#ouatdrabbles

[thisisevenharderthannamingablog]

“You can’t ever leave.” She was talking a little too fast, a little too loud, over the thrumming in her ears and Ashley’s terrified panting and the screaming of every previous version of herself, I don’t know how!

For a moment Emma couldn’t hear any of it. Just the click of manacles, the slam of the barred door, the whisper of tears on the coarse mattress. She couldn’t remember when she learned how to cry without a sound.

She thought about Henry, looking in vain from his window.

You don’t know. Fine. You had better fucking well learn, right now.

[thisisevenharderthannamingablog]

Paid For

Midas’ daughter had been kidnapped three times as a child. The carriage bounced over ruts, the road that was falling into ruin since Leopold died. Adept at speaking without saying anything, Abigail watched as James stopped hearing her altogether.

Frederick had heard her every word, had loved the ready edges of a woman weary of gold. Gold is soft, he would tell her, smiling. What good is that? I’ve a lady of steel.

As a child, she had never wondered if there was a price too dear for her father to pay. Now she had been sold, and she knew.

[thisisevenharderthannamingablog]

He never called himself an artist. What good had art ever done? The name of craftsman, that he would claim. No one had ever complained about his spinning, even as a child. The finest threads had come with ease from his hands. So it was now that he crafted with lives, not fiber or gold, now that centuries went into the drawing, the weaving, and the cutting.

…Just seen her strolling down the main street with your boy.

Wearing a benign smile in the face of Regina’s anger, Mr Gold allowed that once in a while, perhaps, it was art.

[thisisevenharderthannamingablog]

He dreams of another forest, thick with ancient shadows where this one is young and sun-dappled. Hunting here is easy. He crosses the road every night, picks up the trail of the same rabbit every time, raises the same song to the unchanging moon. No one answers.

Night falls; he crosses the road as he always does. This time there are lights and a thunderous noise. He noses around the metal and the human inside it. Her scent teases his memory, raises a ghostly sense of loss – not known, but familiar, like distant kin.

Wolves don’t wonder if they’re real.

[thisisevenharderthannamingablog]

One Last Thing

A drabble based on popular spec about how Killian might earn his resurrection.

"Let me make sure I've got this, mate," Killian said.

The ruler of Olympus raised an eyebrow.

"The souls in the river will be free to finish their business, to move on. If that business is bringing down the man who put them there?"

"There is a great deal of -- call it energy pent up in that river right now. The balance must be righted. I will see to it," Zeus said.

"Then I can keep my promise to Emma. Done." Without a pause, Killian stepped into the River of Souls.

Instead of swarming him, they began to glow.

[spartanguard]

constellations (a drabble)

He took her out stargazing. The night was clear, the sea was calm, and the air was warm.

They curled together on the deck of the ship, gazing up at the endless heavens from their cozy spot, surrounded by pillows, blankets, love, and each other.

He enthusiastically showed her all the star formations that dotted the night sky above, but she was a little distracted.

Because the only constellation she could really pay attention to tonight, as she lay tucked into his side, was the freckled one on the side of his neck; the one that always led her home.

just a little @ouatdrabbles for my fellow freckle aficionados: @laschatzi, @kat2609, @the-captains-ayebrows, @xpumpkindumplingx, and @optomisticgirl, among others

[thisisevenharderthannamingablog]

Moment

They found a moment, on a couch in the room of storybooks.

“I’m glad he’s moved on. That he’s happy.”

Emma waited, her hand on his.

“It happened so bloody fast. I would have liked… some more time to talk, is all.”

“He did all that he could. Even if he shouldn’t have done some of it. He tried.”

“He was very young.”

And what were you? Too young, too much, too soon. Emma smiled around the pain in her throat. “You know it’s okay to regret stuff, right.”

He pulled her closer; she tucked her head under his chin.

[kat2609]

Quiet

A quick little drabble that struck me. Its been a long time since I wrote for @ouatdrabbles and I forgot how much I enjoyed the challenge of 100 words.

The quiet brings it home.

The door rattles a little less. A few more seats are empty.

She hasn’t made a grilled cheese in days.

The only rum she’s poured has been late at night, in the stillness of her room, thoughts tumbling through her head about how nothing is the same without them.

She can’t sleep without it now.

It’s the quiet that reminds her.

The unspoken words that she is part of their family - the Nolans, Henry, Emma.

Hook.

The memories are more important than ever. Just in case.

There’ll be no more lost children on her watch.