A/N: Just a quick warning—this story does contain some SF, and Neal (Baelfire in this fic) will have some POV chapters, and the same goes for Regina later on, but I promise it is a CS story. They're just a bit of a slow-burn in this one. I changed the name of Emma's brother to Charles. And just so everyone is prepared, I can't promise that no main/beloved characters will die. As far as Part One goes, the POV will switch between Emma, Killian, Baelfire, and Wendy Darling.

Hope you guys like it!

The king was dead.

She had no affinity with death before that night. Before she was engulfed by its bloodlust. Before she tasted its haunted breath.

It was a taste never forgotten, never outlived. Like the stench of burning flesh or the mass of broken bodies etched into her memory.

Like the final image of her father.

A faceless shadow stood over him, enveloped by tendrils of black smoke. Emma had known that silhouette all her life. She imagined its eyes radiant with the glow of victory as a soft but resonant chortle choked the air.

"The king is dead," the shadow crooned. "Long live the queen."—

Footsteps echoed overhead. Advancing. When Emma looked to her side, she frowned for the one who'd left it cold. The cellar was empty, as dark as when she'd reluctantly succumbed to sleep, and her head ached from the sobs that Charles had failed to soothe. Emma crawled across a dirt floor to the only exit, and with palms flat against the floorboards, she pushed open the hatch.

Two bloodstained boots waited at its threshold. Charles knelt as near the edge as he dared, and offered his hand. "I was just coming to wake you."

"Why did you leave?"

Emma let him help her up. Once above ground, she started to wipe the dust from her dark pants, from the hem of a tunic that did little to disguise the fact that she was a woman despite its being two sizes too large, before declaring it a lost cause. With the journey they had ahead of them, it seemed pointless to fret over something so trivial. But if she was being honest, it wasn't the dirt that bothered her. It was the ash. It was knowing where it'd come from. Who the ashes once had been.

In another life, their sanctuary was a summer cottage. Signs of decay now showed at every inch. Spiders spun webs in the eaves, dust blanketed every surface. In the drawing room, a looking glass lay shattered beneath its frame, much like another Emma had seen. One that had seen her. The garden, once the loveliest in the realm—lovelier even than the king's own—had wilted and withered until all that remained was scorched earth.

"Killian thought he spotted scouts." Charles removed his peasant's cloak and went to wrap it around Emma.

But Emma waved him off, hoping he didn't notice the way her hand shook. "Aren't you the one we have to hide?"

It was the reason he was dressed as a common farmhand and not a prince.

The king is dead, a cruel voice reminded her.

"How else are we going to cover that hair?" He said with a smile. While Emma appreciated his attempt at improving her mood, it was too soon. It wasn't right to smile when their father was gone. "You'll give off our position from a mile away."

"I'm not the only blonde in the kingdom," Emma snapped.

"Only the fairest."

"Charles." Emma bit back a sob but couldn't stop the tears from burning silent paths down her face. "Please don't—"

"Quote Father?"

Unable to find her voice, Emma nodded. Wasn't it bad enough that Charles was the spit and image of David? That not even a full day had passed since they'd been a family? And now—

Charles pulled her into an embrace, no doubt having observed the quiver in her lower lip, and cupped the back of her head in his hand—

Emma shoved him away and dried her cheeks with her sleeve, avoiding her brother's wounded gaze.

Too soon, that voice said. Too much, too real.

Perhaps a little to spite her brother but mostly to spare herself an unwanted emotional display, Emma raised one hand in the air, turned it at the wrist, and the long layers withdrew from her shoulders. She felt the crisp morning air bite the back of her neck and the tips of her ears.

"Is this better?"

Charles looked quickly over his shoulder, toward the door he'd left open, and then back at Emma, his good humor a distant memory. "That isn't funny."

Emma rolled her eyes. Magic—or rather, Emma's cavalier attitude toward it—was the one thing she could count on to kindle her brother's unease. What if the people thought she was like all those dark wizards their father had driven out of Misthaven?

"There is such a thing as Light magic," Emma had said in her own defense.

To which Charles had replied, "See how well that justification works when they lock you up for being a witch."

Emma sighed and gave him a withering look. "So dramatic, Little Brother."

"Younger brother," Charles corrected. "And future king, you'll do well to remember."

"It's too early in the day for horror stories."

"I don't see what difference it makes now."

"The difference is someone could see you."

"Someone being your wife?"

Charles clenched his jaw as the argument Emma knew he was itching to make died on his tongue. "Don't call her that," was all but written in his narrowed eyes.

Instead of inciting another row, Emma dropped the glamour on her hair and said, "Where is Killian now?"

Charles took a step back, returned the cloak to his own shoulders—for no better reason than distraction, it seemed. "He's helping Regina prepare the horses."

He couldn't quite say her name without cringing. Emma couldn't blame him. Entirely. Even if she did think him too prone to paranoia—the events of last night only fanning the flames of his mistrust. "I wouldn't wish an arranged marriage on anyone, but Regina isn't the great evil you think she is."

"So it's coincidence that her mother killed our father the same hour she and I were wed?"

Emma ignored the sinking feeling in her chest that told her Charles' suspicions may not have been wholly unfounded—not a day into his nuptials and the kingdom in ruins. As much as she wanted to, she could no longer trust him.

"Why would Cora help raze a kingdom she wanted her daughter to rule?"

"Do you think she cannot rebuild? That she could not erect a castle as easily as you can shorten your hair? Her magic isn't comprised of parlor tricks, Emma. There are things she can do that you can't."

Emma could tell he regretted the words as soon as they were out, but it was too late. Their damage was done. And when she next spoke, it was with a tone so devoid of absolution that it sent a chill down her spine. "Like raise the dead?"

Killian had once told Emma she was an open book. She'd never felt more like one than in that moment, as hurt flashed in her brother's eyes. Emma didn't apologize. She couldn't. Because no matter how hard Charles tried to imitate the man who'd raised them, physical appearance was where the resemblance ended. David never would've done what Charles did.

She brushed past him, her steps echoing in the vacant space. Just before she reached the door, Charles said, "I had no choice, Emma. It was him or it was you."

All night her father's face had haunted her, had spawned nightmares mixed with memory. For the first time since a single squeeze of Cora's hand had reduced his heart to ash, Emma allowed herself to mourn another—if only for the split-second that Baelfire's anguished cry resounded in her mind.

Every shred of sisterly affection left her—the last piece of her that'd escaped the night unscathed, unbroken until that moment. Fury flowed like blood through her veins. The rest of her was as hollow as the house that'd sheltered them for a few dark hours before dawn.

When she and Baelfire had stayed there—what now felt a lifetime ago—it'd been the elements and not the capital's soldiers that'd driven them inside.

"There's always a choice, Charles. You saved the wrong person."

"You're my sister."

Emma stared out at the soft morning, heard birds chirping merrily in the trees. The day had been bright even before the sun crept across the hills to greet them, and was scented with a hint of Middlemist. These details were a personal affront to Emma, who was not so easily swayed by a forgetful landscape, as though it could so sweetly annul the massacre at Misthaven.

Killian and Regina kept watch near the horses the two of them had borrowed from a farm just outside the border where Misthaven met the Forest for which it was so often confused. Each steed had a coat that was darker than shadow and eyes like a devouring abyss. They'd taken rather quickly to Regina, who now fed one of the beasts their group's last apple. Wendy stayed by Killian's side—her self-appointed post for the foreseeable future—as her eyes darted about the branches overhead, uncertain of the sounds that only yesterday they all would have dismissed as ambient noise.

Life goes on, people were prone to say in times of tragedy. The sun does not cease to rise because one person dies.

What about two people? What about a kingdom?

Would the sun cease to rise on a world if enough of its souls departed?

"You would've done the same if it was me."

It must've been the suddenness of trauma, that she'd let Charles hold her while she cried. It must've been grief that'd made her forget, just for one night. That'd allowed her to look past what he'd done to save her. Maybe it was the understanding that they were the only family now left to one another. A new bond formed over a broken one—the way bones healed but were never the same.

Emma didn't turn around.

She took the first step away from her brother, her boot catching patches of golden light breaking through the trees. The breeze tickled her skin, ran like invisible fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, imagined Baelfire's hand closing around hers. And each new step was easier than the last.