5Okay. Blatantly AU, though I'll probably be borrowing somewhat from the show as it progresses, inspiration being what it is. For one thing, Lancelot is still Lancelot, and not Cora in disguise. Thanks OUaT, I'm really glad that one of my favorite characters from Arthurian legend turns out to be a meat suit for a witch... Yeah, not bitter at all.
Thanks to my reviewers who asked for more, and to all of you who 'story alert'ed me! I'd thought I was done, but, well, apparently not. :)
Daniel spoke to the leader of the Resistance and secured Emma and Snow's release... with rather more alacrity than he'd been anticipating. Lancelot rushed down to the prison himself, keys in hand, when he heard who it was that they'd been 'entertaining' there.
Snow and Lance shared an almighty hug as soon as those pesky bars were out of the way, Cora standing by with a sour look on her face, Emma with a rather more baffled one on hers. The former knight escorted mother and daughter out into the sunshine, Daniel following behind. Lancelot immediately invited them to share a meal, and he and Snow spoke about old times, laughing about nothing in particular, sharing the smiles and grins of old friends newly reunited.
Emma shifted uncomfortably in her seat several times throughout, playing with the simple fare and staring at the dark-haired woman she'd thought she'd known. Mary Margaret was no stranger to her. God knew, she'd seen her best friend in the good times, held her hand through the bad times, and stood by her side in the worst times. Princess Snow White, on the other hand... This woman was utterly alien. The cutlery and cuisine that Emma struggled with, Snow White handled as if she had done so all her life. The sights that were foreign to the American-raised girl - the horses, the houses made of logs, the cook fire, for crying out loud - didn't faze Snow a bit. Emma surreptitiously scraped her shoe against the leg of her home made chair, trying to remove a few of the road apples that Snow avoided with seeming obliviousness. The sooner they could get home, the better.
And yet... this should have been her home, she reflected. If not for the curse. If things had worked out differently... might she draw and fire a bow as easily as she could draw and fire her gun? Would riding a horse come as easily as driving a car? She stared meditatively at her hand. She'd felt something pass between her and Regina, in those moments before the portal opened up - like an electric jolt, but with more... glow... to it. It was hard to describe, even to herself. Something had happened, something that had felt right, like climbing back on a bike after years of not riding, only to realize that you not only still knew how, but could still do all the tricks you used to do. It almost felt like a spark of... home.
"...right Emma?" Mary Margaret asked, eyes bright.
Shocked out of her reverie, Emma sat up straighter, desperately playing back in her head the last part of the conversation she'd largely been ignoring. Something about portals and... "Yeah," she said. "We need to get home. I left Henry back there, and Dav... uh, Charming."
"Henry?" asked Lancelot, curiously, and Emma replied, "My son."
The knight nodded gravely. "You must certainly be reunited with your loved ones. But, Snow, I really wish you would stay here. We need you."
Snow laid her hand on his forearm, her green eyes wide with regret. "You're doing fine here, Lance," she said. "You don't need me - and I'm years out of practice with being a royal, or any kind of leader. Your people know you and respect you. They'd follow you anywhere."
But Lancelot was already shaking his head. "I lead by virtue of my training. You could lead by virtue of blood. They may follow me, but they would die for you."
Snow's eyes blazed. "I don't want anybody to die for me. I want my husband, and my daughter, and my grandson. I want us all to be safe, and together, and happy. I'm done fighting for anything but that." But Emma saw an echo in her face, and knew that her mother was torn. She really is a princess, Emma thought, whether she believes it or not.
"Then I'll help you find your way," said the knight, reluctantly. "Have you any idea how you might get back?"
And so Snow recounted the tale of the wardrobe, how she had given birth and sent minutes-old Emma through it. Emma had read the story in Henry's book, of course, but not well - it had been a fairy tale, not relevant to her, and then she'd burned the final pages. Somehow, hearing her mother describe the event, made it more real. This was her story too, now.
"If that wardrobe still exists," finished Snow, "we might be able to get enough magic together to recharge it. It could send us back to Storybrooke."
Lancelot sighed heavily. "If that's what you want. It's dangerous out there, though - I would want to send you with a protection detail." Snow tried to protest that she didn't need any protection, she was fully capable of looking after herself, but the knight overrode her. "You're years out of practice with being a royal," he echoed back at her, "And you're years more out of practice with being a bandit. You'll take the guards - I'll not have you dying for nothing in the wilderness."
Snow was inclined to grumble, but acknowledged that he had a point. Lancelot assigned two men to go with them, along with Mulan. Daniel attached himself to the group somehow - Emma wasn't sure how, but he was there and no one was saying anything. He had his own pack, at least, so at the very least he wouldn't be a burden on their supplies. Emma shouldered her own pack; a gift from one of the women of the camp. Snow had taken the time to change from her Storybrooke clothing into the leather, furs, and homespun that seemed the only clothing choices around here, though Emma suspected that her old clothes were tucked among the bags somewhere. She trusted that Mary Margaret wouldn't want to materialize in the center of town, or wherever, dressed like a... uh... a native? That was a weird thought.
It wasn't until they reached the border of the camp that Snow seemed to realize that Lancelot wasn't coming. She turned to her old friend to protest, but Lancelot anticipated her words. "I can't leave, Snow," he told her. "I'm needed here. God knows I want to go with you, but I learned once, the hard way, that duty has to come before heart."
The look he gave her made it clear that the barbed words were intentional, but Mary Margaret shook them off. "I'll come back, Lance," she told him. "Once I know my family is safe."
He regarded her sadly. "I'm sure you'll try," he replied. Then he swept her up in a brief hug, whispered something in her ear, and sent the little group of six off with a wave and a call of, "Good luck!"
Emma quashed the little voice inside her that hoped that she would never see the man again. It wasn't worthy of her. But... she desperately wanted the wardrobe to work. Henry, Henry, Henry...