Prince Charming

At first, the oppressive weather had been a fairly big detriment to the door, but it had lurked in Charming's mind the more he'd been away from it. The cold had stopped the pain of the dreamshade and the quiet had been peaceful, almost soothing. He doesn't want to go there alone, though, because the fear of getting lost out there is too great and he does need to find Neverland. He'd figured out quickly enough that he needed someone who could track, someone who could hunt.

Seeing as Snow isn't here, he's got the next best thing.

Once he's equipped them both with packs of food and thick coats, Charming leads Graham to the icy world behind the propped open door, realizing once they're in the midst of snow and ice that it's actually exactly what he needs right now. The air is brisk and freezing and it makes his face hurt, but the dreamshade is a world away and the world is a blank canvas for them to explore.

He sets his pick in the ice, grinning at Graham like a madman. "What do you think?" he shouts above the high winds. "Should we keep heading West?"

Direct your questions regarding gameplay with Charming to the comments of this post! This is not an in-character mailbox, it is for OOC plotting. Comments are screened.

Currently, Charming is occupied in a great and terrible staring bout with a black and white fuzzy creature. His mother had a dog like this when he was little more than a boy, but it's not the same one. The patches are different, for a start, and so is the temperament. The odder thing, of course, is the presence of the dog in his and Snow's bedroom.

And it's staring at him.

"Hello," Charming says warily, tipping his head to one side to see if the dog responds to him. He does little more than give a whine. "Are you supposed to be somewhere? I'd remember if you were mine." Which is almost a joke in and of itself, given that there are still small gaps in his memory, as if fate is holding out one last joke on him. "Snow?" Charming summons. "There's something here you may want to see!"

Coming home has been something of a dream and a nightmare for him. While Charming is glad to see the familiar mountains and lake outside of the window, the good news of the return is mired in the darkness of Anne's capture. No matter where he goes, this dark luck seems to follow him with such alacrity that he wonders if he isn't cursed to forever be doomed to the dark pall that follows him. It's no time for such thoughts, now.

Matthew has been fed and clothes have been found for their party. Charming, himself, wears the thick cloak that he had once given to Rumpelstiltskin -- another ill thought; if the Queen is here, then what other enemies are at their heels? What allies can they still call upon and will they even remember? Where is King George and what of the Queen's lackeys? Charming puts these thoughts out of mind and tightens the knot on the cloak, dragging the horses from the stables.

The trouble, now, remains. "The Queen has dark magic on her side," he explains as he tugs on leather gloves, forcing his mind to work through cobwebs and ancient dust to recall the fastest path to the Queen's castle. The troll road, he imagines, and the thought gives him pause to smile as he recalls what other thieves and brigands had lurked upon such roads. "And while our hearts may be true, we need a plan."

Charming isn't sure of their odds, given Matthew's young age and Emma's state. "Snow, do you think Red will be able to watch Matthew for us?" he asks, a look on his face that implies, very strongly, that Red ought not to take off her cloak for a single moment. "Who else could we call upon? I hesitate to use up all the favours we've amassed over the years, but if ever there was a need, now is it."

The haze of sleep rests thickly on David Nolan’s shoulders, but still he pushes to his feet in search of the same something that’s continued to elude him for days, weeks, months and years (if he really thinks about it). Clad in no more than a pair of loose trousers and a sleeping shirt, he leaves the main building and sets out.

He is looking.

There will be a troll bridge in the distance and if he arrives there, he’ll be able to find Snow. Or, perhaps, he’s searching to stop her. In sleep, without the blocks that waking provides, he finds that everything joins together to cause chaos in his mind. It’s as if a storybook has fallen apart at the spine, sending its pages scattering on the floor – and everything is happening at once. He finds himself overwhelmed by prerogatives…

Stop the curse before she can take their baby away…

He must stop Snow from killing the Queen and becoming as wicked…

“It seemed like the honourable…”

“I will always find you.”

The urgency of these memories pressing against his mind all at once drives him forward swifter than ever. There is a danger beyond the realm of his knowledge and while he isn’t aware of what it is, he sets his mind to solving it. It is a task that he refuses to fail by, especially when love is on the line and a kingdom need be saved. He follows winding paths until he realizes that he won’t find a hiding being in the open. No, he must go into the woods.

Entering the forests unarmed seems an erroneous task. Still in the throes of a sleep-mussed state, he finds his way off the path and finds a weapon, gleaming and stuck in the ground. The minute that his hand slides over the hilt of this golden sword, something comes back to him. It strikes him as if an enemy blow, leaving him staggering to find his footing once more.

“Prince James,” he murmurs, and while it doesn’t sound wholly right, it’s better than Nolan. “James…”

No.

Charming, he hears, whispered as if in a woman’s voice that he knows. He turns, looking for friend or foe joining him on this journey, but finds none. Every moment that passes is another moment that brings further confusion into his midst, but the story begins to arrange itself in his mind. The gaps are large, but narrowing. The sword rests heavy in his hand, the metal cold against his skin. It’s a familiar feeling, though he feels a certain sense of scorn at the gold.

Midas.

“What?”

Midas, speaks his memory. King Midas gifted that sword to your brother.

But that’s ridiculous, because he doesn’t have a brother. He’s never known a brother, though it would have been handy when the farm needed the extra hands. He pushes through the foliage like a man determined, focused on finding the end to this strange story. He is still thick with sleep, the world’s focus narrowed to a practical pin-prick, but it is enough.

It is enough to see the looming danger ahead. It is certainly enough to see the dragon’s fire-laden breath, smoke tingeing the edges as it puffs out from beyond the caves. Panicked, frightened, confused, he presses his back to the nearest surface (cold and made of stone) and he composes himself as another barrage of memories hits him like a well-aimed catapult.

He remembers being held back. He remembers the golden sword in a sheath while guards around him die and still they won’t let him help.

Prince James needs to stay alive.

“But I’m not him.”

You are, now.

“I’m not,” he insists sharply, gripping the hilt of the heavy sword with both hands. He’s breathing harder than before, but it’s starting to come back to him. He has to do the honorable thing and if he doesn’t, he never sets himself on the path that brings him to…

“Snow,” he says aloud, awareness starting to creep back in.

It propels him into motion. He pushes away from the cave wall, charging around the corner as he angles the sword, a piercing cry loosed as loud as he can. He swings the sword, brings down the dragon, the head falling off and fumbling to the ground. His breath is caught in his chest and he staggers backwards, dropping the sword to the ground as he falls to his knees and takes this moment to let it all catch up to him.

And then, as if brought out of a cursed spell…

Prince Charming wakes up.

He remembers. Overwhelmed, he tries to put it all in order as if flicking through the pages of a storybook, but they’re no longer blank. There is a beginning and an ending, though he’s still missing parts of the middle, but that doesn’t matter because he remembers. He remembers his name. He remembers why he’s wielding a gold sword and he knows about the dragon’s head lying half-covered in tropical leaves before him.

James’ first instinct is to get to Snow. She’s here, but the Queen’s curse must be stronger than he’d thought possible. While he’s been struggling to earn back every memory, she seems to be unable to pierce through the fog. It begs the question: is he truly free of the curse or has the Queen worked some of her magic and simply changed the setting.

When he was lying on the palace floor, he must have been transported to the new world in that half-dead state. He remembers Snow kissing him, pleading with him, and he remembers…

“Oh, god,” he lets loose a panicked sob, falling further to the ground as grief wrenches through him and grabs hold of him tightly. “Emma. Emma, Emma,” he whispers, as if repeating her name again and again will somehow undo all the wrongs that have been done to her – his perfect, precious, wonderful baby girl.

She’s here with them. It almost seems too pert and perfect to be without order.

If this is the Queen’s plan, then James can’t tip his hand. There’s work to be done. If he starts with Snow and seeks a solution to her stricken memories, perhaps he can find more clues as to why she hasn’t remembered and if this is a continued cruel trick of her rotten majesty. James rises to his feet, steadying himself carefully and brushing away the tears from off his cheeks. He has to remember this: He is David Nolan to the rest of the island. If the Queen has her spies here, then David Nolan he will remain.

Answers will be found, but first he tends to the practical.

What’s a man to do with a decapitated dragon?

He's looking.

The woods are thicker than he recalls, the trees strange and odd. He's searching for someone and he thinks it might be Snow. There has to be a bridge somewhere, but he's yet to find it, which means he's yet to find her. There's someone else that he's looking for, but he doesn't know who it is. He only knows that she's small and vulnerable. She needs someone to protect her and it's supposed to be him.

He wanders, deep through the woods and makes his way out of the dark to the light, entering a strange building and walking until he's in the midst of several rooms -- each one stranger than the last. "I'm looking," he says aloud, as if that will direct him to what he needs to find. "I need to find her."

Ever since he'd woken up, people kept telling him that his memories would come back to him. They assured him it would happen, in their own time, and he'd believed them. At first, it even seemed to be happening. He'd begun to pull little threads of memories out of the mist, here and there, but then they just stopped. Day after day and nothing new came to him. David is beginning to think he'll sell his soul just to start piecing together the fragments he has.

He knows he's got options. He was just hoping that he could solve his own problems. When it becomes clear that he won't be able to do this without help, he makes his way down the hall from the clinic to the psych office, knocking on the door lightly. "I'm looking for a Charlie Bartlett," he says, glancing around the office. "I was told one found me when I first got here and I've been informed he works here, too. Is that you?" he asks, of the boy in front of him.

There are certain things in the close vicinity of the Compound that draw David's interest more than others. He doesn't go too far -- not since the first times he stubbornly attempted and found himself in a bit of a tricky situation when his legs quivered more than was reasonably healthy. Now, he drifts and finds the places that give him peace and calm of mind. One of the places he keeps revisiting is the pasture, a fondness in his expression as he watches the way the animals move.

There's something to this that's familiar. There's something that he recognizes about this -- as if he knows. There's a small voice in his head telling him the quickest way to corral the goats, but he ignores it because how could he?

Still, it's a relief to have something. He wonders, too, if he could have it more often. He watches the girl with the flaming red hair as she works, only lifting a hand in the air to greet her when it seems that the bulk of the work has been completed. He hasn't a clue who she is, but there's no harm in asking a few questions.