**New Story!**
Hey everyone, and Happy Halloween for those who celebrate!!
I really wanted to write a spooky little fic for Halloween (because I don’t have any supernatural fics that I’m currently working on 😜). But this fic is very loosely based on a Victorian superstition- a young woman would get 12 sage leaves and place them in her garden at midnight on Christmas Eve. She would then walk to the other end of the garden and turn to see her future husband walking towards her.
This story had to be written for CS, but I wondered what would happen if Emma didn’t follow the ritual to the letter?
Thank you so much to the amazing @snowbellewells who took the time out of her busy schedule to make this fic was ready for me to post on Halloween!
I really hope you enjoy! 🥰💖
Read on AO3
Tag list under the cut - let me know if you wish to be added or deleted ☺️
@snowbellewells @teamhook @jonesfandomfanatic @lfh1226-linda @motherkatereloyshipper @stahlop @kmomof4 @ultraluckycatnd @undercaffinatednightmare @booksteaandtoomuchtv @jrob64 @tiganasummertree @anmylica @gingerchangeling @hollyethecurious @spartanguard @i-will-sing-no-requiem @insanelydeadlybookcollector @thatdamnokie @whimsicallyenchantedrose @zaharadessert @bluewildcatfanatic @this-seems-familiar @hookedmom @thgpjohttydfangirl
The rain beat uselessly against the window panes, its attempt to flee the desolate fury of the winds sweeping across the grounds of the grand country manor a hopeless endeavour; the rivulets that ran haphazardly down the glass were a sign of a swift and painless surrender to a force much greater than itself.
Emma Swan watched in silent fascination at the tempest that had been unleashed upon her small, comfortable corner of the world. The blinding flashes of lightning, with its jagged lines tearing open the sky, followed by harsh cracks of thunder that shook the earth to its foundations were so much more thrilling and intriguing to her than the fireworks that were displayed in Misthaven during the summer months.
She could appreciate the magic of mixing gunpowder and metals together with fire to create a dazzling display of colours that could light up the night sky; however, the light show conjured by Mother Nature herself was more than just a frivolous form of entertainment for the masses. Its dualities of light and dark, of rage and sorrow, and of destruction and renewal, were free to war with one another openly and without constraint - a liberty that Emma craved to experience herself, but from which she had been forbidden for years she no longer cared to count.
She could only watch the continued deluge of water, and the wind that drove it onwards, taking comfort that at least one of them could expel their pain and suffering to the point of exhaustion before beginning the task of healing themselves once more.
“Emma! Why are you hiding away in here by yourself? We have all gathered in Mama’s petite salon, and Ruby is keen to begin setting the mood for our All Hallow’s Eve celebration with all of the ghost stories she has been dying to scare us with!”
Emma startled at the sound of her cousin’s voice, the dismay underscoring her exclamation sending a wave of guilt to crash over her and settle heavily amongst the rest of her feelings of inadequacy and despair that had become her constant companions these last few years.
Mary Margaret Blanchard was all that Emma was not: keenly intelligent and highly accomplished in music and languages, a talented horsewoman and archer, incomparably generous in her charitable endeavours, and a reputed beauty celebrated as far north as Dun Broch and as far south as the Southern Isles. Most importantly of all however, Mary Margaret was an heiress to a large fortune that would secure her freedom to marry whomever she wished - or not at all.
Despite her golden curls and a face that could rival any cherubic rendering of the masters, Emma had never had the means nor the opportunity to be as accomplished as the other ladies in her small circle of society. The gods had seen fit to take her parents from her at the age three - a terrible carriage accident as they were returning home from a holiday to Avonlea - and when all of their affairs had been settled, it was discovered that the considerable wealth her father had added to the family’s coffers had been frittered away through bad investments and clandestine outings to the card table. It had left Emma practically destitute with a meagre few hundred pounds per annum with which to live, thus offering little prospect of a well-matched marriage.
Emma quickly stood up from her position by the window, her hands nervously smoothing out the creases of her new powder blue dress (a well-intentioned gift from her aunt and uncle upon her arrival), the glow from the lone lantern she had lit not enough to highlight the embarrassed flush blooming across her cheeks.
“I thought perhaps you would like to spend some time with your friends. I imagine it will be some time before you can host them all together again.”
“Oh Emma!” Mary Margaret rushed over to her cousin, clasping her hands over Emma’s in a gesture to assuage any doubt that her absence wouldn’t immediately be noticed and missed.
“You are my cousin, but you are also my best friend! I do not wish to host any gatherings without you!”
Emma smiled weakly at Mary Margaret’s protestations, her green eyes - an almost perfect replica of her own and a trait synonymous with both of their mothers’ side of the family, the Snowingtons - were wide with sincerity but ringed with a pity that forced Emma to swallow back the scream of frustration at that hated emotion.
She had been knocked down time and again in her short life, but she had always picked herself up, dusted herself off, and continued to try to forge some kind of existence for herself, all the while wrapping her heart within tendrils of nettles and thorns to keep it safe each time she fell. She had never asked for help nor solicited sympathy for her reduced status in the society she had been born into. Her grandmother Regina would never have countenanced such gestures; pity was not an emotion one should wish to be bestowed with, no matter how well meant. It was perhaps the only lesson from the wretched woman to which Emma had paid any heed.
A brief flash of lightning, followed by yet another earth-shaking boom of thunder, set off a peal squeals and jittery giggles further down the hall where the gaggle of young ladies awaited their gracious hostess and her poor and seemingly aloof cousin. Emma had successfully managed to hold back the eye roll such childish reactions evoked, but she couldn’t hide the flicker of annoyance that crossed her face fast enough for Mary Margaret not to notice.
“I’m sorry, Mary Margaret, I know they are very good friends to you. They seem… very agreeable… and- and very lively,” Emma quickly placated, snatching up her lamp as she prepared to leave her sanctuary to spend an hour or two in said ‘agreeable and lively’ company. However, Mary Margaret held fast to Emma’s other hand as she linked their arms together, halting their exit for a moment.
“They could be your good friends too, you know. I know Lady Mills was terribly negligent when it came to introducing you to society, but you are free from her tyranny and can now start your life over again.” Mary Margaret’s reassuring smile caused yet another swell of guilt to crash through Emma, her cousin’s earnestness overriding her previous irritation with her.
“Perhaps,” Emma relented, a small, yet genuine quirk in the corner of her mouth visibly easing the worry and tension within her cousin that even after nearly a full year of living with her Blanchard relations, Emma still believed herself unwanted and unloved.
“Although, I’m not sure that this new life I am to embark on will involve marrying a Prince Charming such as your Sir David.”
Mary Margaret wasn’t quite as adept as Emma at masking her emotions with a patented eye roll and a sarcastic quip; she had always been far too open in sharing her kind heart to begin guarding it now. However, she did manage a huff of humoured indignation at the characterisation applied to her fiancé.
“He may be very good friends with Prince Eric, but I would hardly call him royalty. But I will grant you that I do often picture him as the dashing Prince whenever I read Her Handsome Hero.”
The two young women giggled together as they left the library, the oppressive atmosphere that had fallen over the room dissipating even as the storm outside continued its rage-fuelled campaign to create a shroud of darkness and chaos fit for a night honoured for its evocation of fear, superstition, and the supernatural - All Hallow’s Eve.
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Mary Margaret’s friends were lively, engaging, and for the most part, good natured. They tried to include Emma in their playful teasing of their hostess with outrageous wedding plan ideas, or as they idly gossiped about some of their less favoured peers and their hopes that they would be so lucky as to find themselves with a well matched husband - even as they wished with almost mercenary fervour that they would be blessed with a marriage filled with the comfort and ease of a large fortune.
Emma couldn’t participate indifferently in such conversations. Memories of untamed chestnut curls and a boyishly crooked smile assaulted her thoughts. All of her hopes and dreams of being freed from the cage of misery her grandmother had confined her to for so long, of finding someone who had been uncaring of her lack of wealth and appeared to only share her interest in freedom and travel, fleeing at the first denial of more intimate relations. The threat of being cut off from a heretofore unknown family fortune was a poor excuse and held no comfort for her - she had never been considered someone worthy of being a titled man’s wife, she had never been considered worth fighting for.
Emma turned towards the window she had claimed a seat beside, her attention fixed again on the chaotic scenes that could still be discerned through the darkness even without the assistance of the streaks of white light that continued to score the cavernous void that had swallowed the stars tonight. Try as she might, however, she couldn’t quite shut out the excited tittering and raptures of her cousin’s upcoming nuptials.
“A winter wedding sounds magical to be sure, Mary Margaret. And while I do not blame you for wanting to marry Sir David as soon as you are able, wouldn’t springtime be more meaningful? That is when you two first met, yes?”
Ella’s question was innocent enough; everyone within three counties of their own town of Storybrooke knew when Mary Margaret Blanchard and Sir David Nolan had first met. The grand garden party in Glowerhaven, followed by the Spring ball were each hosted by the Spencer family in their palatial summer mansion and was where most young ladies (and oftentimes their overtly ambitious mamas) would begin their scouting expeditions for the perfect husband. At the time, Mary Margaret was more concerned with ensuring that her dear cousin Emma was enjoying herself and attempting to participate in the still-new society she had been introduced to only a few months before. However, a playful gust of wind mischievously making off with her favourite shawl was all it took for Mary Margaret and Sir David to make each other’s acquaintance and form an affectionate yet proper attachment to one another.
The blush that quickly bloomed unbidden across Mary Margaret’s face therefore seemed out of place.
A bone rattling boom of thunder interrupted the impending interrogation from the women gathered. Squeals and shouts as well as one or two prayers to Zeus himself to please stop hurling his furniture across the sky were interspersed with nervous glances at the storm that seemed to only be gaining in strength as it bore down on the great house. Only Emma continued her observation with calm interest as she watched the earth battle with the heavens in its attempt to hold onto every rock and tree root it could grasp.
Miss Ruby Lucas, never one to miss a subtle twitch of a finger, or an imperceptible uptick of a mouth, let alone an obvious blush from one of her oldest friends, quickly corralled the ladies to return to their previous endeavour of listening to what would surely be the most romantic of love stories. She would need everyone to feel as comfortable and unsuspecting as possible so she could elicit the biggest reactions of shock and terror when it was time to begin the ghost story telling portion of the evening.
“A little wind and rain will not release you from a confession to your very best friends, Mary Margaret. Now, everyone please get yourselves resettled, our esteemed hostess has what I hope is a scandalous story to share!”
Emma turned away from the window just in time to see her cousin draw herself up to her full height, seated though she was in the oversized wingback chair closest to the fire. Taking a deep breath, Mary Margaret began her tale.
“Mama had been adamant that we spend Yuletide in Misthaven in the hope that both Emma and I would find respectable suitors, which would then hopefully lead to many marriage proposals well before the Spencer ball.” Mary Margaret shared an exasperated glance with Emma as they both recalled the fervour with which Aunt Eva had laid out her plans for the family’s trip to the capital last Yuletide. It had only been the outbreak of a sleeping sickness that had stalled any plans for a happy matrimony for the two young women.
Emma was sure no such offers would have been forthcoming to her. She may be as beautiful as her cousin, but what was beauty to a young man of the world if there was no meaningful financial status attached to it?
“She was so disappointed when Papa postponed all of her plans, and, well, so was I.”
Another boom of thunder interrupted Mary Margaret as everyone unconsciously gathered closer to one another and the fire - a beacon of light and safety against its ancient foe of darkness and the preternatural creatures that lurked unseen outside. Emma held her place by the window, one ear focused on Mary Margaret’s story, as the other listened to the anguished song of the gale that appeared to be trying to build to a crescendo that would surely shred the delicate veil between this world and the Other Realm.
Mary Margaret chuckled nervously but took advantage of the atmosphere of heightened emotions to continue into the next part of her tale.
“Johanna used to tell me all sorts of stories and superstitions when I was younger. Making wishes on blue stars to bring forth the Reul Ghorm and her flutter of fairies, or the siren at Lake Nostos who could shift into the one who has captured your heart even as it drags you below the lake's murky depths before you register its facade of deceit. I had always loved the story of the bevy of enchanted swans who would transform into beautiful princesses that would dance along the surface of their lake near the Summer Palace just outside of Avonlea, waiting for their true loves to break their curse.”
Mary Margaret’s words seemed to settle the group; their brief flinches and flickering gazes towards the windows were not enough to distract them from the story unfolding before them.
“I had long stopped believing in such fairytales, but when Mama said we were to stay here for Yuletide I couldn’t help thinking about my most favourite superstition: The Fortunes of the Twelve Sage Leaves.”
The collective sigh could barely be heard over the shrieks of the wind and the relentless pounding of the rain outside; however, Emma had heard enough to know that she was the only person in the room not familiar with this particular tale. She turned completely away from her study of the storm, her attention now on Mary Margaret.
“Yes, I’m sure most of you know this legend well,” Mary Margaret said, her eyes quickly catching Emma’s, a confirmation that the explanation to come was for her cousin’s benefit alone. “I plucked twelve sage leaves from the kitchen garden and made my way to the willow grove. There is a lovely fountain where two lovers, carved perfectly in marble, stand in an embrace so intimate, their eyes only for one another, that I think if they were flesh and blood, the world could shatter into oblivion and still they would not be enticed to turn away from one another.”
This time, Mary Margaret sighed, her romantic heart spilling out unchecked fantasies of true love conquering all - even for those made of cold, unyielding stone. Emma fought not to roll her eyes at the overwrought display; it was not Mary Margaret’s fault. She had largely been untouched by the cruelty of people, the books she read shaping her mind to put heroes and villains into neat boxes marked ‘black and white’, the example her parents had set assuring her that she deserved only kindness and respect. She had not lived as Emma had.
Internally shaking away her irritation, Emma continued to listen, drawn in by the secret her cousin had kept to herself for so long and intrigued by the strange Yuletide ritual that apparently all young women in their circles were acquainted with - if not intimately, then at least by word of mouth.
“I carefully placed each sage leaf in a semicircle around the plinth where the statue of the lovers stood. The fountain’s waters were frozen solid, so it was easy to keep them in place and step away. As the ritual says, I turned away and walked toward the other end of the garden without looking back. When I reached the garden's edge, there was this… I’m not sure how to describe it,it was so strange a sensation. Only the tiniest of snowflakes were falling from the sky, dissipating to nothingness before ever touching the earth, but the air was stiflingly cold even with my warmest coat and thickest socks and boots.”
Mary Margaret floundered for a moment, searching for the words that could best describe her experience, unknowingly building enough tension and anticipation to boil over into the most genteel riot that would still be sure to scandalise even the most liberal of ladies.
“Well?” Astrid Nova burst out, her pixie-like frame practically vibrating off the settee she was perched on. The chorus of agreement that followed brought Mary Margaret out of the rabbit hole of thoughts her mind had begun to fall into.
“It felt… well, it felt like the first rays of the morning sun, its light and warmth filling me with this… certainty? Yes, a certainty that my destiny was standing behind me, if only I were brave enough to turn around and meet it. So I turned around and there was David - well, a version of him cast in the grey of a spectral shade, but I could see every feature as clearly in the glow of my lantern as I could when we officially met at the Spencer’s garden party. Right down to the small scar on his chin. We gazed at each other for what felt like hours, but could only have been scarce moments before he gently faded away, but I knew… I knew without question that we would find each other again - soon. And so we did, but I will never forget our first true meeting on Yuletide Eve; that is why I am determined that we must marry on the same day.”
Titters of excitement, punctuated by envious sighs, marked the end of Mary Margaret’s story, her captive audience turning to one another to make their own declarations that they too must do this ritual and try their luck at coming face to face with visions of their own husbands to be.
Emma was staring out the window once more, the rain still falling in endlessly heavy curtains. However, the storm itself seemed to have exhausted its fury, only faint flashes of light highlighting the still rain heavy clouds, and the odd rumble of thunder now disrupting the usual nighttime sounds surrounding the manor. She did not envy her cousin’s good fortune in finding the man of her dreams and under such highly romanticised circumstances; Mary Margaret deserved all of that and more; she simply mourned her own inability to match the level of maudlin enthusiasm and desire for a romance that could rival their hostess’. Perhaps if she were able, then she wouldn’t feel so much like an outsider, or worse, someone with which to be looked upon with pity.
Emma’s silent introspection and inattention had not gone unnoticed. Lady Aurora Rose of Briarsglen, a former bridal prospect for Prince Eric who derided his rejection of her as being his own fault entirely for not understanding her vision for the kingdom rather than a result of her own vainglorious view of the world, raised an imperious brow as everyone else settled down once more.
“Miss Emma, I fear we may have not considered your feelings in talking about our dear Mary Margaret’s future happiness with Sir David. While I’m sure you are enthusiastically assisting in all of the arrangements, it must be upsetting to know you will soon be without your cherished cousin.”
A silence descended upon the room, the hiss and pop of the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace not immune to being smothered by the awkwardness and offensiveness of such a comment. Before anyone else could speak up in defence or support of either lady, Aurora continued, oblivious to the pain and mortification she was inflicting.
“I’m sure your aunt and uncle will be happy to keep you. Lady Blanchard would be… content, to have you as her companion. Or, oh! Mary Margaret, you wouldn’t have to search far and wide for a suitable nanny if Emma accompanied you to Shepparton House!”
“I really hadn’t-“ Mary Margaret began, the pretty pink that had initially tinged her cheeks immediately draining away to a pallor akin to a newly turned corpse.
“It would be the perfect situation for all,” Aurora continued, as though Mary Margaret hadn’t spoken. “As soon as your children are older, Emma could transition to a governess. You do read and write, do you not Miss Emma?” Aurora’s tone was all politeness but her eyes spoke of doubt that Emma could be worth anything more capable than teaching the simplest of lessons.
“For the love of Athena, use some wisdom and hold your tongue!” hissed Ruby, her tone and the flash of her hazel eyes intimidating enough to force even the most hardnosed duchess to clamp her mouth shut and take a cautious step backward for good measure.
“Emma doesn’t need your unwanted suggestions as to how she should live her life. I would sooner take life lessons from a lady of the night - at least she wouldn’t be as carelessly offensive as you!” she continued, a glint of triumph colouring her words as Aurora visibly shrank into the cushions she had previously been regally lounging against.
“I didn’t- I mean to say, I wasn’t -“ Aurora attempted to backtrack, her haughty convictions when it came to station and class crumbling in the face of Ruby’s ire, turning pleading eyes towards Emma in the hope of finding swift absolution.
Emma had compassion enough for most people’s missteps when it came to her upbringing and current prospects; it was often thoughtless, but never meant with the intention to humiliate her. But there was no mistaking Aurora’s intentions, and while Emma wasn’t willing to add further threads to the tension coiling itself tightly around the group by dressing down the silly young woman, and thus proving her credentials to be a successful governess, she certainly was not going to remain and allow them all to witness her humiliation consume her.
“I think I would like to retire early. Mary Margaret has certainly set the tone for a night of tales of the supernatural - it is certainly the perfect time, being All Hallow’s Eve. Do not forget to set some cocoa aside for those from the Other Realm - you wouldn’t want to offend them with no offerings for such an auspicious night.”
Emma stood quickly, refusing to meet her cousin’s eyes and ignoring the gentle tug on her skirts from a still irate Ruby, her murmured “please stay” going unheard. Emma glided out of the elegant French doors of the salon, her posture as perfect and genteel as any other young woman present, her head held high, unwilling to let anyone see the pain and sorrow filling her veins and flowing uninhibited directly to her heart.
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It was half way past the eleventh hour, the rain that had lulled Emma into a fitful sleep had now ceased completely, the clouds clearing just enough to allow a sliver of moonlight to filter through her bedroom window.
For the last quarter hour, Emma had stared, near unblinkingly, at the silvery sheen that lit the floor of her bedroom, counting the nicks and divots of the old hardwood planks as she drew meaningless shapes between them - anything to pass the time until she could safely sleep again without falling back into dreams full of memories best left buried.
She listened to the sounds of the manor settling around her: the creaks of stairs down the hall as they slowly expanded and contracted with the temperature, the odd bang and gurgle of the downpipes outside her bedroom, the soft hooting of a barn owl mingling with that of the wails of creatures hunting their prey in the woods beyond the garden wall, the erratic thud of her bruised and battered heart…
No. Enough. If she could not accept pity from others, then she surely could not accept it from herself.
Emma sat up, flinging her bedclothes away from her, an anger unlike anything she had ever experienced that began low in her belly and rapidly clawed its way up her throat, now threatening to spill from her lips.
All she had ever wanted was to be loved and not be a burden to the few family members who had bothered to claim her. Her grandmother Regina had never shown much affection for her in public, and was downright cruel behind closed doors, had delighted in forcing Emma’s exclusion from society. Had it not been for Mary Margaret’s insistence that she visit her seldom seen cousin, she would be there still, drowning in loneliness and unwarranted scorn from one who dared to profess that they provided all the care she could possibly need.
Emma was no longer a prisoner of Lady Regina; her Blanchard relatives had been adamant that she stay with them and take her place in society as her parents had intended for her. She would be forever grateful for the careful and gentle love that she received from her aunt and uncle, as well as Mary Margaret, but she knew beyond a doubt that their world was one in which she would never feel quite understood, a world in which, eventually, she would be left behind.
Leaving the warmth of her bed, Emma silently padded barefoot over to the window that offered a view of the estate’s willow grove, the light of the moon revealing a shadowed outline of the lovers’ statue in their eternal embrace. As her eyes adjusted to the dimly illuminated shades of silver and green, clarity, as bright and clear as an early spring day, pushed its way to the front of her mind.
She could continue to live a halflife; one where she remained on the fringes of society, always searching for her place, but never finding it, or she could follow Mary Margaret’s path and learn whether or not Fate had decided there was someone waiting for her to come into his life. There was no need to vacillate - if Emma wanted to change the course that her life was taking, she had to drop the mantle of fear and submission she had wrapped herself in and take the first steps in assuming control of her life and fortunes.
And she would start with determining if the deep and abiding love that she had dreamed of since she realised it had been ripped away from her at such a young age would have a place in her future.
Why did she have to wait until Yuletide Eve to see the shade of her intended? Surely All Hallow’s Eve held just as great a power? It was the one night when the veil between this world and the Other was at its most transparent, a gossamer thin veneer where the dead could return to their loved ones for a drink or meal, where the Fae could enchant or punish those who crossed their path as they rode their steeds across ancient paths known to them long before mortals walked among the lands, where monsters and ghouls lurked in darkened hollows and waterways, pouncing on unsuspecting travellers too drunk or naive to pay heed to the tales that were rooted in fact rather than fiction. Magic and other supernatural forces crackled in the air as much as lightning did as it branched across the skies - there had to be a way for Emma to bend that energy to her will for this one small ritual.
With well-practiced movements, Emma reached for the box of matches she kept beside her bed, adjusting her vision again to detect the tiny latch that kept one side of her lantern closed, and quickly struck up a flame, throwing even deeper shadows into the far corners of the room. Turning the dial on the lantern, she placed the burning match above the lantern’s mantle, watching the transfer of light as it grew brighter. Not wanting to disturb anyone as she traversed the halls on her way to the gardens below, Emma dimmed the lantern until there was just enough light to see by before slipping her fleece-lined cloak about her shoulders and stuffing her feet into her most well-worn boots. Exhaling a long breath to calm her nerves, she slipped out her bedroom door, girding herself for her encounter with Fate and Destiny.
Stepping out into the walled kitchen garden, the smells of sodden earth, rain-washed plants, and the faint scent of the herbs that Cook used to season their meals, overwhelmed Emma’s senses. She had always loved the feeling of cleanliness after a storm had passed through. Everything appeared brighter, renewed, ready for new growth and transformation. The small kernel of hope that still resided deep within Emma and had refused to shrivel up and crumble into dust, took strength from these scents, sending a pulse of lighthearted joy through her and further fortifying her determination to see out her plans.
Emma directed the light from her lantern over to the raised plots filled with an assortment of autumnal herbs ready to be picked and dried for the winter months ahead. Searching through the neatly spaced rows of plants, she was dismayed to discover that she couldn’t find a single sage leaf, let alone the plant itself.
Midnight was fast approaching, the time she had to complete the ritual slipping away as quickly as water through a sieve. Searching the garden or the kitchen’s larder for twelve sage leaves would take far too much time and could very well result in waking the household servants, who would have no hesitation in gossiping about poor unfortunate Miss Swan and her desperate attempt at turning to witchcraft to find a rich husband. The town of Stroybrooke would know all about her grasping attempts to raise herself above what she was due before the temple bells had finished their tolling at Sunday worship.
An old apple tree stood at the end of the garden, a wizened sentinel propped up against the sandstone bricks of the garden wall. Despite its age, it still offered bountiful bushels of sweet crimson apples and an abundance of pink and white blossoms during the summer months. However, autumn was beginning to give way to the harsh winter months, which was made all the more apparent in the tree’s appearance. No longer was it the young fair maiden with flowers in her hair, the apple tree now represented the wise and ancient crone - a keeper of truth and knowledge.
Truth and knowledge. Emma recalled the lessons grandmother Regina’s gardener had imparted to her as she had followed him around during his daily duties.
“You may not like apples, Little Miss, but they are revered by the old ones as symbols of truth and knowledge. You should at least respect them, if you won’t eat them.”
Emma wanted the truth, she needed the knowledge of what her future could hold for her. And she wanted to prepare herself for what she might find out. Leaves from an apple tree would be a worthy substitute.
With quick steps, ignoring the squelching of her boots on the muddy ground, Emma darted to the tree, her lamp illuminating the lower branches well enough for her to place it on the ground so she could make use of the shallow footholds carved into the trunk and reach for the leaves still stubbornly clinging to a spindly branch.
Plucking the necessary number of leaves, Emma jumped the few feet to the ground, almost slipping over in her haste. Snatching up her lantern, she made her way to the gated archway that led to the willow grove, her heart beginning to beat frenetically in anticipation of what she would find out on the other side.
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The air was still as Emma stepped inside the grove, the long pendulous branches of the weeping willows barely swaying as she walked by. She felt neither a chill nor a warmth as she walked towards her destination in the middle of the garden. It was as though the storm had stripped away the very season itself until there was nothing left to mark its presence by. It was unnerving - the stillness and the nothingness - this feeling of the natural world pausing its usual activities as if it were awaiting the supernatural world to take its place.
However, time would not pause for anyone, the seconds sweeping by towards the midnight hour. Emma hurried onwards, determined to reach the fountain and complete the task she had set out to accomplish. The statue of the lovers loomed before her, standing on a platform above the water’s surface, the pristine white of the marble they were carved from and their lifelike features reflecting the yellow light of the lantern Emma held tightly in her grasp. The fountain’s water pumps that usually created fantastical displays during the day were silent as they usually were during the night hours, the water’s surface as smooth and silvery as a looking glass as shadows danced across it. If Emma allowed herself to gaze upon the scene before her for any length of time, she could almost believe the illusion that the lovers were simply swaying together to a song only they could hear.
The faint tolling of a bell could be heard in the distance - midnight was now upon her. Snapping back to the task at hand, Emma leaned over the edge of the fountain and quickly began laying the apple leaves in a semicircle in front of the statue as best she could, each bell toll marking each time she placed down a leaf. The water wasn’t frozen as it had been for Mary Margaret; however, the lack of wind or any kind of meaningful air flow at least allowed the leaves to keep their formation relatively steady as they slowly floated away from the statue.
As the last bell chimed, Emma straightened up and turned her back to the fountain, directing herself with careful yet confident steps back the way she had come. The urge to look back before she reached the gate was strong, but not enough to sway her from her path. It had felt like an eternity walking to the edge of the grove despite it being no more than fifty yards; however, before long, Emma reached the gate. She slowly took in a deep breath and released it, waiting for the sign that she should turn around and meet her husband to be.
It began with the barest hint of frost on the ground, tiny crystals that sparkled on every blade of grass as though the storm from earlier had rained down diamonds instead of water. Next, came the mist, rising from the earth in swirling, icy tendrils that wrapped around Emma’s legs, seeping through the layers of her warm attire, and sending shivers running up and down her spine. The mist continued to curl around her form until she could almost feel it caressing the ends of her unbound hair, her shining golden waves dimming until they became colourless against the mist encircling her.
The glow of her lantern still shone, but it had become muted as the mist continued to swirl and coat the darkened scenery in a layer of glittering ice. From the corner of her eye, Emma could detect the silvery brightness of the full moon beaming down onto the grove, its light far more intense than usual and rendering her lantern useless. She instinctively knew the light was her signal to turn around and meet her fate, but the feeling of dread - like large droplets steadily dripping into the pit of her stomach - gave her pause. Was she afraid because she wasn’t having the same experience as Mary Margaret had? Or were her primal instincts warning her that she had called forth something that should never have been summoned?
Emma couldn’t run away now. This was what she had wanted: to know what her future could hold for her, to know that her life could turn into something hopeful, to be given the love of one who would not dismiss her own, leaving her disappointed and abandoned once more.
Taking yet another deep breath to calm her nerves, Emma turned, the mist parting as she did so and giving her a clear view of the fountain in front of her. The fountain was illuminated by moonlight; she could see it as clearly as though it were the middle of the day, the marble lovers remaining in their eternal pose. The water beneath them, however, was churning, bubbling over the stony edge of the fountain and flowing down the sides, staining the light stone with veins as black as ink.
Emma squinted in confusion as she noticed that the water was no longer the clear reflective blue of the tiles on the bottom of the fountain - it had become a thick, tar-like black. The bubbling grew in intensity until it began to merge into one, forming a shape that began to take the appearance of a man. Its features were masked in the darkest of shadows despite the pool of moonlight it was now standing in, the stark white statue no longer taking pride of place as the apparition stood in front of it. When the being was finally fully formed, it gracefully stepped out of the fountain, and with slow, almost insouciant strides, it began to make its way toward Emma.
Emma’s heart began to beat erratically. Not from anticipation or excitement, but from fear, and from danger, and from… temptation.
No, not temptation. Emma thought wildly, trying to force her limbs into action and escape this nightmare of her own creation. She would not risk being led into temptation again; she had barely escaped last time. She may be poor, with nothing of material worth to offer anyone, but she would not succumb and become a fallen woman. That would never be her fate. She certainly wouldn’t allow herself to be enthralled by something from the Other Realm, something dark and impure.
It was that resolve that freed Emma from her terror-induced paralysis. She turned and fled, just as the being stretched out a black gloved hand towards her, the lantern she had been gripping on to so tightly until now slipping from her grasp and falling into an iced-over puddle, the crack of ice as the lantern made contact with it echoing the sound of the thunder of only hours before.
Emma darted through the gate leading back to the kitchen garden and onwards to the safety of her bed, never looking back, never pausing to consider if she should give a chance to the spirit (or demon) who had been reaching for her. It had been a mistake to try and bargain with Fate and Destiny. She was not meant to know her future before it had come to pass.
And now there would be a price to pay.
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He had wanted to allay her fears, show her that he meant no harm, to tell her he could feel her heartbreak and loneliness and that he understood. But she had run away before he could form the words he needed to soothe her terrified thoughts.
The pain of her grief and loneliness, her disappointment at a life that had been nothing but cruel to her, had seeped into the very essence of the ritual, called to him like no other mortal had ever done. He wondered at her decision to use apple leaves on All Hallow’s Eve to power her spell. Given her reaction to his presence, he doubted her aim had been to summon a Dark One from the Other Realm. He could not say definitively whether she had a true love waiting for her in this mortal world, but he could not detect any threads of connection to another that would indicate that she did. The Fates owed him a favour; he would demand their expertise in the matter.
Even so, he had decided that he wanted her, mortal suitor or no. He knew that if she gave him a chance, she would see that they understood each other, despite her short life and his eons of existence. Looking back towards the fountain, he noted that she hadn’t closed the portal she had opened. Quickly, he began tracing a series of symbols in the air above the still bubbling waters, each one glowing a deep blood red before fading away into the ether.
After the last symbol had been drawn, the water became a smooth glass like surface once again, the icy mist that had lingered dissipating as the portal closed. He would not allow his brethren to be given the chance to compete with him for the affections (or soul) of the golden haired woman who had been the first to make his long dormant heart flicker with the first signs of life since his days of being mortal. There was a familiarity to her that he could not yet perceive; however, he was eager to find out why she drew him and to understand the strength of her pull upon him.
He gazed down at the still surface of the water, his shadowed visage masking his features. Swiping his hand impatiently across his face, he revealed his true form: unearthly blue eyes, rimmed red as though he had not slept for many a long night, stared back at him, framed by sooty lashes and midnight dark hair that fell carelessly across his eyes, his pale, pale skin highlighting everything in a stark contrast. He had the appearance of a newly risen corpse or one of those blasted vampires that the mortals insisted existed but were more of a bastardised version of his kind (blood was not a palatable food source to be sure) and that would not do. He needed to show her that he was not to be feared.
He would need to prepare himself well for their next meeting. He wanted to show her that she was worthy of catching the eye of an eligible bachelor ready to settle down and devote his love and life to her, which would take some time and planning. Looking up towards the window he was sure were her chambers, he noted no fire or candlelight to keep those from the Other Realm at bay on this most important of nights for his kind. He would ensure she had a light to see her through the remaining night hours while also offering a token of his affection and hope that she would meet him again.
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It had been a long time before Emma was able to fall asleep. When she finally did, it had been fitful, full of dreams of shadows and mist that threatened to consume her, a hand reaching out from the darkness, offering safety and protection, but which she was too afraid to trust would not betray her. She had awoken long after breakfast had been served, the late morning sun shining cheery and bright through the window of her bedroom.
Emma sat up, stretching out her cramped muscles as she allowed herself to shake off the remnants of sleep and the events of the night before.
As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, a large crystal vase overflowing with blue irises caught her eye. It had been set upon her bedside table, the shade of blue not something she had ever seen before in nature. A memory tickled the back of her mind as she continued to admire them; however, she couldn’t quite grasp it, and after a few moments, she let it go, figuring if she was meant to remember it would come to her later.
Emma had been so interested in the unexpected gift - she would be sure to thank her aunt and uncle when she saw them at the noontime meal, for it must have been they who directed itsdelivery to her - she had not immediately seen her lantern sitting next to it, still faintly lit with a low flame. She remembered dropping it last night as she fled the willow grove and away from the spectre that had reached for her as though he were asking her to take his hand as a gentleman would to a lady he was offering to escort safely across an undesirable section of pathway.
A piece of parchment the size of her palm was placed in front of the lantern, a note elegantly written in a script that was no longer in fashion, but was to be admired for its evident skill and beauty.
A heart as beautifully scarred, yet resilient as yours, should always be blessed with a light to help ease your journey through the darkness.
