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unabashegirl · 4 months

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Meeting her || H.S

Author's note: The following piece is based on The Golden Boy one short from earlier in the year. This story will be how Harry and Y/N met. This took place before the World Cup . This is going to be a three-part story! This is part one. I hope you enjoy! The next part will have smut. Let me know what you think

PS: these IA pictures are getting out of hand.

masterlist

word count: 5.1K

As the autumn leaves danced in the crisp Manchester breeze, Y/N found herself lost in the beauty of this new city. Having recently moved here, her life felt like a blank canvas waiting to be painted with new experiences and adventures. One such adventure awaited her on a chilly evening, as her friend Emma invited her to dinner with her new boyfriend, Harry.

They first met in college during their second year. Y/N got invited to her first party but didn't know anyone. Everything turned around when Emma bumped into her in the kitchen. As the years went by, their friendship got stronger. But when Y/N switched her major to art, things took a turn. Emma didn't like the decision and started keeping her distance.

Y/N came back to Manchester after spending nearly a year in Italy. During her time there, she learned a new way to paint and work with ceramics. Even though her family was closer, she felt a bit out of place, like a foreigner, in her own native country.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Y/N's phone buzzed with a message notification and a follow request on Instagram from Emma. Curiosity piqued; Y/N opened the app to find a warm greeting from her old friend. Emma had just learned that Y/N was back in town and was eager to reconnect and catch up on all the happenings since their last meeting. Ever since, they've been regularly meeting up for lunch dates, dinners, and various events.

Emma had been excitedly telling Y/N about Harry for weeks, and tonight was the night she was going to meet him. She kept going on about how he was a professional football player, having just joined Manchester United, and how his salary was sky-high, potentially making him extremely wealthy. Emma was evidently proud of this and made sure to let Y/N know, almost bragging about it.

They met at a cozy, dimly lit restaurant, where the aroma of delicious food filled the air. Emma was beaming with excitement, introducing Y/N to Harry as he greeted them with a warm smile. He was handsome, with kind eyes that seemed to reflect his genuine personality.

"Y/N, this is Harry," Emma said enthusiastically.

"Nice to meet you, Harry," Y/N replied with a friendly smile, extending her hand for a handshake.

"The pleasure's mine," he responded politely. "I've heard that you're an artist."

Y/N nodded shyly, "Yeah, mostly into paintings and ceramics."

“Anything that we might have seen?”

"Nothing. She's just a beginner, honey," Emma interrupted before Y/N could respond. "She just returned from Italy from picking up a new skill, hoping it might help her sell and turn a profit. You know how it is in the art world – always searching for that breakthrough.”

Y/N felt a momentary offense, a twinge of embarrassment sweeping over her. Not everything Emma had said was entirely accurate. While it was true that everyone aspired to a breakthrough, Y/N had already experienced one, prompting her journey to Italy. Having been invited there, she returned to Manchester with a renewed focus on opening her first gallery. Whispers of her name began circulating in the corners of the art world.

"Fortunately, Harry has already had his breakthrough," Emma added before taking a sip of her martini.

Emma's chatter mostly revolved around Harry's career, the glamorous lifestyle associated with professional football, and the immense potential for wealth. While Harry remained modest and humble about his achievements, Y/N could sense a hint of discomfort in his eyes.

Y/N was someone who valued depth in conversation, she yearned for more than just the superficial. Emma's constant emphasis on Harry's financial prospects was getting on her nerves, but she held her tongue, not wanting to jeopardize her friendship. It was rare for her to have friends, and she didn't want to ruin this budding friendship.

Throughout the evening, she observed Harry, realizing that he was a genuinely kind and down-to-earth person. He seemed uncomfortable with the focus on his financial success, preferring to discuss other aspects of life. Their conversation flowed naturally when they discussed their interests, hobbies, and favorite books.

As the night progressed, Y/N found herself connecting with Harry on a deeper level, appreciating his humility and kindness. Despite the initial annoyance caused by Emma's bragging, she discovered a potential friend in Harry—one who valued genuine connections over monetary gains.

"So, how was Italy? Is it everything that people say?" Harry inquired, his curiosity evident. Having not yet ventured outside the country, most of his experiences were rooted in local settings, particularly in the realm of his games. Eager to hear about Y/N's international adventure, he leaned in, genuinely interested in the tales she might share about the enchanting country he had yet to explore himself.

Y/N smiled, taking a sip of her drink before launching into her narrative. “It is everything and more. The art, the history, the landscapes – it's like a dream. I ended up indulging in the most amazing pasta dishes. And the art is in every corner.”

Harry's eyes widened with interest, "Really? What kind of art did you see?"

Y/N's enthusiasm bubbled as she shared, "Everything from Renaissance masterpieces to contemporary street art”.

As the evening came to a close, she felt a sense of contentment. She had made a new friend in Harry, someone who shared her appreciation for genuine conversations and meaningful connections. Little did she know, this chance encounter would mark the beginning of a beautiful friendship that would enrich her life in more ways than she could have imagined.

Throughout the week, Emma continued to invite her to various events, eager to integrate her into her social circle. One evening, she invited Y/N to attend a football game where Harry would be playing. Y/N was genuinely excited about the prospect of watching a live game and supporting Harry, but Emma's comment about dressing up and putting on makeup stung.

"You should definitely come to the game! It's going to be so much fun. Dress up a bit and maybe put on some makeup—you never know, you might catch someone of Harry's caliber," she said with a wink, attempting to make it sound like a lighthearted joke.

Y/N forced a smile, masking the hurt she felt. It was clear Emma was implying that Harry was out of her league or that she needed to "improve" her appearance to even be in the same league as her or him. She wasn't confrontational by nature, so she simply replied, "Thanks for the invite, Emma. I'll see if I can make it."

As the day of the game approached, Y/N debated whether to attend. The comment had left a lingering discomfort, making her question if she should subject herself to such superficial judgments. But her curiosity to watch the game and support Harry won in the end.

On the day of the game, she wore a casual yet presentable outfit, wanting to feel comfortable and confident in her own skin. She met Emma at the stadium, where she greeted her with excitement.

“I'm so glad you made it! This is going to be amazing," she exclaimed.

“Yeah, I'm looking forward to it," Y/N replied, attempting to infuse her response with enthusiasm, though beneath the surface, nerves churned. Anticipation mingled with apprehension as she contemplated the upcoming interaction. Y/N couldn't shake the memory of previous encounters, where backhanded comments and thinly veiled compliments had become a common thread.

As they took their seats, the atmosphere in the stadium was electric. The crowd's energy was infectious, and she found herself caught up in the excitement of the game. Watching Harry play was impressive—his skill and passion for the sport were evident.

Amidst the cheers and celebrations, Emma leaned over and said, "Isn't he amazing on the field? Imagine being with someone like him."

Her words struck a chord, reminding Y/N of the shallow perspective she seemed to have about relationships. She chose to focus on the game and cheer for Harry, pushing aside the hurt she felt. Deep down, she knew she deserved genuine connections and friendships that weren't based on appearance or someone's profession.

As the game ended and they made their way out of the stadium, she appreciated the experience and the opportunity to support Harry. However, she also realized the importance of surrounding herself with people who valued her for who she was, rather than making her feel inadequate or lesser than because of societal standards or external perceptions.

She continued to focus on her art, pouring her heart and soul into the canvas as she prepared for her upcoming art show. Emma's persistent invitations and comments had left a mark, and she found solace in the therapeutic strokes of her paintbrush. To protect her mental health and maintain her sense of self-worth, she began gently declining Emma's invitations and started distancing herself from her.

One afternoon, while heading to the art supply store, she unexpectedly crossed paths with none other than Harry. Her hair was up in a messy bun, glasses perched on her nose, and she was wearing baggy clothes slightly adorned with paint stains. She greeted him with a warm smile, surprised yet pleased to see him.

"Harry! Fancy running into you here," she said, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

"Hey! How have you been?" he responded, his friendly demeanor putting her at ease. Sporting athletic attire, he appeared in the midst of post-run casualness, on his way back to his apartment.

"I've been busy with work, preparing for an art show. It's been quite hectic," she explained.

"That sounds amazing! An art show? I'd love to see your work," Harry exclaimed, genuinely interested.

"Sure! You and Emma are more than welcome to come. It's on Saturday evening," she extended the invitation, acknowledging his enthusiasm. Including Emma felt like the courteous thing to do, although she harbored no intention of having her presence at the event.

"Where are you off to?" Harry inquired, his eyes drawn to her appearance and the sizable tote bag slung over her shoulder. He found the sight rather adorable. Harry admired her confidence and the unique way she expressed herself. While he hadn't seen her art yet, he was convinced that if it reflected even a fraction of her personality, it would undoubtedly be incredible.

Curiosity sparked in his eyes as he awaited her response, eager to understand the purpose behind the tote bag and the destination that had captured her attention on this particular day. The genuine interest he took in her pursuits was evident, a testament to the budding connection between them.

"I'm headed to the supply store. Ran out of a few things in the middle of a painting session," she explained, a hint of frustration in her voice. Having to cut her creative session short was always a predicament, leaving her feeling somewhat scattered. "That's why I look like such a mess," Y/N felt compelled to clarify, a touch of self-consciousness in her admission.

"Mind if I tag along?" Harry inquired, his reluctance to head to his apartment evident. The idea of being alone didn't appeal to him, and his living space still carried the lingering feeling of belonging to someone else.

"No problem. I just hope it won't be too boring for you," she said, a sudden nervousness creeping in. It felt akin to introducing a boyfriend to her parents, as he was about to witness a small yet intimate aspect of her life—her painting ritual. Despite the nerves, a giddy excitement bubbled within her. Rarely had someone shown enough interest in her work to accompany her in such moments.

As they strolled, they exchanged stories about their lives—his experiences with football, her passion for art, and the challenges and joys they both faced. Harry shared the excitement and pressure of being a professional athlete, and she talked about the joys and struggles of being an artist.

And Harry asked with genuine concern, "I noticed you've been a bit distant lately. Is everything okay?"

She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to share her feelings. But seeing his kind and understanding demeanor, she decided to be honest. "To be honest, Emma's comments have been bothering me. It felt like she was implying that I'm not good enough” Y/N shook her head, attempting to banish the same thoughts that had haunted her for years. "Or maybe I just misinterpreted her words," she mused, a flicker of uncertainty lingering in her mind.

Harry's eyes softened, understanding the weight of her words. "I'm so sorry you felt that way. Emma can be a bit... oblivious at times.”

His words warmed her heart, reassuring her that true friendships were built on understanding and mutual respect.

"We're here," Y/N announced, swinging open the door of a small but charming store. "Hi, George!" she greeted, waving enthusiastically to the elderly man stationed behind the counter at the back.

"Ms. Y/L/N! Good to see you! How's that collection coming along?" George, a familiar face and one of her most significant suppliers, recognized her immediately. He had even gone the extra mile to order specific brushes and paints for her, a testament to his belief in her talent.

"Oh, it's going!" Y/N chuckled, making her way to the paint aisle. "This is my friend Harry, George." Harry beamed, waving like an excited child being introduced to a stranger.

"Mr. Styles! Number nine in Manchester, right?" George exclaimed, recognizing him. "Great season you're having! It's good to have you."

"Thank you," Harry responded shyly, still adjusting to being recognized and receiving compliments from strangers.

"You're not going to swap me for Harry, are you, George?" Y/N teased as she bent down to reach for spatulas and sponges on the bottom shelf.

"Never. Still my favorite," George assured, prompting chuckles from both Harry and Y/N as they continued their joint venture, collecting items from Y/N's list and heading towards the checkout.

As Y/N gathered her art supplies, Harry couldn't help but admire the quaint charm of the store. It was filled with the rich scent of pigments and the subtle aroma of wooden easels. The artistic ambiance enveloped them as George continued to chat with Harry, discussing his recent successes in Manchester.

As they bid farewell to George, the doorbell chimed, marking the end of their visit. Stepping back into the bustling street, Y/N couldn't help but feel grateful for the support she received, not only from her favorite art supplier but also from Harry, who had ventured into her world with genuine interest and a bright smile.

"That was wonderful. Thank you for taking me," Harry commented warmly, carrying Y/N's tote bag through the lively streets. The cityscape buzzed around them, a backdrop to the shared experience they had just enjoyed.

Y/N smiled in response, her eyes reflecting gratitude. "Thank you for coming. It means a lot," she admitted, a subtle vulnerability in her tone. "No one has ever accompanied me to these sorts of things."

Harry's smile broadened, understanding the significance of those words. The weight of being the first to share in a part of Y/N's world tugged at his heartstrings. As they walked side by side, the city lights flickering overhead, an unspoken connection blossomed between them.

They found themselves enveloped in a comfortable silence, the echoes of their shared laughter still resonating in the air. The streets, alive with the rhythm of urban life, seemed to dance to an unspoken melody that mirrored the newfound understanding between Harry and Y/N.

Harry accompanied her all the way to her apartment, insisting on ensuring her safe arrival.

"I'll see you at the art show," Y/N said, her voice carrying a mixture of anticipation and gratitude. She gave him a quick but warm hug before disappearing into the foyer of the building. The promise of their reunion at the upcoming art show lingered in the air, a shared moment they both looked forward to. As Y/N disappeared from view, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of contentment. The day had been filled with meaningful conversations, different from his usual exchanges with his girlfriend.

On the night of the art show, the venue was buzzing with people who had gathered to appreciate and celebrate art. The atmosphere was vibrant, filled with an array of colors, emotions, and creativity. She was both excited and nervous, eager to share her work with others.

Not only were her paintings displayed on the wall, but her ceramics pieces adorned the space as well.

As the evening progressed, Y/N noticed Harry and Emma arriving, accompanied by a couple of Harry's friends. She greeted them warmly, hoping for a pleasant evening. However, it didn't take long for the mood to sour.

Emma's disapproving looks and hostile demeanor became evident as she roamed around the exhibition. Her discomfort seemed to intensify with each piece she viewed, as if she couldn't bear to see Y/N in the spotlight.

"What am I even looking at?" Emma whispered to Harry as they stood amidst a sizable crowd gathered around one of Y/N's largest paintings. "And why is everyone gawking? It's not a big deal; everyone can do it." Harry stayed silent; his attention fully absorbed by the intricate details of the artwork.

"Stop it," Harry gently pulled her hand, attempting to hush her down. "You're being rude." However, he couldn't deny that Y/N's creation was something truly unique. The canvas held an amalgamation of colors and emotions that seemed to dance and intertwine, capturing the essence of her artistic vision.

As the crowd marveled at the masterpiece, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for Y/N. Her work, a reflection of her passion and creativity, had garnered the attention and admiration of those present. He admired the way she fearlessly poured herself into her art, creating something that not only spoke to him but resonated with a broader audience.

Despite Emma's dismissive comments, Harry recognized the significance of Y/N's talent. He hoped that, with time, Emma might come to appreciate the artistry that captured the attention and imagination of so many.

“Let’s go. Why are we even here?” Emma turned to Harry and his friends, “She is not even that close of a friend. She is just a struggling artist”.

Unbeknownst to Emma, Y/N stood silently behind her, absorbing every single word that had slipped from Emma's lips. The gallery buzzed with the murmur of impressed onlookers, blissfully unaware that the subject of their discussion was right there, an invisible presence in the sea of admirers.

Y/N's heart sank at Emma's dismissive comments, her vulnerability exposed to the unintended audience. The weight of those words settled on her shoulders, adding a layer of discomfort to the pride she felt for her creations. Yet, she chose to linger in the shadows, absorbing the unfiltered opinions that echoed in the gallery space.

“Emma, that’s enough” Harry interjected, his voice carrying a mix of anger and concern.

As Emma turned around, her gaze met Y/N's, and the air grew thick with an unspoken tension. Y/N, having overheard every word of Emma's critique, stood there, a silent witness to the candid commentary. The sudden realization that Y/N had been present all along cast a veil of nervousness over Emma.

Caught off guard, Emma's eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. The vibrant atmosphere of the gallery seemed to dim momentarily; the weight of the words exchanged lingering in the space between them.

Ignoring him, Emma cleared her throat, her voice sharp and accusatory, "You've been avoiding me, Y/N. I don't appreciate being treated this way, especially after everything I've done for you." Caught in the discomfort of the moment, Emma felt the need to assign blame. Admitting fault was inconceivable, especially in front of Harry and his friends; maintaining a positive image was paramount. Emma couldn't afford to be perceived as a negative force, and so, the instinct to shift responsibility to another party took hold. The desire to preserve her reputation and uphold a facade of positivity outweighed the need for genuine self-reflection.

Y/N tried to maintain her composure, choosing her words carefully. "I've been busy preparing for this show and focusing on my art. I never meant to make you feel ignored."

Emma's face twisted into a bitter expression, and she snapped, "You think you're so special with your art, don't you? No one cares, Y/N. I stopped talking to you in college because of these same reasons. You need to realize that you made a mistake by changing majors. Art is not going to feed you.”

The threat stung, hitting close to home. Y/N took a deep breath, trying to stay calm and collected despite the rising humiliation. "Let's discuss this later, privately."

She was relentless, determined to exert her dominance. "No, we'll discuss it now. Harry, tell her she's out of line."

Harry, torn between loyalty and what was right, looked conflicted. "Emma, maybe now's not the best time—"

Emma cut him off, her voice venomous, "Oh, so now you're siding with her? Fine, have it your way."

She stormed off, leaving Harry visibly troubled and Y/N mortified in front of his friends and other attendees. She wished the ground would swallow her whole, but she reminded herself that she had done nothing wrong.

Harry approached her, his eyes filled with apology. "I'm so sorry. She was completely out of line."

She forced a small smile, trying to brush it off. "It's alright, Harry. Let's not let this ruin the evening."

Deep down, she knew she deserved better than Emma's toxic behavior. As the night unfolded, she chose to focus on the genuine appreciation she received for her art, determined to rise above the negativity and continue pursuing her passion and genuine friendships.

After the tumultuous confrontation with Emma, the art show continued, and she tried her best to immerse herself in the joy of sharing her work with appreciative art lovers. The support and admiration she received from the attendees helped ease the sting of Emma's outburst, allowing her to refocus on the success of the evening.

As the night came to a close, she couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Several of her pieces had been sold, and the positive feedback had boosted her confidence as an artist. She was both proud and grateful for the experience.

As she started to wrap things up and close the gallery, she noticed Harry waiting outside. His presence was a comforting sight after the rollercoaster of emotions she had endured throughout the evening.

"Hey," she greeted, trying to offer a genuine smile despite the lingering discomfort.

"Hey, congratulations on a successful show," Harry said warmly, genuinely pleased for her.

"Thank you. It means a lot," she replied, feeling a sense of relief knowing that the worst was behind her.

"Look, Y/N, I'm really sorry about Emma's behavior. That was completely uncalled for," Harry apologized again, sincerity in his eyes.

She appreciated his concern and understanding. "Thank you, Harry. I know you tried to intervene, and I appreciate that."

Harry nodded, and then a soft chuckle escaped his lips. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. How about we grab a bite to eat?"

A pang of hunger reminded her that she had skipped dinner in the whirlwind of the art show. "That sounds perfect. Let's go."

They found a nearby café and sat down, the atmosphere much more relaxed and pleasant than earlier in the evening.

Harry's presence was a balm to her earlier distress, and she was grateful for his kindness and understanding. Despite the events of the night, she felt a genuine connection with him, appreciating the way he had handled the situation and his willingness to stand by her.

As the night came to a close, and she bid Harry farewell, a mix of emotions swirled within her. There was a flutter in her heart, an undeniable attraction that had grown stronger throughout the evening. She had started to like Harry more than just a friend, and it made her nervous.

Y/N knew the reality of the situation. Harry was Emma's boyfriend, and pursuing anything beyond friendship with him would be a betrayal of their relationship. Loyalty and respect were paramount, and she wouldn't compromise those values for her own desires. She couldn't deny the chemistry and connection she felt, but she also understood the importance of boundaries and staying true to her principles. It was a delicate balance between her burgeoning feelings and her commitment to doing what was right.

In the following days, she wrestled with her emotions, trying to put distance between her heart and the potential complications that could arise. She focused on her art, pouring her feelings into her creations, finding solace in the brushstrokes that paint her emotions on the canvas.

That was until one day when she found herself at home, and the intercom unexpectedly rang.

"Ms. Y/L/N, there's a Harry Styles wanting to see you," the voice on the other end announced. Shock rippled through her; it had been a few weeks since she had last seen him. Y/N had purposely kept her distance, fully aware of the feelings that had developed within her.

"Yeah, let him in," she replied, a mix of anticipation and nervousness lingering in her voice. As she unlocked the door, she settled back into her painting, attempting to distract herself from the whirlwind of emotions.

The front door creaked open, and soon, a soft knock echoed through the space. "Y/N?" Harry's rough voice called out, filling the room with a mixture of familiarity and uncertainty.

"In here," Harry heard from the foyer, prompting him to close the front door behind him. He followed the sound of her voice, traversing through the space until he finally located her. There she was, sitting on the wooden floor with legs crossed, her hair fashioned into a bun, and wearing glasses that complemented. her.

Harry cradled a warm brown paper bag, emanating the aromatic allure of Chinese cuisine. He knew of this particular restaurant that served delectable dishes, a tantalizing choice for his unhealthy food cravings. Eager to share this delightful find with Y/N, he approached her with a welcoming smile, lifting the bag in presentation.

"I brought some food," he announced, the tantalizing aroma wafting from the bag.

Curiosity sparked in Y/N's eyes as she inquired, "What is it?"

"Chinese," Harry nervously replied, hoping that his culinary choice would meet her approval.

"Good choice," Y/N commended, setting aside her brush and rising from the floor. It was at that moment that Harry couldn't help but notice her attire – a pair of overalls, worn with an easy casualness. However, the revelation didn't stop there; the absence of anything beneath the overalls exposed the side of her breast, a subtle detail that heightened the air of intimacy in the room. The vulnerability of the moment lingered, as did the tempting aroma of the Chinese delicacies. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah” he cleared his voice, “just hungry” Harry didn’t know if he meant for the meal or fo the sudden urge that he had to feel her breast. He recognized that Y/N had distanced herself, a mirror to the sentiments he harbored toward her. The desire to be close to her lingered within Harry, fueled by a genuine fondness. He admired her, not just for her presence but for the profound connection that blossomed in their conversations.

Harry appreciated the way she listened, her attention genuine and unwavering. In those moments, he felt more than heard; he felt understood on a level that transcended the superficial. Y/N held the key to unraveling his thoughts and emotions, creating a unique bond built on mutual understanding and genuine connection.

"How have you been?" Y/N inquired, taking the lead as she guided Harry towards the living room. The air was charged with a mix of anticipation and a hint of vulnerability. "I saw your match last week. You played really well."

Harry's response held a touch of concern, reflecting the echoes of unanswered messages that lingered between them. "I haven't heard from you since your art show. I thought you were mad at me," he confessed, revealing the worry that had gnawed at him.

"I just thought it would be best to gain some distance between us," Y/N explained, her movements deliberate as she set plates on the coffee table. The unspoken complexities of their connection hung in the air, entwined with a hint of secrecy. "I-I am sure that Emma wouldn't like to know that we are spending this much time together."

As soon as the word 'distance' left her lips, a palpable tension surged through Harry. Panic set in, triggering a rapid response. He hastily placed the bag down, reaching out for Y/N. In a swift motion, he grasped her wrist, pulling her towards him with a sense of urgency.

"Harry," Y/N cautioned, her hand pressed against his chest, attempting to maintain a boundary. Yet, defiance glinted in his eyes as he refused to relent. He freed her wrist, wrapping an arm around her waist while the other found its place behind her head, gently pushing her closer.

"No," he declared, the word hanging in the charged atmosphere. His lips met hers with a hunger that spoke volumes, a fusion of longing and passion. Initially resisting, Y/N succumbed to the intensity of the moment, reciprocating the kiss with an equal fervor. The living room became a stage for a silent exchange, where unspoken emotions and lingering desires found expression in the fervent embrace of their lips.

“Yeah, that’s exactly how I’d imagined it”

QUESTIONS OF CHAPTER (answer below) Do you condone Harry and Y/N’s actions? Do think Emma deserves get cheated on?

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royal-confessions · 8 months

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“Princess IA at Emma Behn’s Confirmation with those boots, that dress and coat was *chef’s kisses*!!!” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Princess Ingrid Alexandra once again showing us that she has THOSE legs!!” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Princess Ingrid Alexandra at her cousin’s Confirmation - HOT D*MN!! Please, YRH, MARRY ME!!” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Princess Ingrid absolutely has a lovely sense of style! Just look at the photos of Emma Behn’s Confirmation!” - Submitted by Anonymous

#princess ingrid alexandra #popular

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 months

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imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [1/6]

“My ‘story’ is that I left a fucked-up situation and it kind of fucked me up,” he’d said. But it was the way he’d said it, like it hadn’t broken him. Like it was just a fact. But Emma’s life was a story, too. A fucked-up situation that had kind of fucked her up. She wasn’t that kid anymore. Confidence could be learned. And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t broken, either. Not if she picked up the pieces. Not if she told herself a new story. About who she was. About what she wanted. Roots, family, friends, a sense of the familiar—these did not have to be fairy tales. "You owe it to yourself," Mary Margaret said. "Happy endings always start with hope."

S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

to @wistfulcynic and @thisonesatellite who sat with me while we daydreamed on a hilltop in cornwall on the summer-iest summer day england has ever seen. it took me eight months but i got there in the end.

thank you to @shireness-says for time and feedback and kindness to the IAS @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @idoltina @initiala @thejollyroger-writer for always giving me a cheer when i needed it (including--in B's case--occasionally getting random, context-free paragraphs dumped into her DMs)

one. 'when you leave, you just miss it'

The sun was shining.

Almost a week since they’d seen real daylight—maybe more, maybe less. No one was sure. Time, like light, did not work properly in Neverland. That’s what Hook had said, and Neal had agreed, an uneasy peace between them; Regina grumbled and Gold snickered but it had been a week or a lifetime and the sun was shining and she had slept last night, for the first time in a week.

Or a lifetime.

She heard the wind rustling around her through the open portholes. Tasted the salt on the air, sweet and slightly cool. Emma sat up and the chill danced around her skin as the sheet fell. She felt good; rested, refreshed. Free.

Her clothes were were on the floor where she’d left them. She slipped from the bunk and picked them up, one by one and hanging from her fingertips. Because time might not have been real in Neverland but everything definitely smelled like she’d been wearing it for a week. When they got back to Storybrooke she wasn’t just going to wash the clothes. She was going to burn them. Just thinking about it made the power well up inside her. It wasn’t anger or darkness or the unrelenting terror of the Dark Hollow. It was something else—warm, gentle flames that tickled.

Or maybe she just really needed a shower.

God, a shower.

She dressed quickly and found her way above deck, stumbling over a dozen dozing Lost Boys and one wide-awake former fairy. Neal and Wendy leaned up against the bulkhead, their legs sprawled out in front of them. Wendy had curled herself against Neal like she wouldn’t let him go.

Emma wrapped her arms around herself and glanced up. The sail billowed, but the Shadow cast no shadow here. Tink turned and spotted her. The way her eyes lit up made Emma’s breath catch. They were going home.

“We’re nearly there,” Tink said. “I almost can’t believe it. Where’s Hook?”

Emma shrugged. “I thought he needed to be here. Steering.” Behind them, the giant wheel turned on its own.

“Magic,” Tink said. “The ship, it has magic. Not my kind—I’ve no idea how it works.”

“And I’ll never tell.” His hair was mussed by the wind but his coat hung heavy over him. Weighing him down. The words were heavy, too, weighted with meaning—something in his eyes before he cleared his throat. Then Captain Hook inclined his head and it was gone, replaced with twinkles like tiny blue gems in his eyes. “Tinker Bell.”

“Hook.” A speculative syllable as the fairy stared intently and he blushed. Emma looked from one of them to the other until Hook’s eyes caught hers and held. He raised his eyebrow, just the one.

Emma raised hers. Both of them.

“Swan,” he said.

“Hook,” she said.

“Mom!” Henry ran across the deck, leaving Regina behind in the companionway with a genuine smile on her face. Neal’s eyes opened immediately at the sound of his son’s voice and he scrambled to his feet, catching Henry in his arms but barely slowing him before he angled back toward Emma. She nearly fell over as she absorbed the fullness of his hug. Her son’s arms around her, finally.

Six days. Not even a week. But her life had changed in less time before: The time it took to steal a car, to open a locker. Sixteen hours to give birth. Ten hours on a beanstalk.

The kiss it took to break a curse.

A week was plenty of time for her world to turn itself upside down. Again.

“The sun is fully up,” Hook said. “We’ll be arriving shortly in Storybrooke.” A fairy-tale land full of fairy-tale people encased in a magic shield that they were going to pierce with a magic boat piloted by a pirate and guided by a demon’s Shadow. Hook spoke and the ship turned on a dime, the wheel spinning, the Shadow-filled sail briefly flashing white, and there it was.

The harbor. The clock tower. The neon sign of the B&B.

“Home,” Mary Margaret whispered, coming to stand next to Emma.

David rested his hand on her arm and Emma tensed. His smile gentled and he moved, stepping back to pull Mary Margaret closer. “Together. Heroes, villains—pirates.” Pride glowed briefly in his eyes. “Just like you said.”

Heroes, villains, pirates. Parents.

Storybrooke.

Home.

The rest of the fairy-tale folk rushed to the rails, hanging over the sides for a closer look at their heroes’ welcome. A faint sound carried on the breeze—laughter. Cheers.

They were in the water. They were in the harbor. The gangplank lowered. Henry was practically trembling with excitement as he hurled himself onto the dock, zooming between his father and his grandparents and Granny and—and—and—

But it was Neal Emma was watching. Hugging his father. Hugging Belle. Escorting Wendy. No longer a Lost Boy but a found one.

“Home. The place that when you leave, you just miss it.” He’d told her that the night they’d met. Her lifetime had been a series of moves from place to place to place and every time, she’d only known one thing for certain: She wasn’t home. Not yet. She’d been seventeen and Neal Cassidy had kneeled in the dirt and picked the lock and when he turned the amusement park lights on and smiled at her, knowing and full of confidence, her entire world had shifted on its axis.

“My ‘story’ is that I left a fucked-up situation and it kind of fucked me up,” he’d said. But it was the way he’d said it, like it hadn’t broken him. Like it was just a fact. Or maybe it was a secret he was sharing. With her.

Home. Neal wrapped Wendy and her brothers in a group hug with an expression Emma had never seen before. But Emma’s life was a story, too. A fucked-up situation that had kind of fucked her up. She wasn’t that kid anymore. Confidence could be learned. And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t broken, either.

Not if she picked up the pieces. Not if she told herself a new story. About who she was. About what she wanted. Roots, family, friends, a sense of the familiar—these did not have to be fairy tales. The flame warmed inside her again, as if the idea of wanting—of knowing what she wanted—was its own kind of magic. Maybe it was.

Possibilities. Hope.

In her. In the magic. In this town. It wasn’t a home—yet—but for the first time Emma felt like it could be. If she let it. If she wanted it. If she chose it.

Henry turned back to her, waiting. An impatient gesture. She took one last long look around the decks of the ship. Hook stood at the helm, tracing the scratch marks in the wood.

Home.

With a deep breath, Emma stepped onto the dock.

two. 'i quite fancy you'

The realization hit at approximately the same time Emma Swan hit the water, the waves enveloping her and dragging her down, though he didn’t think about it. Not then. Not in the midst of the magically-intensified storm and the maelstrom wrought by his own frustrations: Baelfire’s death, his son missing, the Dark One on his ship and Prince-bloody-Charming up in arms and in Killian’s face, so certain it was he who was the captain here—an uncomfortable thought all on its own, and similarly ignored.

But then she’d hit the water and it was all hands on deck.

Nothing else mattered as they retrieved her from the deep and lowered her to the deck and waited. Waited for her to breathe, to move, to cough out the water, her body wracked by the effort but alive. The storm vanished as quickly as it appeared but the weight lingered.

Killian did not like to think about the last time he had seen a woman laid out before him on his ship. About how it had ended. So he ignored it. Ignored it with the patience and practice of a man accustomed to counting time in centuries rather than minutes and it was easy enough. In Neverland the only thing real was the here and the now; their horrific, indeterminate trek across the island was more than enough to occupy his mind.

Until it wasn’t.

He set himself up a good bit away from the others as they made their camp. He refused to watch the undisturbed slumber of the Charmings. Even Regina slept, but not Killian. Never Killian, never on Neverland. Whether it was better or worse to be alone and surrounded by the haunted cries of the Lost, Killian did not know. He’d thought and hoped never to hear them again no matter how unnaturally prolonged his life might be. But he knew this—it was too easy for Pan to grab on to a person in the netherworld of Neverland at night and it was darker now than Killian remembered it being, unless it was just the effect of the rum.

He almost wished it was.

Either way, there wasn’t enough of the bloody stuff to soothe the ragged edges of his soul.

He’d said it as a joke. Or a feint. An instinctive push in their ongoing tug-of-war. “I quite fancy you sometimes,” he’d said. But here in the dark surrounded by the cries he had no choice but to admit to himself that he’d meant it.

Horrific thought.

Idly, he wondered if Tinker Bell was still here. Their tactics for sleep--and mutual exhaustion--had always proved more then satisfactory in the past. Pleasurable, even; some of the only good memories Killian had of this place. Only that felt somehow…disloyal. A betrayal to an idea that his heart was apparently already committed to. Killian took another pull from the flask and reminded himself that villains didn’t get happy endings and if Captain Hook had been anything in his life, it was that.

After all, if he had been a better man, perhaps Baelfire wouldn’t have left.

It was with that happy thought that the cacophony of cries reached its crescendo—midnight, then, or near enough on this cursed island where the night felt endless. Perhaps it was endless, now. The days seemed shorter—nonexistent—the darkness constant. The island was changing. Dying. Killian knew only too well there was nothing Pan would not do to prevent that happening. Every instinct told him that Henry was the answer Pan sought.

Killian had not been lying when he told Emma that on this island, he was not the villain. Perhaps that was why he waited. Waited to hear the whisper of movement and the moment she finally gave up. When she finally got up. He had never wondered if she might hear the cries. It had been very nearly his first thought upon meeting her. She’d had the Look and few knew it better than he. Maybe Baelfire—Neal—had recognized it, too.

He could hear the muttered imprecations under her breath and was only gratified that she had sense enough to take the cutlass with her as she began to roam the surroundings of their camp. And then he heard something else.

Not words. A voice. A voice that taunted him still, lurking on the edges of his nightmares. Even worse, he knew what it meant. To be approached by Pan was to have a quest assigned, a task given. When Emma stumbled out of the woods clutching a scrap of parchment, he stood to meet her, already on alert.

Pan always did like his games.

three. 'you owe it to yourself'

The shower felt incredible. One after Granny’s; one before bed; one when she woke up. Part of her felt like she might never not be covered in dirt and sweat again. Part of her just wanted the warmth and the solitude. Even in a loft built for one and sleeping four, the shower was a one-person-at-a-time activity.

She hoped.

Exhausted but too restless to sleep, Emma had lain in her bed and stared at the exposed beams, counting the wood scratches and feeling it every time someone in the apartment breathed. Henry’s little snores made her smile with every exhalation and though here Mary Margaret and David were only—breathing—it was hard not to think about the other things they could be doing in the bed they shared at the bottom of the ladder.

Ew.

Emma really needed to get her own place.

Henry would want to go back to spending nights at Regina’s again, anyway. As he should. She was his mother.

Emma couldn’t help but think of Regina at the Tree. Regina with ‘no regrets’. She wasn’t sure if she believed any of it, but she couldn’t argue with the result—all of them, still standing, at the end of something horrible. Even if Emma thought Regina should have a few regrets—surely some of the murders had been unwarranted—maybe it was time to follow Regina’s example. Leave the past behind and focus on what she had.

What would it be like, to live with no regrets?

A new beginning.

A steam cloud followed her as she opened the frosted glass sliding door and followed the sweet smell of coffee to the kitchen island—a little pot, in an honest-to-goodness tea cozy, left in the blessedly quiet loft. Mary Margaret hadn’t done that in—she hadn’t done that since—

Before.

The texts had accumulated on her phone while she showered. She recognized most, but not all, of the phone numbers—David, Mary Margaret, Henry, Ruby—and remembered suddenly that she didn’t know which one might be Neal’s. Being presumed dead made that easy enough to excuse.

She was glad he wasn’t dead.

Emma sighed. Maybe it would have been easier if she’d set a time, or maybe it just would have been funnier: An hour to process Felix into the cells. Another at the pawnshop to watch Pan sealed beneath the floor—a tiny box to hold so many nightmares, but both of her parents standing next to her in spite of the dreamshade. Henry flanked by his mothers, his father, three of his grandparents.

Of course Neal had approached her—exactly down to the minute on the timer she had not set—cornering her at Granny’s. The beer was flowing, the food was hot, the noise was crushing her skull. Tick, tock.

“Emma, can we make some time to talk?”

She hadn’t even gotten her coat off, and it was weird to suddenly need it again after six days and a lifetime sweating in an otherworldly jungle. She saw Hook at the bar with Tink, a glass mug of amber liquid in each of their hands as they toasted. Mary Margaret and David pushed in behind and around her to head for a table. Regina and Henry were tucked in together at a booth.

Tick, tock.

She forced her attention back to Neal. “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” she said. “Unless—are you trying to ask me on a date?”

Yes.

Yes, he was and yes, she would make time—because they needed to know what would happen. Emma had a few ideas and as Mary Margaret always said happy endings start with hope. It was the look on Mary Margaret’s face as Neal settled himself back into his booth that had her worried. The big eyes, the bright smile. It was a look she wasn’t totally used to seeing on her friend’s face because it was such a Snow White look.

“You owe it to yourself,” Mary Margaret had said.

Tick, tock.

A motherly look. She wasn’t used to that yet, either. Six days or a lifetime hadn’t quite given her enough time to digest the shift from best friend to parent and almost every minute since the curse had broken had been one unrelenting nightmare after another. Ogres, giants, beanstalks. Cora. Hook. Neal. It didn’t help that even while Mary Margaret was urging her to take the chance—“You owe it to yourself”—Emma kept thinking about the chances Mary Margaret and David wanted to take.

Tick, tock.

They were home now, the three of them—four—five—six—or maybe eight—one big modern fairytale family—and that mattered, even if Mary Margaret had looked her in the eyes and promised that she wouldn’t be an orphan anymore and then decided that she would stay in Neverland forever if she had to. The thin leather strap of the waterskin crossed over David’s shoulder didn’t feel like much against that, but it was everything.

The water. From Hook. And every time she’d turned Emma had seen Hook watching, his eyes tightening slightly every time David moved. Like he was waiting for something. Tick, tock.

Shaking herself, Emma finished her cup of coffee and hauled herself back up the ladder. The curling iron felt comfortable in her hand; it was a relief to look in the mirror and see someone she recognized, from Before. Her blue leather jacket because it was warmer, her favorite tank top layered underneath, and she was going to go to Granny’s and have a goddamn normal day. Whatever that meant now—now that it wasn’t Before, but After. After the curse. After the Enchanted Forest. After Neverland.

After—everything.

She wasn’t a tiny princess under a mobile of glass unicorns; none of them knew what to do with a goddamn adult with a past. A history, a trauma, that was not part of their storybook fantasy, and more than a missed opportunity that they could recreate.

She refused to just be that. She was a mother, too. A sheriff. A Savior.

An orphan.

If what they had was unique, to use Mary Margaret’s words from the Echo Cave, then they had to be able to make their own definitions. Their own rules and wants and needs and hopes. Their own story. And what Emma wanted, more than anything, was to carve out her own space in this world—parents, children, magic, exes, and evil queens—and know that it was hers. That she belonged. Emma wanted to know that when Henry came for her he wasn’t just looking for her to break a curse. He was bringing her home.

How did Snow White, of all people, not understand that?

She glanced at her phone, at the time and at the last text message. Pulled on her shitkicker black boots and closed the door behind her.

She had a date to get to.

#cs fic #canon divergence #season 3a #no curse renaissance

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ia-fotos · 11 months

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Creada con IA

#IA #emma watson #sitting

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bigshepherdrascalmug · 1 year

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So uh... Just searched an interview with Ale ia Fast about her role as Dean's Daughter in Supernatural and... Here are her thoughts about Emma:

So yeah... For everyone saying Sam was justified in killing her in Slice Girls; he kind of wasn't, meaning that we could've had a great female protagonist along side the male ones if it wasn't for the shows inconsistent wiriting...

#dean winchester #sam and dean #supernatural fandom #supernatural #emma winchester #emmanatural #spn spoilers #spn #unpopular opinion #sam winchester #supernatural writing

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zwedexx · 3 months

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Dazn needs to get a new commentator.

The guy doing the commenting on the Roma vs Ajax game cannot pronounce any Roma player's name. Not even the non italian ones.

Camelia Kaser (Camelia Ceasar)

Relis Lin-nah-ri (Elena Linari)

Lucy-ia Di Googiano (Lucia Di Guglielmo)

Saki Ma-Guy (Saki Kumagai)

Emma Hravi (Emilie Haavi)

Laura Frysinger (Laura Feiersinger)

Evelyne Vee-ends (Evelyne Viens)

Valentina Gee-ah-cinti (Valentina Giacinti)

Ben-detta Gee-ona (Benedetta Glionna)

Gee-ada Gredgee (Giada Greggi)

#woso #woso x reader #woso fanfics #as roma women #women's soccer #women's football

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shireness-says · 8 months

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A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (4/5)

Summary: Two people are trained from childhood for a magical competition they don’t fully understand, whose stakes are higher than they imagine, all to be played out in a magical traveling circus. Falling in love complicates things. A CS AU of the book “The Night Circus”.

Rated M. ~13.4k. Also on Ao3. On Tumblr: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

A/N: It's back, at long last! Thanks to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan, and to @ohmightydevviepuu for all her help with the tarot stuff. And, of course, a HUGE thanks to my artist, @eirabach. She made me a gif for this chapter! A gif! How freaking cool is that! Lastly, thanks to the ladies of the IAS for their support as I poured blood, sweat, and tears into this. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

Stay tuned later tonight for me to post a short epilogue, and this one is done.

Tagging those previously interested: @welllpthisishappening, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @thejollyroger-writer, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells, @spartanguard, @phiralovesloki, @wistfulcynic, @iverna, @stahlop, @cssns

Enjoy!

----------------

Nick sees things - things other people don’t see. He always has. Sometimes they’re things that have already happened, and sometimes they’re things that haven’t happened yet, but they’re there. He knows them, the way he knows what he had for breakfast and what his sister’s face looks like. True, unchangeable things, no matter what anyone else does or doesn’t see.

(People don’t always believe him, of course, but that’s alright; Nick doesn’t need to be believed. Whether or not people believe what he sees does not have any bearing on the truth of the matter.)

A long time ago, Nick had seen Henry at the Circus. He’d told Ava that much; by the time Henry had shown up that second time, the year they’d turned sixteen, they’d known to expect him, and known that his fate was tied inextricably to the Circus and to themselves. It’s one of the reasons Ava had asked Henry to stay - that absolute certainty that he belonged in the Circus, grounded in the things Nick had seen.

It hadn’t been the right time. Nick didn’t say it, but he knew all the same. The future only ever comes in flashes - a crude ring, towering flames, a sense of cold and stillness, and Henry, somehow in the middle of all of it, still young but grown, a few short years in the future perhaps. It’s unmistakable. It’s fate, of a kind that is yet to occur.

If there is one thing Nick knows, it is that not all futures yet to come should be spoken aloud. Henry Mills’ entwinement with the Circus, whatever it yet may be, is one of them.

Still - as Henry and his sister mourn the early train from miles apart, Nick smiles to himself.

This story, whatever it may become, is far from over.

———

Knowing the nature of this competition doesn’t make things any easier, Emma discovers. In fact, it only makes things harder.

Maybe, at a certain level, she always knew it had to end like this. Maybe she just didn’t want to face it - Regina’s pointed silence on the subject, the increasing weight of this endeavor as the years had rolled on, the way Regina and Gold both had tried so hard to establish a divide between her and Killian. Now, however, is the era of facing this hard truth.

Mulan is right; falling in love with Killian made this an even greater tragedy than it already would have been. Winning was always a distant concept, but now it is simply unthinkable - knowing that her winning would mean his death.

It does not help knowing that he would say the same thing.

The Circus weighs heavier on her each day. It’s been nearly twenty years since they welcomed their first visitors, and even longer since this whole endeavor started. On the surface, Emma may still look like a young woman, but she feels each of those years in her mind and her body and her soul as the days tick by. Knowledge of how this must end only makes her more aware of the burden.

Some days, she wonders if it would be easier to just… give in. Accept the inevitability of the extent of the magic she carries. It would spare Killian, for certain, physically if not emotionally. What stays her hand each time is all the other lives tied to their competition now. Dozens of lives and livelihoods rest on her shoulders now, a thing she doubts anyone considered at the beginning of this all. What would happen to everyone whose lives have been put on hold if she lets go? What other unimaginable fallouts might come to pass?

No answer is immediately evident. No matter how much Emma searches her books, she fears the outcome will be the same: that there’s no way to minimize this damage, no matter how much she tries.

———

Henry is 18, and the world has lost much of its shine and glorious possibility.

He’d been an imaginative boy, and an imaginative young man, but those kinds of thoughts seem impossibly far away now. More than anything, Henry wants to learn, to go to telegraph school or maybe even college, but that just feels like a foolish dream most days, when he trudges down to the shipyards for another day at work, barely making enough pay for a little bit of lunch and the rent for his boarding house’s landlady at the end of the week. It is grueling work, constructing cargo ships and ocean liners, and Henry won’t pretend he enjoys it, but they’d been hiring when the sisters had made it clear he’d need to find his own way in the world and he couldn’t afford to be picky. Besides, he’s good at this; Henry may not be as strong as so many of the men he works with, but he’s quick and wiry and precise, able to wiggle into tight spaces when needed. This is not the life Henry ever imagined for himself, but that’s living, he supposes - settling, making do, focusing more on the business of surviving than any lofty goals.

Still, in a box under his bed at the boarding house filled with the little treasures he’s collected over the years, lives a single white glove, still soft and pristine after all these years. On nights that Henry indulges himself in dreams, he pulls the glove out and remembers the circus, all the lights and the smells and the people, the kind vendors who’d slipped him popcorn and Emma the magician and especially Ava, who’d kissed his cheek under the autumn sunlight and made him feel like he could be somebody.

We’ll see each other again - I promise, she’d said, and Henry had believed her. Even now, six years of heartache and disappointment and waiting later, there’s still a part of him that believes. It’s why he’s stayed here, within easy distance of the old fields where the Circus had unfolded, when he could find a better job with the railways. He can’t leave, not when they might still come back. After all - Ava had promised.

Henry will wait, and remember. But each day, it grows a little harder to dream.

———

There is a bonfire at the center of the Circus.

Bonfire, perhaps, is too mundane a word for the structure before you. The flame itself dances in unnatural ways, higher and then lower, swirling in patterns you’ve never seen fire take, tendrils periodically flashing with brilliant bursts of color before settling to a brilliant orange again. Surrounding the marvel is a cast iron cauldron, delicately constructed and appearing brilliantly strong for the contrast. Everything else spirals out from there - every path, every tent, every performance. Every bit of the Circus, with that fire throbbing at its center like a beating heart.

You’d come years ago, too, when the Circus was still young, and the bonfire had flared at its center then too. Something is different now, however, you can’t help but feel. There’s something more… intense, about the flames, something more demanding and frantic and pressing. Where the fire had once lapped gently, like waves against a wrought iron shore, it burns furiously and desperately now, higher and higher. It speaks of something imminent, that might yet still be terrible or glorious.

You step away, trailing back outwards along a silver-paved path. The bonfire seems now to mix wonder with fear, in a way you didn’t notice before.

But then again - what else will a fire do, if not burn?

———

Belle -

You told me, once, several years ago, to be careful - that change was coming, was in the air and in the cards. You also told me, in an entirely different conversation, that love was entirely too risky and wonderful to let pass by.

Who would have thought that both those warnings would come together at the same time, and in the same person? I think, perhaps, you may have been bright enough to see the writing on the wall. I, for one, was not.

Love is beautiful, Belle. She is beautiful, and brilliant, and so bloody good that it takes my breath away sometimes. Is this how you feel, with your Will? This overwhelming love that makes me willing to do anything, give up anything to make sure she’s happy? It is powerful, and terrifying, the way I wake up each morning willing to throw it all away if only she asks - maybe even before. Perhaps there’s an irony in the fact we’re meant to be competitors, diametrically opposed in every way - or, perhaps, the forces that set this all in motion never stopped to think that the very ways in which we were opposed made us more compatible than any other two people in the world.

In truth, I’m writing to you today, Belle, because I think I know what needs to be done, and I don’t want you to worry. This is my choice - and I will always, always choose her. Things are changing, and I’m not entirely sure where that will leave me at the end of this. But as you once said - I’m choosing to believe that change is for the better.

With all my love,

-Killian

———

Belle Scarlet, nee French, likes to start her day with a cup of tea and the paper and her correspondence. This morning brings a letter from Killian, and with it, more questions than answers. Her old friend’s words are simultaneously joyous and desperate in tone, leaving her puzzled more than anything else.

Belle doesn’t read her cards very often, anymore. There’s no real need to. The years of telling visitors a never-ending string of futures had been some of the most joyous of her life, but she’s enjoying this quieter existence. Killian’s words, however… it’s enough to send Belle for her personal set in her desk drawer, to see if the universe will be any more forthcoming.

The cards… the cards are a mess. Belle struggles to find any sense in what possibilities they present. She’d read for Killian, or she’d intended to, but what she sees in front of her speaks more to the Circus instead, like the two have become too intertwined to separate. Swords and their conflict flash throughout, the Lovers, the Devil and the Chariot and Judgement. The message is unclear, but there’s an undeniable urgency that speaks to her. At the center of it all is the Hanged Man. Belle knows this card, and its many meanings; knows how often it should be interpreted as events churning forward without one’s control. But it sits there, ominous in its depiction anyways, spurring Belle to action. She’s almost out the door, coat in hand, when she remembers something. Doubling back to the same drawer that keeps her cards, she retrieves the small, velvet pouch Mulan had pressed into her hand the day Belle left the Circus.

If Belle isn’t mistaken, she’ll finally have cause to use it.

It’s been years since she visited Killian in his apartment, but Belle still remembers the way, his address imprinted on her mind as the place this all began. It had always been an unassuming little set of rooms, never the kind of place you’d expect to find a powerful magician. Maybe that makes sense, in a way - the possibility of finding magic in the quietest, least likely places.

When Killian opens the door, he looks exhausted, more than Belle has ever seen. She can’t be certain what has happened the past two years, her friend’s letters always rather vague on specifics, but she can see how it presses down on his shoulders. Behind him, the apartment is in disarray in a manner she’s not used to seeing, books abandoned still open on every spare surface. On his desk in the middle of it all sits a paper model of one of the Circus tents; if Belle isn’t mistaken, it’s one that belongs to Miss Swan, the illusionist.

Oh, Killian.

“Tell me what’s happened,” she says gently.

He gestures her in, though sitting space is at a premium, books and scraps of paper taking over every space. As Belle gently rearranges things to perch on the arm of an armchair, Killian himself collapses into the seat behind his desk.

“It’s the competition,” he tells her. “I finally know how it ends.”

“And?”

He tilts his head in her direction, smiling sadly. “It’s a test of endurance,” he finally says after a heavy pause, “not of skill. The last one standing wins.”

Killian’s words set off a chill down to Belle’s bones as their truth sinks in. It is unsurprising, somehow, after years of mystery and deflection, but that doesn’t make it any less horrifying. “And you love your competitor,” is all she can say in the end.

“Aye. I do.” Killian’s hand fumbles for a glass of dark liquor on the sideboard, taking a long drink. “To lose, after all this time, seems unthinkable. But to win… that would be even worse.”

“A situation in which no one wins, really. Except, perhaps, your benefactors.”

“Exactly that.” He takes another drink before Belle rises to gently pry the crystal out of his hand. There’s a fire in his eyes as he looks up at her, a sort of determination, but the tragedy still lurks just behind his gaze. “I know what I need to do, Belle. I do. But there’s the Circus to consider, and even then… I don’t know that she’ll ever forgive me.”

“Does she love you, as you love her?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Then she’ll forgive you,” Belle says simply. “She’ll understand. But something is at hand, Killian, something with the Circus. Something immediate, that will not be ignored.”

“Something that will have to happen without me.” Killian’s gaze is distant as he looks out his window overlooking a very English street.

Belle pulls him into a hug as her mind churns. She’d had a suspicion when she came here that her intervention was necessary - it’s why she’d grabbed Mulan’s gift, after all - but it’s another thing to face the moment with certainty. Whatever is about to happen, she knows it will be the last she sees of her friend.

(Surreptitiously, she slips the Hanged Man into his pocket. When she’d first seen the card, she’d thought it heralded doom, and perhaps it still does. The Hanged Man, though, represents so much more: sacrifice for a cause, and surrender to greater forces, and letting one phase end for the sake of a new beginning. A merciful death with eyes wide open.

Some fates are unavoidable. And some endings are necessary to usher in something more.)

“Not necessarily,” she tells him, stepping back out of their tight embrace.

“Not necessarily? Belle, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but if I don’t even know what’s going on, there’s nothing I can do from here. Whatever’s about to happen - I can’t stop it. It’s not possible.”

“Oh, Killian,” she sighs fondly. You know, it’s funny - there’s no reason to make this moment more dramatic than it already inherently is, but after all of Killian’s own dramatics over the years… it feels fitting. Belle carefully draws the little bag out of her purse. Inside is a fine powder that Mulan had promised could transport someone back to the Circus if the time was right and the circumstances necessary. Unlike so much of the Circus, the powder is a shining gold, fine and soft when Belle tips the pouch’s contents into her hand. “You’ve forgotten one important thing,”

His face draws into a suspicious expression as he watches her hands move, seemingly cluing into the fact that she has plans of her own. “What’s that?”

Maybe the question is responding to her words; maybe it’s responding to her motions. Either way, her answer is the same. “There’s magic in this world, Killian. And that makes so many impossible things real.”

And with a sudden gust of breath, she sends the powder Mulan had gifted her to envelop Killian, surrounding him in a golden cloud. When the powder finally dissipates, Killian is gone, his glass on the desk the only sign he’d even been there.

There’s a feeling in Belle’s heart that maybe, this is the last time she sees Killian, but whatever that feeling is, it isn’t quite dread. Acceptance, maybe, and inevitability.

Belle lets herself back out into the street and slips into the early-morning crowd. Whatever happens - she’s played her part. Things are the way they’re supposed to be.

———

When the dust settles, Killian finds himself outdoors. A brief glance reveals him to be right in the center of the Circus, mere steps from the bonfire. Despite the rainy weather, the flames still dance and flicker, the center force of this whole enterprise churning ever forward. Somehow, he’s been transported thousands of miles, clear across the ocean from London to Maine. Others, he knows, would be shocked by such a sudden change; Killian has become far too weary for that.

That same glance also reveals Mulan waiting as if she knew he was coming, her fingers tapping on the pommel of her sword the only indication of a less-than-perfect patience. It is even less surprising, somehow, than his abrupt transportation.

“Ah good,” she says. “The former Miss French still shows impeccable timing.”

“So this is your doing?”

“That would, perhaps, be an overstatement,” she admits, handing him an umbrella. “I simply provided her with a tool. I thought it might be of use.”

“And yet you knew to wait.”

“I do not have Belle’s gifts; I will not pretend to such things. But the magic is… fraying, shall we say. Spiraling out of control. I can recognize a crisis point when it is upon us.”

Killian waits for her to continue, but the next words never come. After far too long a silence, he waves a prompting hand. “And?”

“You were clever at the start of all this,” Mulan tells him. “Tying your portion of the Circus to the book, and to the bonfire - that was wise. The separation acts as a pressure release valve, taking much of the burden off yourself. Miss Swan…” She pauses. “Well. Miss Swan, despite all her talents, has not done the same.”

“I know. I’ve seen it.”

“Yes, but do you know the extent? If Emma were to drop dead right now - the entire Circus would collapse in on itself. It’s a stroke of luck that this breaking point has not come while we were in transit, or the resulting crash would likely prove fatal to many of those here.”

“So you are asking me to - to end it.”

“Not exactly.” Mulan smiles cryptically. “Have you had much cause to speak with Nicholas Zimmer?” Killian shakes his head. “Young Mr. Zimmer is blessed with a rare gift - to see those things that happened long ago, with the kind of clarity most cannot see the present. One of his favorite tales is that of Merlin. Are you familiar?”

It rings a faint bell, like something he’d read in a book once. “The sorcerer, aye? And the tree.”

“Precisely. Now, most stories say he transformed himself into a tree, but it was something more similar to binding his spirit. Somewhere out there is an ancient oak, with the soul of a powerful magician trapped inside. That is what I ask of you. The Circus is born of both yours and Emma’s talents - and no matter who takes themselves off the board, it will cause a catastrophic collapse. But if you bind yourself to the Circus…”

“You believe it will keep the operation going. A loophole, if you will.”

“Exactly. Enough time to more effectively separate Miss Swan from her own magical bonds, and leave this place fully self-sufficient. But only if you’re willing.”

If he’s willing. What kind of question is that? If it will save Emma, and protect what they’ve created… it’s no question at all. “Do it.”

Mulan smiles. “I thought you might say that.” She lifts her hands briefly, as if about to commence immediately, before dropping them again. When you know what to look for, the similarities between Mulan’s and Emma’s magic is unmistakable - the intricate motions like weaving a tapestry out of thin air. “Is there anyone you need to speak to, first?” she asks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle.

Killian thinks of Emma, and of his brother. Liam will understand, he thinks; something like this has been coming for most of their lives. Emma…

Perhaps it is best that Emma not know. He already knows she’d never agree.

“No. There are not many people in my life, and I think they’ll understand. Do as you must.”

With a solemn nod, Mulan lifts her hands again, weaving intricate patterns. Behind Killian, the bonfire flares, growing taller and hotter and stronger. There’s a glow in the space between them, now, something that might be magic or might be the fire or might, even, be both. He can feel something pulling at his back, like strings knotted over and over to tie him to the bonfire.

Killian almost closes his eyes, lets himself surrender to the binds, when he hears a sudden shout. Through the growing blaze, Killian can just see Emma, running at full speed, beautiful in a blue dress and determined in a way he’s never seen. Mulan diligently works through the disturbance, hands moving as fast as they can, but Emma’s faster, and the spell hasn’t quite set, and -

He opens his arms on instinct, accepting Emma’s weight as she latches on to him, and lets them both fall.

———

(Emma hadn’t really thought it through before she threw herself at Killian - she’d just seen Mulan’s hands moving over the Circus book and so many strings looping around Killian and the tome and the fire and she’d just - reacted.

There’s a bare moment of burning as his arms close around her, like that first moment when a strange man had given her a stranger ring, before it fades to the kind of comforting warmth she’s only ever found with Killian. Then they’re falling, falling, falling -

And then, blessed nothingness.)

(If this is the end - well, Emma will always wonder if they were able to save the Circus that so many call home. She hopes so. But if this is the end, she’s glad to have faced it with him.)

———

The fire folds in on itself, absorbing both competitors as it extinguishes, and suddenly Mulan is the only one left at the metal grate. This turn of events is not what she expected, precisely, but it does not surprise her either.

Love makes one do foolish things. Mulan only wishes she had accepted that sooner.

The Circus is still around her, all the lives within it paused with the cessation of the lifeblood fire. It pulls at Mulan, too, but she’s never much heeded such things if she does not want to. That’s the wonder of magic.

For now, there’s nothing else to do but wait. She’d talked to Nicholas Zimmer beforehand, and Mulan knows there is still more that must be done. Young Mr. Zimmer hadn’t seen Miss Swan’s sacrifice, but he’d seen the fire extinguished and an iron ring and all of them, there at the edges.

He’d told her about another piece, too - someone who hasn’t arrived yet. And if she isn’t mistaken, that will be the crucial linchpin.

Mulan strolls leisurely towards the gate, prepared to wait as long as is necessary to see the end of this competition through.

———

When the brightness of the fire dims - or perhaps that blinding light had been the work of the spell; he had been a bit distracted by other things rather than sorting out the difference - Killian finds himself in the Labyrinth. Alone.

It is not what he expected.

The last thing he remembers is his arms around Emma, falling into nothing, but he wakes up to a familiar snowscape, all alone. Killian knows this maze like the back of his hand, however; has seen its chambers sprawled in paper across his desk, has watched each addition with joy and affection and wonder. There is nothing in this maze that can stop him from finding Emma - at least nothing that’s been conjured yet.

Killian trails through all the familiar rooms they’ve built together these last several years: the playing cards and the paper animals and the room he knows is Emma’s favorite, with plush cushions scattered on every surface and something floral drifting through the air.

The Circus has always been his - has been theirs - but this space more than any else.

He finally finds Emma in the paper seascape. That’s fitting in its own way, he supposes - to find her again in this room, where his love is written on every surface. There’s been an unnatural lightness even since he came back to himself in the snowy hall, something that means the ink never stains his shoes and he seems to pass straight through all the detritus of their surroundings, but Emma is warm and there when he cups her cheek. There’s something like heartbreak on her face, and something like exhaustion, but something like relief, too.

“Killian,” she breathes. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Shouldn’t I?” It seems to him that he’s exactly where he ought to be.

“No, you shouldn’t! You should be in London, and safe. I had a plan - ”

“Ah, but I had a plan too,” he interrupts. “In fact, you interrupted my particular plan.”

“To - to sacrifice yourself? Allow me to win? What sort of plan was that?”

Can she be so obtuse? Or is she simply selfless to the point of self-destruction? “One that would let you live.”

“And what use is that? You’ve got your brother, Belle -”

“But I wouldn’t have you.” It’s baffling, the way she discounts her own worth to him. “Don’t you understand, Emma? I told you I love you, and I meant it. What would my existence be if I survived at the cost of your own life? So yes, I was going to sacrifice myself, so that you could have the life that you deserve. I was trying to save you.”

“Maybe I didn’t want that,” she says. Emma meets his gaze steadily as she lifts her hands to gently grasp his lapels, like she’s imploring him to heed her words both in look and action. “I would have been alive, yes. But I wouldn’t want that, if it meant losing you. I love you, Killian,” she tells him - certain, sure and strong. “I know I never said it, but I do. I have for a long time. If you were willing to do this because you love me - is it so hard to imagine I’d do the same?”

He’d known, on some level, that she loves him - or hoped as much, at least. But hearing the words still sends what left of his soul soaring and his hands pulling her into an embrace, head dipping to share a kiss. They’ve had first kisses, and last kisses, and everything in between; happy kisses and sad kisses and so, so many scared kisses for all these years they’ve had to hide their love. This kiss now feels like something beautiful and new: a kiss tinged with the taste of freedom, that finally feels like their own. Maybe it’s absurd, under the circumstances, but Killian feels a lightness to his soul that makes him lift her on a whim until her face tilts down to meet his instead, spinning their entwined bodies in a slow circle. It’s silly - but it’s joyful, too, in a way they aren’t usually granted.

They’ve earned a little lightness after all this dark, he thinks.

Killian brushes an escaped curl back behind Emma’s ear once they finally separate and he sets her back on her own two feet. “I love you, Emma Swan,” he says. “I don’t regret the choices I’ve made, not if it means we have this. Happy endings aren’t always what we think, love - but if I get to spend it with you, that’s plenty happy for me.”

Killian brings his mouth back to her own, savoring the way her smile tastes.

For the first time, it feels like they have all the time in the world.

———

“It still weighs on me,” Emma confesses, once they’ve finally drunk their fill of kisses. “The Circus, I mean. It pulls on me heavier than ever, and I have to spend so much concentration just to keep everything supported, and - ” She sighs heavily. “I’m so tired, Killian. When will we get to rest?”

“Soon, I think.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, pulls her closer into his arms. Mulan has a plan, if he’s not mistaken; there’s no other reason she would have been waiting for him tonight, already ready for his unexpected arrival. “Just hold on a little longer, love.”

They’ve been pawns in someone else’s game for so long; what’s a few hours more?

———

The Circus arrives at night.

There is no warning, no whispers of what is coming, but Henry still keeps his eyes and ears open for news about the fields just outside of town, and he knows what those particular tents mean.

It has grown harder to imagine and to dream as the years have trudged on - eight of them, now, since Henry last saw the Circus when he was ten - but the news ignites a new fire in Henry that burns with the force of magic and memory. Once upon a time, when he was just a little, little boy, a not-quite princess in a black and white dress had promised him that the Circus would always be there for him; four years later, a different blonde had promised the same. But Henry has waited now, an entire two thirds of his life, and he’s done delaying those promises. This time, when the Circus leaves, Henry intends to go with it, one way or another.

The Circus arrives on a Thursday; these things never seem to happen on a day he has off work. The boys at the shipyard are already talking about the turn of events, discussing when to take sweethearts or siblings or families, and Henry - well, Henry shares the sentiment, in some ways. He can’t wait to visit, either. But Henry doesn’t have anyone to bring, the way they do; everyone he’d ever want to take is part of the Circus, leaving him the lone man out.

It’s been raining all day, getting heavier and heavier as the day goes on. The Circus will close for inclement weather tonight, surely, but Henry takes the short trip out of town anyways. There’s something that draws him in to the site - this need to know, for certain, that this isn’t just another dream. That the Circus is here, and waiting, just for him.

(He takes a brief detour home, first, on the kind of instinct he’ll never be able to explain later. His little room doesn’t hold much, and he’s attached to very little of it, but the white glove still lives in a discarded cigar box underneath his bed. Henry doesn’t know what will happen next - if Ava’s offer still stands to run away with the Circus, if she and Nick will even recognize him after all the ways he’s changed - but he knows he wants this with him.

It’s only later that he realizes just how lucky he was to have slipped the glove into his pocket.)

There’s a stillness about the place when he arrives, however, that belies even the expected closure sign. Henry’s been here before during inclement weather, but it never felt like this. The Circus has an energy about it that’s somehow… missing now. Like something’s wrong.

(Henry hopes he’s wrong about that, but in his heart, he knows he’s not.)

He’d assumed he’d have to break into the grounds again, though he hadn’t been sure how. When Henry arrives, however, there’s a woman already waiting at the front gates, huddled underneath an umbrella to block out the worst of the rain. There’s a sword at her side and she wears intricate Chinese armor in the same blacks and whites and silvers of the Circus, though Henry does not yet recognize her on sight. Beyond her, the Circus is silent and still, like she’s standing guard over everything within those gates.

“Henry Mills, I presume?” Her voice holds a gravitas that belies its soft volume. Henry nods cautiously in return. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?” It takes a moment before the first part of that sentence hits home. “Wait - how do you know my name?”

“The Zimmer twins speak highly of you,” the woman tells him before turning on her heel and starting down one of the paths at a brisk pace. “Now come along, keep up. We don’t have much time.”

“Not much time for what?”

She slows briefly, just long enough to cast a wry look in his direction. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“Well, you keep answering them.”

“Touché, Mr. Mills.” There’s something about the woman’s mouth that almost looks like a smile before it’s gone again. It’s hard to say when she resumes her determined speed, talking as they go. “What do you know about the Circus?”

“I know the Circus is magic,” he says. No one ever told him as such so bluntly, but Henry had put it together over time. Certain things just can’t be explained, certain things in the same category as Nick’s second sight - and besides, he’d been young enough to believe it, back when he first realized. “I know things happen here that shouldn’t be possible, but are. It’s wonderful.”

“It is. It’s also complicated,” she tells him. “The Circus exists because of a competition, and because of its two players. They’ve built something beautiful. But do you know what happens in competitions?” Before Henry can answer, there’s an odd noise. Just over the woman’s shoulder, one of the smaller tents starts to cave in on itself. She nods like that’s enough of an answer - and when she speaks, Henry realizes that maybe, it is. “They end,” she tells him. “This way will be quicker; as I said, we haven’t much time.”

“So this… competition,” he prods. “It’s over? That’s why the Circus is falling apart?”

“Yes… And no,” his guide replies cryptically. It’s frustrating, asking so many questions and receiving so few answers.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, young Henry. There’s nothing enjoyable about this.” They walk on in silence for a moment, veering off down another path, before she speaks again. “One of our contestants, Mr. Jones, was prepared to take himself off the board, and I was prepared to help him do so in a way that would provide something like a permanent spine for the Circus. Miss Swan, however, interfered, resulting in some… unexpected circumstances.” With that, she draws back the flap to the tall acrobats’ tent.

The group inside looks like an inclement weather party interrupted. Tables are still laden with food, candles flowing warmly. Every living thing within the tent, however, is frozen in unnatural stillness. Some people are clearly mid-conversation, or mid action, bites of food stilled halfway to mouths and hands stilled mid-gesture. A group of musicians appear to have been mid-song, instruments still raised in a playing position.

(Even as they stand there, watching the stillness, one of the chairs suspended from the roof of the tent for the acrobats to perform with drops, barely missing a clustered group as it shatters on the ground. The Circus may have been suspended too - but for how long?)

“In many ways, the Circus was built on the love Emma held for each and every person within its bounds; maybe not at first, but over time, it’s become inseparable from the very fabric, like the supports holding it all up,” she explains. “When Emma and Mr. Jones folded themselves into the Circus… I don’t know if it’s something one of them has done purposefully, or if the Circus or the magic has acted of its own accord, but this place protects its own. But that can’t last forever. That’s where you come in. What we’re about to ask you - it will make sure the Circus survives, but it cannot be done without your help.”

It is a lot to spring on a person, especially one that this woman doesn’t know, but Henry already knows his answer. “What do you need me to do?”

(What else would he say, when what’s at stake is a place like this and all the people it protects?)

“No hesitation? Just jumping in feet first without all the details? That’s an awful bold decision, Mr. Mills.”

“Would you do the same, for the Circus?”

It gives the woman pause for a minute before she dips her head and a kind of concession. “Touché.”

(“I thought you said this was a shortcut,” Henry mentions when they finally slip back out of the acrobats’ tent, veering sharply in a new direction.

“It was a shortcut in explanation. If you assumed it would be a shortcut in distance - well, that was your assumption, not my words.”)

They finally halt in front of a tall tent with light faintly glowing beneath the fold of the fabric opening, just illuminating where the words Wishing Tree glimmer in the scant moonlight on a subtle sign. Under other circumstances, Henry might have marveled at the elegant branches stretching around the tent, illuminated in softly glowing candlelight; tonight, he’s more distracted by the two nearly-translucent figures standing at its base, a man and a woman. The woman he recognizes as the magician - Emma, the person who’d first made this place feel like home. The man is unknown to him, but certainly not to Emma; he leans into her space as if drawn to her by magnets. Maybe it’s just practical - this not-Emma seems barely able to stand upright, and the man’s arm around her waist seems more like a lifeline than a simple comfort - but Henry thinks it’s more than that. The man looks at Emma with worry, yes, but with awe too. Like he can’t believe he’s here with her, even in such a way.

Henry may be young, but he can still recognize love when he sees it.

“I take it that you remember Miss Swan?” his guide asks. “And beside her is Mr. Jones.”

“Mulan, why have you brought him here?” Emma asks.

“You needed a solution, and I’ve found you one.”

“This is your solution?” Emma asks. Somehow, the emphasis sounds concerned rather than derogatory. “Are you sure?”

“He is willing.”

“He’s a child.”

“I’m eighteen,” Henry mumbles. “And I’m right here.”

“He tried to run away and join the Circus two years ago. Did you know that?” his guide asks Emma, still ignoring Henry. Mulan. He’ll have to remember that, if they ever allow him to speak. “He loves the Circus. It is enough.”

“Is that true, Henry? Do you love the Circus?” the man - Mr. Jones - asks. “What we’re about to ask you - it will require a deep love, not a passing whimsy. So forgive me for asking, but be honest with me - do you love the Circus? Enough to make significant sacrifices?”

“More than anything.” Maybe it sounds fanciful - maybe it sounds naive - but it’s the truth: maybe even the greatest truth that Henry knows. “I’m an orphan - a foundling. I don’t know if you remember that,” he says with a nod to Emma. “There are so many things I haven’t had in my life - opportunity and family and home. But the Circus…” He pauses before pressing a closed fist to his heart. “When I’m here, I feel something in here. Like contentment, maybe. I love this place because it’s wonderful, but I love it mostly because it feels like a home.”

“What we’re asking you is to bind yourself to the Circus, Henry,” Emma tells him. “You wouldn’t be able to leave, not for long periods of time. We can bind you in a way so that the Circus does not press on you the way it presses on us, but it will still be yours, in a permanent sort of way. This will not be something you can undo, not without breaking quite a bit of complicated magic and undertaking quite a bit of effort.”

“But it will save the Circus? And save both of you?” Henry doesn’t know much about love, he thinks - not yet, at least - but he knows already it’s worth preserving.

Emma nods. “We believe so.”

“Then what do you need me to do?”

———

The bonfire is the living heart of the Circus, Mr. Jones had explained to Henry before sending him back out into the night. If we have any hope of saving it, and transferring the Circus into your hands, you’ll have to restart the flame.

It had sounded so easy, phrased like that: a matter of some matches and some luck of the weather. But this is magic, and Henry is slowly realizing that with magic nothing is quite that straightforward. Emma and Mr. Jones have come up with a list of items he’ll need, like ingredients: bits and bobs he wouldn’t have thought meant anything (a certain vial from a tent full of glassware, an abandoned hat at the edge of a burned-out fire, a black velvet jacket draped across the back of a chair in a secluded train car), but are apparently crucial to making this work.

Mulan drifts back into his vision as he collects the hat, a sudden and startling presence somehow more other-worldly than her ghostly compatriots. There’s a card laying in the dirt beside the upturned hat - a tarot card, like he’d seen so many years ago in a tent of this very circus. This card features a surprisingly placid man suspended by his feet and the inscription The Hanged Man.

Mulan huffs a subtle laugh over Henry’s shoulder as he picks up the card. “It is fitting, is it not?” she asks. “We are all suspended here, waiting for whatever may yet still come to pass. It’s the brink of something more.”

“You know tarot?”

“I know many things, Mr. Mills,” she says. “This just happens to be one of them.”

Henry takes the card with him as they leave. Somehow, it feels like a piece to this story yet to unfold, even if it is not one he was directed to collect.

(On a whim, he slips Ava’s glove out of his pocket as well and adds it to the pile - his one tie to the Circus all these years. Maybe it’s foolish, but it feels right too.)

The leaves of the Wishing Tree have started to fall once Henry and Mulan return to the tent, Emma visibly exhausted in the middle of it all. Mr. Jones’ face is creased with concern, his hands fluttering to soothe and support, but there’s only so much that can be done when the Circus is trying to collapse in on itself.

“You’ve found everything?” Mr. Jones asks. His tone is sharp, though Henry can’t much blame him; under the circumstances, responding that way seems almost reasonable. Henry nods, lifting his haul instead of tendering a proper response. Mr. Jones nods briskly in turn. “Good lad. Now, we’ll need to move to the fire cauldron - ”

“Henry,” Emma interrupts, her voice tired but firm. “Are you certain? I know we are asking so much of you, and I know you already said yes, but I want you to know it’s alright to say no. This isn’t something you should be pressured into, and no one will be upset if you decide you can’t.”

Henry doesn’t really understand all of where this is coming from - not really. He’s only interacted with Emma less than a handful of times since he was a boy, and only briefly at that. But even in that short time, it’s been easy to see how the Circus presses on her, especially now. It is kind of her to try to ensure the same thing won’t happen to him, not without communicating the risk.

Still. There are things worth taking risks for, and making sacrifices for. In some ways, Henry thinks he made his choice long ago.

“It’s okay.” Henry reaches out a hand towards Emma without thinking, like some kind of reassurance he isn’t quite sure how to give, only for his hand to pass right through her own. “I meant what I said before. The Circus feels like it could be a home for me, and I want to protect that. But also…” He pauses. “This feels like something I’m supposed to do. Like maybe, this is the reason I’ve always felt so drawn to the Circus. Maybe this is what everything has been leading to for as long as I’ve been alive. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” Emma’s hand isn’t quite solid when it comes to rest against his cheek, but there’s something there - the ghost of a touch, and all the comfort it still brings. “I’m proud of you.”

“Not to interrupt a touching scene,” Mulan interrupts, “but time is of the essence. If Henry intends to take the mantle of the Circus, we need to act now. Before it’s too late.”

———

It feels deceptively easy, in the end. Henry carefully wraps all the bits and bobs he’d collected up with a length of yarn Mulan seems to pull out of nowhere, tying them into a misshapen parcel that he places into the cauldron. At Mr. Jones’ direction, he extracts a nondescript volume from beneath the cauldron itself. Dozens of signatures line each page, the smallest dot of blood punctuating the end of each name. Meticulously, Henry adds his own name to the book. The twists and loops of his name look so insignificant on the page, but he knows it’s a momentous thing he’s just done. As Henry presses his own thumb to the paper, blood beading from the digit where he’d sliced the skin with a pocket knife, there’s a kind of energy that chases through his whole body. Magic - beautiful and mysterious and binding.

Eventually, there’s nothing left to do but get it over with. Henry holds a candle from the Wishing Tree in one hand, just waiting for his cue to light it and re-ignite the fire. There’s magic in a wish, Emma had told him before sending him for the ingredients. I think we can use all the magic we can get.

“There’s one more thing,” Mr. Jones - Killian tells Henry. He’s more stable than the flickering illusion of Emma, but he’s still ghostly, tents foggily visible through his middle. “To make this as stable as possible, we’ll need to bind you to the Circus.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing? I thought that’s why I signed the ledger.”

“In a way, yes,” Killian agrees. “But what we’re asking you to do - that’s a different kind of bond than the book. The rest of the individuals who signed don’t carry the Circus the way you’ll have to. Emma and I - when we were young, we were bound to this venue before it even existed. We think doing something similar now will make it more likely this transfer will be successful.”

“And it won’t…” Henry pauses. “I know that whatever bond you had with the Circus was slowly killing Emma.”

“The man and woman who sealed our bonds - they didn’t much care what happened to a pair of pawns,” Emma explains. “We aren’t in danger of making that same mistake.”

“Then do it.”

“Good lad,” Killian smiles. With a touch of his hand, a curl on the cauldron lengthens until it’s twisted into an iron ring, breaking off neatly into his palm. As he waits, Henry fiddles with the candle he still holds, digging his fingernails into the wax. The enormity of it all is starting to set in, ushering in nerves along with it.

“That has always been my favorite tent, you know,” Killian tells Henry, nodding towards the candle. If he’s not mistaken, the older man is trying to deflect his anxieties about what’s about to happen; even knowing that, Henry gladly seizes on the distraction offered. As he talks, his fingers sketch complicated figures in the air, making the iron ring in his palm alternately glow silver and gold and every shade in between. Henry knows Emma’s magic now, can recognize it like an old friend, but this is something different. It’s marvelous in its own way, a way that isn’t even in comparison but just… is.

“Is it one of yours?” Henry asks, trying to be polite even with his heart lodged in his throat. He’s entering into this willingly - wants it with every fiber of his being, wants it because it feels right in a way he can’t understand, let alone explain - but that doesn’t do anything to make him less nervous.

Killian smiles absentmindedly, most of his attention still devoted to his strange symbols. “Emma’s, actually,” he comments. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It always feels like an old magic to me. Something more than either of the two of us.”

“Did you ever make a wish?”

Whatever emotion dances across Killian’s face is… complicated. Something wistful and joyful and sad and yearning, all at once. “I did.” His hands finally still in the air. The little loop of metal ceases its glow, the light fading away, but there’s still a sense of something surrounding it - an aura, perhaps, or pure, radiating power, something reminiscent of what he’d felt when he’d pressed his blood to the page. One tiny object with the power to change countless lives. Henry’s eyes can’t look away from the ring, even as Killian continues talking. “Do you know what I wished for?”

Henry shakes his head. Killian’s hand is not-quite-there as it lifts his own, ready to perform the binding. This time, the smile on his face is unmistakable as he leans to speak quietly into Henry’s ear. “I wished for her.”

And then it burns, the ring shrinking to fit Henry’s finger as it sears into his skin. There’s a part of Henry that wants to pull the damned thing off, but he knows this is necessary, knows it wouldn’t work anyways. Emma’s still smiling through her exhaustion like she’s proud of him, and Killian watches him, sure and steady, and Mulan is lighting the candle still in Henry’s hand -

It is terrifying, and painful, but Henry realizes with an abrupt burst of clarity that maybe the best things are.

The candle flickers in his hand, its flame growing stronger even as the burning pain on his finger starts to recede. Maybe he’s ready, or maybe he’s not, but the moment is here and what other choice do they have and unfurling his grasp is suddenly the most momentous thing he’ll ever do and -

———

- and Emma’s heart feels lodged in her throat as she watches Killian and Henry, even as it takes all her concentration just to hold her being together in the visible plane. Henry’s so grown now, and so brave; he’s in obvious pain as the bond sets in, a hurt Emma knows all too well, but he grits his teeth and bears it. And then Mulan’s pressing the lit candle into his hand, and it’s all come to a head so fast, and he’s dropping the candle into the cauldron, and -

———

- and the entire world is fire. The bonfire blazes higher than it ever has as the new bonds catch and hold, and something shifts within Killian, some pressure he’d never even noticed finally easing. The flames spiral upwards and outwards in countless shades of red and orange and yellow and blue and silver, twirling across the black and white grounds of the Circus. It’s reminiscent of opening night, in that way - but this time, there’s no one around to see it.

That’s fitting, Killian decides. Just right for the new beginning that will be ushered in tonight. A new wish, and a new flame, for all of the things still to come.

In a golden blaze, Killian lets himself be swept away.

———

(She’d never been certain it would work, really. She’d hoped, of course; done everything she could to make it happen. But there’s a vast difference between hoping and certitude, and Emma had been nowhere near the latter. Everything that’s happened here tonight has been out of desperation more than anything, her last throwaway attempt to maybe leave something more than rubble behind for all the people who’ve come to call the Circus home.

She certainly didn’t expect Killian, or Henry. She didn’t expect that maybe, just possibly, there was an imperfect solution that still feels like her own little bit of fate.

When the bright burst of light put off by the campfire as the new bond takes effect settles, the rest of the world seems to only exist in fuzzy edges - less crisp and clean, like she’s no longer quite part of it all anymore. The entire soft world is the Circus, now, all black and white with just the flames within their iron cauldron for color - except -

There, standing on the other side of the flames, is Killian.

Nothing feels quite real as they drift together, circling the metal edge. Killian’s hand is soft when it falls against her cheek, cupping gently. Only yesterday, this was unthinkable - the thing she’d have to give up for anything to possibly turn out the way it should.

“We did it, love,” he murmurs. His smile is one Emma doesn’t think she’s ever seen - something sad and joyful all at once. Peaceful, in a way they’ve never been allowed to be.

“What happens now?” Emma asks, stepping closer into his embrace.

“That’s the best thing of all.” His other hand slides up to cup her face with the first. “Anything we want.”

It isn’t - Emma knows it isn’t - but in this moment, standing amongst the dying sparks, his lips almost feel like a first kiss.

A new beginning. Who knew such a thing could still happen for them?)

———

An ocean away, a man older than names themselves sits up straighter in his plush armchair. Not many things disturb him in his discreet townhouse in a quiet corner of London, and that’s the way he likes it. He’s been satisfied, after all these years, to fade out of human notice, even as he still endures. Leave the hassles and worries of everyday life to those younger than him, who have seen far less. After so long, there is not much that can surprise the man known to some as Mr. Gold.

Now, though - there is something in the atmosphere. Some indefinable shift - like the world had briefly held its breath before once again exhaling. A shift in the magic that he’s played a distant hand in for some three decades.

It is not the feeling of the competition having been won - he’s well acquainted with that particular shift in the universe, thank you - but it’s… something. Something unprecedented and new. Something that seems to have broken the very construct of this little game. A standstill, or a limbo, or a detente.

The man smiles. Oh, Regina is going to be so very put out about this whole thing.

A glass of brandy sits on the side table where it hadn’t been just moments before, just waiting for the man to raise it in toast. “Well done, Mr. Jones,” he murmurs, the smile still playing about his mouth. “Well done, indeed.”

A teacher should always hope for their students to break new ground, after all - and it seems that Killian Jones has done just that.

———

A man comes to the circus, searching for something like so many before him.

(The difference is that this man knows that he’s searching, and exactly what he’s searching for.)

Liam Jones has grown used to the unusual demands of his brother’s particular commitment - the odd hours, the days or even weeks without contact, the unusual, last minute travel. But it’s been six weeks without so much as a letter or telegram, and Liam is worried. For everything else demanding Killian’s attention, he’s always been careful to stay in touch with his brother.

Mr. Booth offers no insight, nor does Killian’s friend Belle - now a respectable married lady instead of the occultist and fortune teller she had been. His little brother’s mysterious teacher is nowhere to be found, not that Liam expected any different. By a stroke of luck, the Circus is in town, and Liam resolves to visit himself as a last resort.

He’s had the opportunity to visit the circus many times over the years as a guest of his brother, but the well-trod grounds suddenly feel… different. Liam has never possessed any semblance of the powers his brother boasted, but it doesn’t take a magical insight to feel a new energy in the air when it’s this strong. The circus has always felt otherworldly, nearly unknowable, but there’s a curious sense of the familiar that’s never been here before.

“Excuse me,” comes a polite, young voice at his side. Turning quickly, Liam sees a young woman, dressed in the black and white garb all the circus members wear. “Are you Mr. Jones’ brother?”

“Yes!” Liam latches on to the inquiry like a lifeline, like his one chance to find his brother. “Do you know where he is?”

“He’s okay,” the girl promises. “He’s not here anymore. He’s in the circus now.”

And that doesn’t make sense, because they’re at the circus, but she says he’s not there - and what can in the circ

us mean, if he’s not here? Killian isn’t the type to run off and become an illusionist or an acrobat, for all of his powers. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

But the girl runs off, leaving Liam grasping at the night.

“He’s here, but he’s not,” a different voice chimes in - older, softer - causing Laim to whirl about again. A woman - petite, blonde, lovely, dressed all in blue - smiles gently at him. “Do you know about the competition your brother was involved in?”

“Who are you?” Liam demands instead of answering. It’s not courteous by any means, especially to a lady like herself, but he’s a little too desperate for the niceties.

“My name is Elsa Frost,” she introduces herself with a nod. “I’m one of the people who helped design this venue.”

“So you know my brother then? Where is he?”

“Ava wasn’t lying,” Miss Frost explains, patient in a way that doesn’t feel patronizing. “He’s a part of the circus. Your brother… I don’t know how much you know, but he was a player in someone else’s competition.”

“Yes, his teacher’s. Killian never knew the specifics, just that it would play out here, and one day, there’d be a winner.” Abruptly, Liam’s blood freezes in his veins. “Don’t tell me he’s…”

Miss Frost continues without answering, as if she didn’t even hear him. “There’s only one way for these competitions to end, at least the way I understand it. But that was never enough of an answer for your brother - especially after he met Emma. He fell in love, did you know that?”

Liam shakes his head in the negative. Truthfully, the more Miss Frost talks, the more he sees how much Killian kept hidden from him - likely to protect Liam in the same way Liam had protected him as a child.

“It’s true. I think it was the best and worst thing that ever happened to him. Emma is - was the illusionist, here at the circus,” Miss Frost confides. “She was also his competitor. And it was suddenly unthinkable that he would lose - but even more unthinkable that he would win.”

None of this assuages the sinking, horrible feeling in Liam’s stomach. “He didn’t —”

“He’s not dead,” she assures him, lifting that boulder off his chest. “But he’s not quite alive either. He and Emma… they were the very heart of this place. It all rested on their shoulders - all those lives, as well as their own. They were what kept it going. And they found a loophole.”

Comprehension dawns slowly. “He’s in the circus. You mean he’s - they’re —” Liam waves his hands about, as if to illustrate. Everywhere. Nowhere. The heartbeat that keeps it all moving. The reason all this ever existed and still exists now.

“He’s in the circus. They both are,” Miss Frost confirms.

“And you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know an awful lot about all this,” Liam points out. “How is that?”

“I’ve always seen a bit more than people realize,” she explains. “It’s how I became involved in designing the circus in the first place. It’s a blessing and a curse, being privy to the secret that magic exists. It was never within my power to interfere —” she almost sounds apologetic saying it, as if it was on her shoulders to stop what happened here — “but that doesn’t mean I didn’t see.”

Gazing around him, Liam can’t help but see all the lives tied so closely to the circus - dozens, scores, maybe a hundred. They’ve made lives here, in the past twelve years - and thanks to Killian, those lives can continue.

“We were all just collateral damage,” he murmurs.

“Perhaps,” Miss Frost agrees. “But even knowing I was just a pawn in someone else’s game… I can’t bring myself to regret it, or trade one moment for the beauty that came out of it. And I think your brother would have felt the same. This entire circus is his love letter to his competition,” she waves, “and I can’t imagine he’d trade one piece if it meant he never met her.”

Around Liam, the circus sparkles with vibrant life as if to illustrate. Or maybe to agree; if Killian and the circus are one, now, that doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility.

“A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets,” Liam murmurs. And he knows - his little brother certainly did fight.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Liam replies, smiling down at his companion. “Just something I used to tell my brother.” He can feel his brother all around him, that energy he couldn’t name at first, and allows it to make him a little bold himself. “Would you like to show me the circus, Miss Frost, at least as you know it?”

A serene smile stretches across her features like a gift just for him. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Jones.”

(Somewhere on the wind, just at the edges of his hearing, a voice tickles Liam’s ear as they begin to walk.

Farewell, Brother.)

———

It’s been five years since Belle last saw Killian Jones, and she hasn’t been back to the Circus since.

She makes her excuses, of course - the timing was never quite right when the Circus came to town, and she’s got a young son, and it’s good to have this distance, isn’t it? Healthy, to fully separate herself from the life she used to lead as she builds herself a new one.

(They’re just excuses, though, she knows. The truth of the matter is that it’s hard to imagine the Circus without her friend, even if she has long accepted what has happened.)

It takes five years, but this time, when the Circus sets up its tents at the outskirts of London, Belle bundles up her toddler and coaxes her husband out the door and sets out to face her past. On her way out the door, she slips her old tarot deck, now incomplete, into a pocket. Perhaps it’s silly, but it feels right to bring them back to the place where this all started.

In so many ways, the Circus is still the same. That peculiar atmosphere of magic and sheer possibility still persists, and the tents are much as she remembers them. It is easier than she thought it would be, to retread these paths; the memory of the man who made this place so much of what it is still lingers, but in a way that helps her remember, rather than in a way that causes her pain. Life goes on, even in the face of loss, even in a place like this.

As Will steps away to procure popcorn and cider for them all, Belle catches a glimpse of a face she half-remembers - that of a young man with a mop of dark hair, dressed in a neat black suit with a silvery waistcoat. When the memory drifts to the front of her mind, it makes Belle smile. She’d always wondered what sort of journey that boy had ahead of him.

“Henry, was it?” she asks, approaching him with her son at her skirts. “I don’t know if you remember me, but - ”

“The fortune teller, right?” Henry interrupts, delight dancing in his eyes. “Yes, of course I remember. Belle.”

“The only one to ever ask my name - well, at least until my husband,” she teases. “You are well, then? And… involved with the Circus, perhaps?” She still hasn’t forgotten that mysterious reading from some ten years before; something about young Henry had always stuck in her mind, even in the midst of hundreds and thousands of others seeking clarity.

“You could say that,” he laughs. Patting at his pockets for a moment, he pulls out a sleek business card and hands it to Belle. “I’m acting as the manager now.”

It suits him, Belle realizes; there’s a peace about this young man, now, that she hadn’t seen back when he was a boy. Henry knows his place in the world, and knows he’s right where he needs to be. She smiles warmly at him. “I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job.”

Henry looks down bashfully, shrugging in casual acceptance. “Thank you. I’m doing my best. After Miss Swan and Mr. Jones… left…” There’s a whole world of things he’s not saying with that word, things Belle only knows because of Mulan and because she played her own role. “Someone needed to take responsibility for the Circus. Mulan has been a big help. Ava and Nick, too. This place - it’s just too remarkable to let die.”

“It sounds like you still love the Circus more than anything.”

Henry’s eyes practically glow when he smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

And with a sudden bolt of clarity, Belle knows why she’d tucked her old cards into her pocket on her way to the Circus.

“I’ve got something for you,” she tells him, hurriedly retrieving the deck. Belle draws a card at random, but smiles when she catches a glimpse of which she’d selected. It’s terribly fitting, though Henry may not realize it at first. “Here. For you,” she says, handing Henry the Ace of Wands.

Henry turns the card carefully in his fingers. “After receiving the Fool last time, I can’t truly tell whether this is an improvement or a downgrade for me.”

“Neither. Tarot isn’t like that,” she explains. “Back then - what, a decade ago? - you were just a young man, beginning your journey, still with so much to learn. The Fool was fitting for that. Many who don’t understand the tarot place undue importance on the major arcana - on the ‘face cards,’ but each card in a deck means something. Each and every one. The Ace of Wands is the spark that makes things possible, the match that sets knowledge and understanding alight. Just because it isn’t flashy doesn’t mean it isn’t important. It’s a card that makes things happen, regardless of whether that is where your eye is drawn. It is revitalization and birthing light from the dark.” She pauses. “Do you understand?”

Henry nods, tucking the card carefully into his breast pocket. “A fitting card for a new beginning.”

“Precisely.” On impulse, Belle stretches a hand to lightly pat Henry’s cheek. He’s grown so tall since she last saw him, no longer that gangly boy. “Take care of yourself, Henry, and take care of the Circus. I can’t wait to see what you both become.”

It feels like closure of a kind she didn’t know she needed as Belle sets back off down the path with her son, weaving through the crowd to reunite with Will.

“Mama, can we go ride the carousel?” her son asks at her side, hand still so small within her own grasp.

Belle smiles. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Killian.”

(Legacy, she’s realized, comes in many forms. Memory can be a living thing, if only you wish it to be.)

———

The Circus has changed over the years: new tents appear, old faces fade away, the grounds expand and spiral into new patterns. It never feels different, exactly, no matter how much may change. The Circus is like its own living organism; its layout may grow, and its features may change, but its soul remains the same.

You remember the first time you’d seen the Wishing Tree. It’d been beautiful then, too - that special kind of otherworldly that only exists at the Circus. In the time since then, this tent has grown outwards to accommodate the living tree, but its branches still swoop low to envelop the space like a hug as you walk in. The branches are clustered with dozens and hundreds of candles, now. The whole thing casts a warm glow in the space that’s never quite still, yet another living, breathing thing.

(There’s a hole at the top of the tent now, too - something new that wasn’t there before. It isn’t particularly big, but it’s enough to see the star-speckled sky beyond. Enough, too, to allow wishes to take flight, off into the wondrous unknown universe.)

It’s awe-inducing, witnessing all the candles left alight, each one representing the dearest wish of the individual who left it. It’s a beautiful reminder of all the things you can’t know about others: all those innermost hopes and dreams that may never be spoken, but exist all the same. You notice, suddenly, that there’s one candle at the center of the tree where the core branches stretch out that’s unlit. If you squint, you can just see that it’s been extinguished, somehow - the one column of wax on the tree without a flame to match. It is curious; dozens and hundreds of candles, placed on every surface, and only one has been put out.

Maybe it’s an accident; maybe it’s a draft. Or maybe, just possibly, it’s a wish that’s been granted, left here for all to see that hope.

You leave again after placing your own candle, heart lighter for it, as your own wish drifts into the night.

———

Regina doesn’t quite win this particular contest, but she doesn’t particularly lose it either. The uncertainty of the matter follows her like an especially annoying gnat - something she wants nothing to do with, but is attached to her regardless. She doesn’t have much use for her 35% stake, though doubtless others would feel differently. Economics is another little pest in a life such as hers.

If anything, she supposes that Emma has won, and Gold’s wretched boy, and maybe even the Circus itself. It was only supposed to be the venue, and should have collapsed once the competition was over. But Emma, that stupid girl, did something the night she wove herself and that boy into the circus, something that has kept it puttering along for ten years, just the way it always has.

(She may have trapped herself in limbo when she made that sacrifice, but her little loophole managed to trap Regina and Gold as well. With their competition not technically completed, there’s an uncertainty about whether they’re able to start another - or whether they even want to. No matter the boredom, Regina could use a break from this mentorship nonsense. Maybe in another century she’ll be bored enough to agree to that.)

This particular afternoon, like so many, Regina takes her tea in the tea room of an expensive London hotel. She has another show tonight, another chance to take the money of so many unbelieving fools, but afternoons are hers, to watch and be watched. There’s a certain fascination to observing the blind crowds, eternally unaware of an entire world of magic existing right under their noses. They know something draws their eyes to the center single table where Regina takes her tea and scones - their subconscious pulling their attention where their conscious mind won’t take the leap - but they’ll never know why. Most assume it’s her striking looks, or impeccable and sumptuous clothing, but they’ll never guess it’s the echo of magic, of power calling to the minds and imaginations. It’s like a secret she holds over the entire world, and Regina has always reveled in that.

Today, however, is different. Today, a young man and woman approach her table arm in arm with a boldness most are too afraid to attempt. They make a picturesque couple, if an odd one; the man, tall and lanky with dark hair, could easily blend into a crowd with his generic suit and amiable smile, but his companion certainly could not say the same, perhaps best described as eccentric. Her dress and hat are close enough to the current fashion, but all in a riot of colors and patterns that blend more than truly match. She looks a bit familiar; belatedly, Regina realizes that she’s the girl-child from the circus. Anna or Ada or… something. It never much mattered; the twins were a particular pet project of Emma’s, though Regina had many times told her to focus her attention instead on the competition at hand. Not that it had done any good - on any level.

“Madam Circe?” the girl - woman, now - asks politely. “You may not remember me, but my name is Ava Zimmer. This is Henry Mills. We’re here about the circus.”

“No relation, I’m sure,” Regina drawls, nodding in acquiescence towards a pair of chairs that may or may not have sat at the table before that very moment. No one will remember it, anyways.

“You would know better than I,” young Mills smiles. With a sweep of Ava’s hand at his side, Regina’s teacup replicates itself into three, enough porcelain for everyone to enjoy the brew Regina herself has kept refilled and at perfect temperature.

(It suddenly makes a bit more sense why Emma had taken such an interest in the girl and her brother. If nothing else, Regina had taught her protegee to recognize power and potential.)

“Well. Aren’t you full of surprises,” is all she says as the duo seats themselves. “You’re here about the Circus, you said? I’m not sure I have any real right to speak on such a thing.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Mr. Mills responds. “Perhaps more than you think.”

“I take it you are aware of the circumstances of Emma Swan’s and Killian Jones’… disappearance?” Miss Zimmer asks. As if that’s the polite way to phrase such a thing.

“As my acolyte - yes, I am. I should certainly hope so.”

“Then you are aware that Emma - when she left, she left her portion of the Circus to the Circus. It’s self-supporting, these days, instead of tied to any single person. Well, mostly.”

“I advise you get to the point, Miss Zimmer. I was not led to believe this was a social call.”

“You have a claim on the Circus,” Mr. Mills interjects. “Did you know that?”

“I wouldn’t use those terms, but I suppose I was instrumental in its creation. If such a thing constitutes a claim.”

“Per the magic that fuels it - it does,” Miss Zimmer tells her. She pulls out a heavy tome; it makes a weighty sound as it lands on the surface of the delicate table, but no one else notices. If she attunes her senses, Regina can sense something like a shield around their table that deflects attention.

Ava Zimmer must be very talented, indeed.

“Mr. Jones created this when the Circus was formed,” she explains, tabbing through the pages. “Each and every person is bound to this book. It seems to be part of what has stopped us from aging. This is the lifeblood of the Circus,” she proclaims solemnly, her hand splayed across the pages.

“It’s a clever bit of spellwork, yes,” Regina agrees. “I, however, have my own methods.”

Mr. Mills bows his head briefly in her direction; Regina can’t tell whether the gesture is meant in genuine deference or something more sarcastic. “We wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise. That does not change the fact, however, that your signature is still included on these pages.”

“And you would like to change that.”

“If you don’t mind.” Miss Zimmer slides a delicate blade across the table in Regina’s direction. “Your interest in our endeavor, I think, is over. We’d just like to make that official.”

Regina carefully picks up the knife. It’s a beautiful instrument, the strains of gold and silver perfectly conducive to magic, though currently dormant. It would be so easy to channel her own powers, slice the delicate threads of enchantment that binds her signature to the book and herself to the endeavor, but -

“Suppose I do you this favor. What do I get in return?”

Mills furrows his brow. “Is your release from the Circus not enough?”

“Release from something that hasn’t been a burden? I wouldn’t call that much of a return.”

“What do you want, then?”

There’s so many things she could say, and so few these children could provide. They are so young, and have seen so little, still so idealistically convinced of the goodness of the endeavor.

Still. There is one thing.

“You were there that night, yes? When my acolyte… did this foolish thing?”

Mills nods, solemnly.

“Then I want you to tell me.”

“That’s all?” Miss Zimmer is clearly incredulous of the proposal; good. That’ll serve her well, in the long run.

“That’s all. Tell me the story, and I’ll gladly remove myself from your little fairground for good.”

The young man smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright,” he tells her. “But let me start from the beginning.

“Once, in an orphanage outside of Boston, a young boy fell in love with a magical circus…”

———

The circus is a marvel.

It’s been in operation for years, now - nearly three decades, if memory and the kindly concessions vendor are to be believed - but the aura of wonder, of magic remains. The circus is another world all its own, separated from the rest of the planet even as it exists in the center of it.

There are changes, of course; it’s impossible to expect that everything and everyone would stay static all this time. That would take a true feat of magic. Older visitors in particular remember when there was a tent with a magician, a beautiful young woman capable of the most extraordinary things. There’s a statue, now, outside where the tent used to be, of two lovers embracing, hands stroking faces in a display that almost feels too intimate to be captured in marble for everyone to see.

There’s a legend now, too, a rumor of a story to match that statue - of two lovers, pitted against one another in life, whose souls are now free to roam the circus grounds together. There’s whispers, too, that that’s what happened to the missing magician - that the statue is for her memory, and that of her young man. In a way, it would be fitting for her to live on as part of the circus itself. They say that the lovers’ reflections can sometimes be seen in the hall of mirrors, or the brush of a long skirt felt on the carousel, or a warm and masculine voice heard in the ice garden…

It’s hard to imagine anything so tragic happening at the circus; then again, it’s the one place on earth you can imagine something quite so magical and romantic occurring. At the end of the night, there’s no real answer. You’re not certain you need one.

(As you wind your way back towards the gates as the sun starts to rise, you don’t notice two pairs of not-quite eyes watching you, don’t see non-corporeal lips press a kiss to the back of a similarly ghostly hand. Perhaps that’s for the best; some moments aren’t intended for other living eyes.)

(The Circus will continue to live, with two magicians as its heartbeat.)

#captain swan #cs ff #A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink #magicians!CS #The Nigh Circus AU #happy endings aren't always what you think

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