else to do, so Emma forces herself forward and into the village, past the first house, then the second. At the end of the road, is a small square, a well in the middle. Emma's eyes pass over it as she takes in the scene.
The villagers, she supposes, mainly women and small children, huddle together on one side. On the other is a black carriage. Men, dressed in heavy black metal and spiked helmets, stand by the door.
And there's Regina.
Emma stops dead as she turns the corner and steps into view. Regina has stopped too.
She's…fearsome. That's the only word that comes to mind. Emma's brain rakes up the memory of seeing her for the first time. A woman running out to her child, terrified of what had become of him. Short, dark hair and an elegant sand-colored dress. Emma hadn't been afraid of her, then. Wary, perhaps, but not afraid.
She's afraid now. This isn't the same woman.
It's not the same woman Emma has become friends with. Not the same woman Emma trusts and likes.
"And who are you?" Regina —the Queen— asks, turning to face her fully.
Emma swallows and steps back. All eyes are on her, the knights and the villagers, and Regina's.
"Uh," Emma says. "Emma?" she raises a hand. "Hi?"
The silence is terrifying. The Queen steps closer, her black dress swishing behind her on the grass.
"Emma," she says, tasting the word on her tongue.
Her hair is long, up in a tight ponytail and sweeping down over one shoulder. Her black eyes burn through Emma, and she's still a s statue. The thought crosses her mind that she's made a mistake. But it's too late now.
"And where," Regina's eyes sweep over her. "did you come from, Emma?"
What she's wearing; blue jeans and her red leather jacket, must give her immediately away as an intruder. A stranger in these lands. Emma steps towards her and lowers her voice.
"Listen, Regina," it slips out before she can stop it, and she sees the fury cross the Queen's face before she feels magic pushing her back. Emma falls to the ground in a heap.
"That's a bit informal, don't you think?" Regina asks. Her voice hasn't changed tone, not one bit, but Emma can see the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. A vein in her forehead pulses as she speaks, "it's Your Majesty."
"Right, sorry, Your Majesty," Emma bites her lip, Regina is one of the few people she knows in this land, and one of the very few who might be able to help her get home.
"I don't like your tone," Regina says, her hand flicks, and Emma is sent sprawling onto her back. Regina nears her and bends to pick something up. She rises and unfurls the wanted poster Emma had tucked into her pocket. "And what's this? Oh."
Regina stares down at her, and Emma feels cold dread settling into her veins. This isn't someone she can reason with, she realizes, perhaps too late. "That's not—"
"Snow White's image, on your person?" Regina asks. "Except…it does appear to be just that."
Emma opens her mouth to argue, to explain, but her voice is cut off by Regina's magic, tightening around her throat. Her hand flies to it, as if she can rip off the invisible vise choking her. Her heart begins to beat like drum, and Emma tries to stand, only to end up on her knees again.
Regina watches her, fingers pinched in front of her and a small furrow of concentration between her eyebrows. After a moment that feels like a year, she lets Emma go.
Sucking in sweet, painful air, Emma falls onto her palms. Sweat drips down her back. She wonders what would happen if she died right then and there. Nothing, most likely. She was the future version of herself, the past would take place exactly as it already had, and it would end up here, with her on her knees, being killed by the woman she'd started to consider her friend.
"Tell me, Emma," Regina stands above her, and her pointed heels are in Emma's vision. "Do you know where Snow White is?"
Emma shakes her head frantically. "I don't—"
"Then why," Regina interrupts her. "Did you take this? Were you looking for her? To aid her?"
"No!" Emma thinks fast. "I'm a bounty hunter!" That wasn't so different to what she'd actually done, once upon a time.
"A bounty hunter," Regina muses. "You're looking for the bandit, for money?"
"Aye, gold," Emma says, doing her best to sound like Jack Sparrow. Why Jack Sparrow? She asks herself. There's no good answer.
A hand grabs her chin, and she's forced to her feet. Regina holds here there, an inch from her face, and studies her for a moment.
"I don't believe you," she spits. "These strange clothes you're wearing, the odd way in which you speak. Who are you? Tell me the truth."
Emma swallows. "I—"
"The truth, Emma," Regina says, her fingers tighten around her jaw, painful. "Or you won't have a tongue to speak it again."
"I'm from the future," Emma blurts out. Belief, right? Hope, or something.
Regina's eyebrows rise. Both of them. Never a good sign.
"The future?"
"Yes!" Emma says. "I swear. I am."
"Time travel is impossible," Regina says, slowly. "It's one of the fundamental laws of magic."
"Just like necromancy?" Emma cuts in. "Bringing people back from the dead? Do you still think that's impossible, too?"
Dark eyes narrow, and there's a flicker of curiosity in them. Silence stretches thin, not a fly buzzing in the village square, and Regina's deciding whether to kill her or not. Emma clenches her jaw and believes.
"Guards," Regina says. A knight appears at her side. "Tie her up, her. With the…special shackles. She's going to the dungeons."