Reawakened: A Once Upon a Time Tale

  Emma was settling into her strategy of going along with what Henry said. The next question came pretty naturally: “How are we supposed to do that?”

  “I thought of that already,” Henry said. “All we have to do is get her to read this story to him.”

  “What story is it?”

  “The story of them falling in love,” Henry said. “It’s important.”

  Emma said nothing, just looked out at the water.

  “What?” Henry said. “Don’t you think that it is?”

  “I do, actually,” Emma said. “Believe it or not. I completely do.”

  Henry smiled his beaming, irresistible smile. “So you’ll help.”

  “Sure,” she said. “But we’re doing it my way. Not your way. My way. Got it?”

  • • •

  “Let me get this straight,” Mary Margaret said, eyeing Emma skeptically. “You want me to read the same children’s stories I gave to Henry to John Doe? Who’s been in a coma for years? At the hospital?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you want me to do this because Henry thinks the story will wake him up, because he is Prince Charming, and I am Snow White, and we are soul mates, and true love can conquer the curse?”

  “Yup,” Emma said, nodding and biting into her celery one more time. “That’s pretty much it.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  Emma cocked her head. “A little,” she said. “But not that nuts.”

  They were at Mary Margaret’s apartment, both of them sitting on the couch. Mary Margaret was glad when Emma knocked on the door, and initially she’d thought it was about the offer to be roommates, but Emma—who was always a straight shooter, it seemed—launched right into the plan about the anonymous man at the hospital. It was all ridiculous. But Mary Margaret studied the strange woman, thinking about the plan’s implications, what it would mean. She was right. Maybe not so nuts.

  “And what you didn’t say,” Mary Margaret said, “was that he won’t wake up, Henry will see that, and it will be a gentle way of showing him that he might be wrong about this curse of his.”

  Emma smiled a quick smile, bit again into her celery.

  “Something like that,” she said.

  And so Mary Margaret agreed. Why? There were many reasons. She liked Emma Swan; she liked the plan to help Henry; she liked the simple elegance of the solution. She liked, even, the opportunity to read to a patient—a handsome patient—in front of Dr. Whale. Yes, that part was silly, but if she was being honest, she’d have to admit that she had noticed John Doe several times, had walked past him and felt that quiet glimmer of familiarity rustle somewhere down in her mind. On her way into the hospital, book under her arm, she wondered if she liked John Doe because he was always there, always so consistent, always so reliable. No, he didn’t talk back, and no, he had no idea who she was, but he always stayed the same. He was like her. He was alone, and he was stuck here in Storybrooke.

  It was incredible to her how little life seemed to change in the town. She had been here for so long, but each year, the children seemed to be the same, her mixed feelings about Storybrooke seemed to be the same, and her loneliness—some murky part of herself that simply did not believe that she was meant to be a homebody, to know nearly no one, to spend her nights alone, drinking tea—well, it never changed. Was Storybrooke stagnant or safe? It was both. Little things like this—visits to the hospital—were as much about occupying her time as they were about the work itself.

  She sat herself down beside his bed, made herself comfortable, and opened the book.

  She looked at the words, looked back up at John Doe.

  “I know this is odd,” she said. “I’m doing this for a friend. Try to bear with me.” She glanced through the broad glass windows and saw Dr. Whale on the far side of the floor, doing his rounds, head stuck in a chart. She looked back at John Doe and raised her eyebrows. “Sorry if it gets boring.”

  She read. She read the story Emma had told her to read, and slowly fell into it herself. She read about Snow White on the lam, no better than a forest bandit; read about her first encounter with the Prince, and the second encounter, and the smoldering feelings between the two, who had so much more in common than they even knew. Mary Margaret hadn’t read the whole book before giving it to Henry, and at one point she paused, looked up, and said, “Maybe this isn’t completely for children? What do you think?” To her it seemed suited to both.

  She saw the word again: “bandit.” Someone on the run, someone who broke rules, someone who lived bravely, lived in a way that didn’t fit into societal norms. She was most definitely not a bandit, no. She was good, careful, kind, cautious, law-abiding. She didn’t make trouble. She wasn’t like Emma Swan. She wanted to be, but she didn’t know how.

  I may not be a bandit, she thought. But I have a bandit’s heart.

  She was still caught up in the emotion of the story at the very end, when her eyes moved toward the final paragraph, her curiosity piqued by the tale. Prince Charming and Snow White were coming together, even though they’d been fighting all along. She read: “… stared into each other’s eyes; they didn’t need words to express what they felt in their hearts. For it was here, in the shadow of the Troll Bridge, that their love was born. Where they knew, no matter how they were separated, they would always fin—”

  Mary Margaret stopped, her voice stuck in her throat.

  Impossible.

  But she had felt it.

  Slowly, knowing what she would see, she let her eyes move from the book to her left hand, resting on its edge. Her heart, already beating fast, began to pound.

  John Doe’s hand was on her hand.

  Not just on her hand. Squeezing it.

  She stood, covered her mouth, shucked his hand from hers. After one last glance at his still-closed eyes, she went to find Dr. Whale.

  • • •

  Snow White took one last glance at her belongings, knowing that she’d probably forgotten something important but too harried to worry about it now. Her tree-trunk home was not far from where she’d robbed the arrogant (handsome) fool and knocked him over with a rock, and she now felt that it might be prudent to vacate the area. But there was something about that man….

  She looked down at her most precious belonging: a tiny crystal vial containing a minuscule amount of very potent fairy dust. She had learned to fight with weapons over the last few months, but this was a weapon of a higher order. Magic. With this dust, she would be able to fell even the most dangerous of enemies. Her plan, of course, was to use the dust against the Evil Queen. She didn’t know how she would get the opportunity, or when it would come, but when it did, she would be ready.

  She put the vial around her neck, strapped her gold to her waistband, and turned from her tree. She took one step then and saw the ground beneath her feet begin to move.

  Move up, actually. A net, covered in leaves. Before she could even react, she was hanging twenty feet off the ground, bundled up, trapped.

  “Ah. Hello there,” came a voice—a voice she recognized—and a grim expression came across her brow.

  It was him, the arrogant man. There he was, hands on his hips, looking very proud of himself.

  “I told you I would find you.”

  “Please,” said Snow White, reaching for her dagger. She drew it and was about to start cutting.

  “Ah ah ah ah,” said the Prince, seeing this. “Quite a fall. Be careful. You’re bound to break your neck. I will lower you down very gently.”

  They stared at each other.

  “For a price,” he added.

  “And is this the only way you can catch a woman? By catching her in a net?”

  “It’s my preferred method of catching thieves, actually,” he said. “I have various methods for catching women.”

  “Well, aren’t you a real Prince Charming?” Snow White said.

  He grinned at this. “I do have a real name.”

  “I don’t care,” she sa
id. “You’re Charming. Cut me down, Charming.”

  He stopped smiling. “I will. As soon as you return my property.”

  “It’s long gone.”

  “Then we’ll have to recover it. I imagine it hasn’t gotten too far away. That pouch contained a wedding ring very dear to me. It was given to me by my mother, in fact.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Snow White, rolling her eyes. “That nag in the carriage! Ha! Of course you would be marrying somebody like that. Let me guess. She’s a princess. The marriage is all very important.”

  “You’re incredibly rude for someone trapped in a net,” said Charming. “Are you aware of that?”

  “Why would I help you?” Snow White said. “Why would I possibly help you? What will you do, Charming? Torture me if I don’t?”

  “No,” he said, and now Snow White could hear in his voice that he’d stopped playing her game. “Someone else probably will, though.”

  She studied him through the holes in the net. He looked back up, unblinking.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I know you’re Snow White,” he said, “and if you don’t lead me to those jewels, I’ll turn you over to the Queen’s men.” He pulled a wanted poster from within his vest and held it up. The likeness was uncanny. She doubted it would make much sense to protest. “It’s your choice. Help me or I turn you in. I have a feeling the Queen’s not so charming as I am.”

  • • •

  She agreed to lead the Prince to where she’d sold the jewels, and he immediately lowered her, telling her that he trusted that she wouldn’t run, that he would only find her again, it made no difference. As much as she would have liked to hit him in the face with a rock (again), it made more sense to recover the ring.

  For three hours they walked and said little to each other, and all the while, Snow White fumed as she picked her way through the forest. Behind her, he strolled casually; there was something about his swagger that she detested. Near noon he called for a rest, and she leaned against a tree, looking off to the west.

  “And what is that?” he asked.

  She realized she was toying with the charm she wore around her neck. “It’s none of your concern,” she said, pulling her hand away from the glass.

  “Now it is,” he said, and with a quick snatching motion, he grabbed the delicate thing and pulled it from her neck.

  “Be careful!” she cried. “It’s a weapon. It’s fairy dust. It transforms any enemy into something easily squashable.”

  The Prince, amused, raised an eyebrow and studied the small glass vial. “Is that so?” he said. “And why haven’t you used it on me, then?”

  “I’m saving it for someone who matters,” said Snow White.

  “Like the Queen?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe not,” said Charming. “But tell me, what exactly did you do to her to incur that wrath? It’s quite impressive.”

  “She hates herself and so she hates everyone else, too, especially me apparently. I’ve done nothing to her.”

  The Prince studied her, and she looked back, aware of the fire in her own eyes and doing nothing to hide it.

  He shrugged. “Okay then,” he said. “Teach me to pry.” He held out the vial.

  “What?” said Snow. “You’re just… giving it back?” He wasn’t playing by the rules of master and prisoner.

  “Yes,” he said, shrugging again. “Of course. It sounds like you’ll be needing it.”

  • • •

  Henry and Emma sat together at the diner, waiting for Mary Margaret to arrive and tell them about reading the story to John Doe the night before.

  “I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” Emma said, sipping her hot chocolate. “We—”

  They both looked up as Mary Margaret, looking more excited than Emma had ever seen her, burst into the diner and beelined for their table.

  “He woke up,” she said, sliding into the booth.

  Emma didn’t even want to guess what kind of smile was on Henry’s face. This was not the plan. “Excuse me?” she said.

  “He grabbed my hand. Right at the end of the story.”

  “He’s remembering,” Henry said. He nodded to himself, as if this made perfect sense, and stood. “Let’s go to the hospital,” he said. “Come on!” He ran toward the door.

  Emma tilted her head and looked at Mary Margaret. “What are you doing?” she said.

  “He really did grab my hand,” Mary Margaret insisted, sounding more like Henry now than Emma cared to consider. “We made—there was some kind of connection.”

  “Not the kind that has to do with Snow Whites and Prince Charmings, though?”

  “No, no,” Mary Margaret said. “No. Just a connection.”

  “Well then I guess we better go see for ourselves,” she said.

  • • •

  Sheriff Graham met them all at the door, hands up in a way that made Emma think something more had happened. “What is it?” she said, stopping short.

  “It’s nothing for you to be concerned with,” Graham said, looking over his shoulder. “I assume you’re here because of what happened last night? Between John Doe and Miss Blanchard?” Graham nodded curtly at Mary Margaret, and Emma was reminded that all of these people had relationships. She had no idea what theirs was.

  “What’s wrong?” Mary Margaret said. “Is he okay?”

  “It’s not that he’s not okay,” Graham said, turning and leading them onto the floor. “It’s that he’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Emma said. “How is that possible?”

  They approached Dr. Whale, who was shaking his head, studying a chart. “We’re not exactly sure,” Graham said.

  “It’s not possible,” Dr. Whale said. “Scientifically, at least,” he added.

  “And yet he’s not here,” Emma said. “Did someone take him?”

  “I don’t know.” Dr. Whale went silent, looking over their shoulders. Emma heard the clicking of heels. She tensed up and turned in time to see Regina stalking toward them. “What are they doing here?” she demanded. “What kind of operation are you running here, Sheriff? Is this or is this not a crime scene?”

  “What did you do?” Henry asked Regina.

  Her face softened just a bit as she looked down at him, bent, and touched him on the shoulder. “Nothing, Henry. I’m here to find out what happened to him.”

  “Why would the mayor get involved with a missing person?” Emma asked.

  Regina straightened up. “Because I’m his emergency contact.”

  “You know him?” Mary Margaret asked. “How?”

  “I don’t know him, I found him,” Regina said. “Years ago. On the side of the road.”

  “But hold on,” Mary Margaret said. “If he’s out there, somewhere, wherever he is, can he—You can’t just wake up from a coma and be okay,” she looked at Dr. Whale, “can you?”

  “He’s been on feeding tubes for years, his legs are atrophied, and if he’s conscious, he’s disoriented and panicked. So no. He’s not okay. He needs to be back here immediately. I don’t want to speculate on what could happen to him.”

  “Then find him,” Regina said, taking Henry’s hand. “This is not a place for you,” she said to him. “Let’s go. I don’t want you hanging out with that woman.”

  Protesting with his eyes, Henry looked at Emma knowingly before being dragged away. She knew what was in his head. Go find him, he was saying to her.

  • • •

  An hour more into their walk, Snow slowed her pace, then stopped the Prince with a hand on his arm. “Okay,” she said, peering toward the bridge. “We’re here. We gotta be careful.”

  “Careful of trolls?” he said. “Are you joking?”

  “Have you ever met a troll?”

  The Prince looked back at her.

  “So we gotta be careful,” she repeated, and then led him out to the old stone bridge.

  She hated trolls, but they weren’t the w
orst business partners. They always had gold and always seemed willing to buy her stolen goods. Her heart beating a little faster than before, Snow steadied herself, took a breath, and together she and Charming walked out to the middle of the bridge.

  Seeing her looking at him, he smiled at her.

  She found herself a bit disarmed by it, actually.

  “What?” she said.

  “What now?” he said, going to the edge, looking down. “Do we make troll noises?”

  “No,” she said, reaching for her purse. “We knock on their door.”

  She stepped across the mossy stone and set a half-dozen gold coins on the ledge of the bridge. “Step back,” she said, and the Prince obeyed.

  They heard the scrabbling first. She had seen the trolls climbing the great support structure of the bridge, and she didn’t care to see it again. They were like spiders, only uglier. They lived down below, in what she imagined was squalor. She shivered, imagining it. God forbid she ever found herself down in such a place.

  Charming, a querulous look on his face as they listened, said, “So are they—”

  The leader of the trolls was the first to burst up over the side. Lean, shambling, coated in moss and dirt, he pulled himself over the edge and straightened up, all eight feet of him. Snow touched Charming’s hand, which he’d moved to the hilt of his sword, and shook her head. He looked at her, and let it drop.

  “Not very charismatic, are they?” Charming muttered.

  “Who in God’s name is this?” boomed the head troll, pointing at Charming. He slowly craned his neck and looked at her. “And why are you back? Our business is done.”

  “I’m here to make a new trade,” she said evenly. “I want to buy back one item. The ring.”

  The lead troll frowned, grunted, looked toward one of his compatriots, who produced a small burlap sack, dug around, and pulled out a ring. He held it up, then dropped it back in the bag.

  The head troll looked back at Snow White. “I won’t do business with him here,” he said again. “I asked you once, I’ll ask again. WHO IS HE?” These last words exploded out of him, out of some pit of anger and torment. Snow didn’t let anything show on her face, but she was scared. Very scared.