A/N: First AU I've ever written. I was motivated to write this after reading some discussion and interviews about what inspired Colin O'Donoghue's take on Hook (which was partially inspired by the Dread Pirate Roberts).

Dedicated to Sarah (onceuponamirror)

I'm looking at this as a retelling of The Princess Bride as opposed to a completely faithful interpretation; it's more dramatic than comical. I figured it'd be a twist in the story, much in the same vein as how most of the other fairytales are adapted for the show.

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Chapter One: Farm Boy

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The hot sun scorched Emma's skin as she walked along the grass, approaching her neighbor's farm. The shade from the barn provided relief from the summer heat. Emma collapsed against the faded wood and ran her fingers along the scratches embedded there, catching her breath from her long walk.

The Lucas' property had several marks hidden along the walls. As a child, Emma would make a game of finding them all. Whenever she thought she counted every single one, a new scratch emerged, deeper and larger than the ones before. At her mother's insistence, she never spoke of her findings.

Wiping the sweat from her neck, Emma walked around the barn, her hands roaming over the equipment and smaller tools that were left out.

One item stood out to her: a pair of sheep shears that were coated in black. Otherwise unremarkable, Emma was fascinated by the shape of the handles which, when closed together, took the form of a heart.

Emma was alone, the Lucus' likely having gone into town. No one would know, she thought, and who would miss it?

She motioned to tuck the shears under her shirt and she slowly made her way outside when she saw someone standing by the entrance.

"I don't think those're yours," the young man said, making Emma jump.

"No, I'm just—" she stuttered, "I'm borrowing them."

"Then why do you look so," he paused, walking nearer to her, a grin spread across his face, "suspicious?"

His smile was infectious and Emma relaxed slightly, but still clutched the shears tightly to her. He looked to be a teenager, just like her, maybe a few years older.

"Neal." He offered his hand out to her but Emma refused it.

"I'm not telling you my name."

"No, but not too many people live around here. I'm sure if I told someone what you looked like they'd figure out it was you." His voice was low, lazy even. Despite his threat, Neal never stopped smiling. His face was like a child's.

Her arms went to her sides, contemplating leaving the shears behind. In looking down, Emma saw the sack he was carrying, various tools sticking out at odd places. They were taken in a hurry.

"Is all that stuff yours?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, I—" the question caught him off guard. "I'm the new farm boy."

"I know you're lying," she said victoriously. "I can always tell when someone is lying."

"Right," he laughed, then they heard movement coming from the Lucas house. He froze and adjusted the sack over his shoulder.

Emma began to panic as well, looking to Neal for what to do. She'd stolen little things before but had never been so close to getting caught. He seemed to have more experience than she did; it seemed he had more to lose.

"Go," she said. "I'll distract them while you sneak out."

Neal was surprised by her plan—that she'd offer to help someone she just met—but didn't hesitate to make his escape. Before he left, he called out to her.

"I never got your name."

"Emma. Emma Swan."

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The fire crackled as Snow poked at the logs in the fireplace. Winter had been especially cold this year, and despite her namesake, the harsh weather depressed her greatly. It reminded Snow of how isolated her family had become from the rest of the kingdom.

They lived a simple life and perhaps she would be truly satisfied with that someday. But how could she be when the Evil Queen was still in power?

Snow went back to setting the table as Charming entered their modest dining room, a warm pot in his hands filled with soup that was ready to be served.

He placed the metal container in the center of the table, crowding it immediately. The piece of furniture could barely fit a family of four, but it had just been the three of them for 17 years.

"This looks amazing, David," she remarked, his loving nickname never to be spoken while they were in hiding.

As he raised the ladle to fill his wife's bowl, David could see the tension behind her smile, the wrinkles by her eyes like taut lines, looking particularly severe.

"Mary Margaret, what's wrong?"

She shook her head to dismiss the issue, but his words stung. That is not my name, she thought, knowing its use was only a precaution. Even in the privacy of their own home they were not safe or free. And all because of—

"It's Regina," she said finally, taking a seat. "She's done something truly terrible."

He placed the bowl in front of her and sat down, listening intently as she continued. "Ruby overheard some people talking in the market this morning." Snow's voice became hoarse and she reached out to hold her husband's hand. "Regina's men massacred an entire village—"

"Was it nearby?" He blurted, inching his chair closer to her. "Does she know where we are?"

"That's not the point, David." Snow wiped her eyes, anger building inside of her. "Don't you see what she's done to us? Innocent people are dying and we live in fear of being found."

David knew she was right. He felt a profound sadness at her news, but the safety of his family had always been his priority. And he was hardly surprised by the Evil Queen's actions.

"I don't recognize the people we've become," she whispered, David's thumb caressing her wrist. "We can't keep living like this."

"So what should we do?"

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Emma's hair danced in the strong wind, her sheepskin cloak doing little to keep her warm.

"Farm boy!" she called out, her voice high-pitched and nagging. Nearing a lonely hovel, Emma shouted again, louder. "Oh farm boy!"

Neal ran out to meet her in the field, hands rubbing up and down his arms to generate some heat. "What're you doing?"

"I've come to arrest you," she teased, leaning into him. Emma gave him a quick peck on the lips, keeping her face close to his. "So are you going to let me in?"

The inside of the shack, while usually cluttered with Neal's collection of stolen objects from past employers, was practically empty. Only a minuscule desk, chair, and bed occupied the space.

"I know I told you to clean this place up, but I didn't think you'd take it this far," she laughed, throwing her shawl and scarf onto the bed, as she often did.

"Anything to get you here more often," he said, looking away. He busied himself with clearing away a plate of food from the desk. "I think it worked, seeing you two nights in a row."

Emma tugged on his sleeve and wrapped her arms around his neck, snuggling against him as they kissed each other slowly. Her fingers combed through his thick, dark brown hair while his hands rested tentatively on her hips.

"I just really wanted to see you." She touched his nose with hers, smiling brightly at Neal. "And I know how hard you've been working."

"Stay the night with me," he said suddenly. Emma broke out into giggles, remembering the last time she has spent the night with him. She met his eyes and saw he was serious.

"You know I can't do that," she scoffed, playfully pushing him away.

"You didn't have a problem doing it a few weeks ago." Neal's tone was low and raspy, his words slurred. It drove Emma crazy, but the hour was late and she needed to return home.

"I can't," she stated firmly. "Maybe next time."

Emma spent nearly an hour with him, sensing his tension but never addressing it. She noticed the darkening sky through the cracks in the window shutters. She took her time collecting her things from his bed. When she looked back at him it was as though he wanted to tell her something, but he didn't say a word and only watched her make her way to the hovel's entrance.

"I love you," she said, halfway out the door.

Neal nodded and gave her a shy smile. "Love you, too."

A few moments after she left, Neal collapsed onto his bed, palms stretching his cheeks. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded, eroded piece of paper.

It was a drawing of a little boy with fluffed hair and over-sized clothes. It was a drawing of him.

It was just one of many Neal had spotted while in town. He had taken down as many as he saw but knew it had been pointless. When the Dark One wanted something—or someone—he stopped at nothing to get it.

Seeing Emma one last time had almost been enough to make him stay. He cared for her, more than any woman before her. But the fear of being found by his father was too strong. I'm doing this to protect her, he convinced himself.

He made peace with the fact that he'd never see Emma again. Neal had to leave.

He walked to the back entrance of the shack, stepping outside. Lined up against the outer wall were the missing contents of his home: several bags and crates full of items that didn't belong to him. Neal had to get rid of them somehow, and then he would go.

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When she entered her house, Emma expected to find her parents sitting at the dinner table with their arms folded and unamused looks on their faces. She pictured it in her mind so perfectly, but when she arrived no one was there.

She said nothing, only undressed and searched for any signs of where they could be. If they weren't in the dining room—which also served as the kitchen and living room depending on the occasion and time of day—then they'd likely be upstairs.

Upon reaching the staircase, Emma could already hear the faint sound of a discussion in progress. Possibly an argument. She delicately placed her foot on each step, careful not to make a sound.

Emma lingered by her parents' bedroom, peaking through the barely opened door. She could see her mother's feet pressed against the floor, knees extended forward. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, she assumed, while her father would occasionally block her view as he paced back and forth.

"But how would we do it?" she heard him ask. "We don't have magic, or an army, or a kingdom anymore."

"We never needed those things," her mother insisted tiredly. Their conversation had been a lengthy one. "We didn't have any of that the first time we defeated her."

"We didn't have Emma either."

His comment had an impact on Snow, their voices becoming more muffled. David had stopped his pacing and had sat down beside her. Emma leaned in closer, the splinters on the door tickling her ear.

"This isn't how it should be," her mother said after awhile. "It should be us in that castle, helping our people. It should be us on that thrown."

"Mom?" Emma fully came into their room, her mouth open and eyes wide. Her parents stood up immediately, frozen in place.

"Emma, honey, how long were you—"

"You were talking about the queen," Emma interrupted, tucking her long blonde hair behind her earlobe. "You're talking about fighting the queen."

"Yes," David admitted, going to his daughter across the room. "We were talking about it, but we haven't decided on anything yet." He placed both hands on her shoulders, trying to meet her gaze.

"You've done it before?" He could see her piecing together the bits of information she had overheard, her expression becoming more severe. "Are we… am I…?"

Battling the queen. Fighting for their people. Their rightful place on the thrown. They couldn't be...

"You're not—"

Her mother nodded then bowed her head. "Yes," she muttered before reaching out to her daughter.

Emma held her breath as she stepped away from her parents. She was the daughter of the former king and queen, which made her a—

The idea made her happy for moment; she felt, if only for a second, that she was important and powerful. A real princess. But the feeling quickly faded and was replaced with a dizziness Emma couldn't explain. Suddenly she didn't know who she was; who her parents were.

Emma mumbled something before leaving the room entirely. She could hear them following her into the hallway but stopped when she slammed her bedroom door shut.

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By the next morning, the nausea hadn't faded. The sleep was needed but when she woke up, all the worries of the previous night still remained.

Emma leaped out of bed and ran to the corner of the room. She bent over the empty pot that resided there and expelled the contents of her stomach. She blamed it on the stress caused by yesterday's confrontation.

It's all in your head, she repeated to herself. Just breathe.

Emma wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, rising slowly from the floor. She needed to vent, to rant, to yell—it was the best way she knew how to relieve her anxiety. She needed someone who would listen. She needed Neal.

Sneaking out was easy enough and she was grateful. The overcast sky signaled an oncoming storm. She could already feel the light rain sprinkling on her skin. Emma would wait it out in Neal's hovel. She could think of several things they could do to pass the time.

When she got there, she called out to him but there was no response. She knocked on the door jocosely, but still nothing.

Growing concerned, Emma peaked through the small window near the entrance. The shack seemed just as barren as it had the night before and no one could be seen; it was too dark for her to be sure.

Emma kicked the backdoor open—a maneuver Neal had taught her—and walked inside. There were no signs of life within. It was completely empty.

Had something happened to him? Emma saw no signs of a struggle or forced entry. He wouldn't leave without telling her. Surely he wouldn't abandon her.

The longer she stood in his home, the more the idea of Neal's permanent departure became a strong possibility. Emma remained in a state of denial as she left, determined to search the village for any sign of him.

As she neared her house, however, she saw her parents standing at outside with an older gentlemen. From afar Emma noticed the man's exasperated arm movements and when she got closer she could hear his elevated tone.

"...Then how do you explain my tools in your shed?" The man practically screamed at David who was trying to calm him down.

"Why don't we ask Emma," Snow suggested gently, watching her daughter walking to them. "Honey, did you take this man's things?"

Emma was confused, having never encountered the man before. She remembered the people she had stolen from and he wasn't one of them. Her parents noted her expression but failed to stop the gentleman from addressing her.

"You and that boy! I've seen you two. Don't think I don't know what you two've been up to!"

His finger stiffly pointed at her face, Emma held her hands up defensively. He huffed before leading the way into their shed. He gestured aggressively to the sacks that lined the wall, tucked away in the shadows. "These are mine," he said, hand extended to one specific bag, "and you had no right—"

"Sir, I didn't—"

"They don't belong to you!" he added, her interruption fueling his rage. "Or didn't your parents teach you any better?"

David stepped in front of the man, clearly insulted. "That's enough," he gritted out. He looked to Emma, seeing the shame in her eyes as her shoulders sagged.

She had only ever taken a few trinkets and they were hidden away in the crevices of her room. The crates and bags she had been shown belonged to Neal. She remembered them distinctly. She even recalled using one as a chair while they ate.

"I think there's been some mistake," Snow interjected. "Please, sir, take your things. We apologize for—"

"And you tell that boy that I'm on to him," the man said to Emma, ignoring her mother. He took his belongings and stomped away.

"Emma, maybe we should have a talk with this boy," she said, bordering on admonishment. "Where is he?"

The full realization of what Neal had done hit Emma then. He had been planning to leave town and left his baggage with her, in her family's home. "He's gone," she breathed. "He's not coming back."

They let her tread past them in silence. Emma made her way upstairs in a haze, sorrow gripping her heart. There was no outburst, no tears; not yet.

She sat on her bed in her room, the pale light beaming in and giving the space a ghostly feel. She grabbed an object from her nightstand—or the block of wood that served as such—and placed it in her lap. It was a pair of sheep shears coated in black.

"I will never love again."

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