princehonorable | (no subject)

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homeplot

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Once upon a time, there was a land of magic, filled with true love and deepest hate. There were heroes and there were those who merely lived their daily lives amidst the power struggles of the wicked and the righteous. Regardless of what war befell the realm, it continued on until the Queen struck to take away the happy endings of all, banishing the world from existence with a curse fit to break apart even the truest of love.

When Charming had awoken from his coma in the strange land called Tabula Rasa, he thought that he would never see home again. His kingdom was lost, as was Snow's, and their people were scattered in what served as Storybrooke. It was in waking to the chirping of birds and the calm call of nature outside his window that he realized that he had been so wrong. Relative to his years, he hadn't spent a great deal of his life in the castle. He would be comfortable in any structure, no matter how simple. For Snow and for Emma, he would've built castles.

This one, King George's, was a structure he never thought he'd see again, but here he lay in his marriage bed. It was enough to get him to his feet, struck by the sense of urgency that came with awakening in a land that ought to be dead.

At this side, he took the time to indulge his gaze with a loving look at his wife, bending down to brush a kiss to her temple. "Snow, wake up," he coaxes. "We've work to do," he insists, grasping his cape as he dressed and hauling it around his shoulders in a hurry, affixing his sword and several daggers to his side as he began storming down the halls of the castle to search for an explanation to this.

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"Not at the moment," he says, taking a deep breath as he releases the hint of panic that threatens to overwhelm him. He's unable to help himself. Even the mere possibility of being mired in a threat is too much after what he's been coping with for the last span of time. If this is home and they are well and truly here, he'll be grateful.

The trouble is this: "Didn't the curse destroy all this?"

She feels somewhat ridiculous, brandishing a sword she can barely lift in a nightgown that feels much richer than anything she can remember wearing in the last year, let alone the last twenty-eight. The tension in her arm is nothing compared to what she feels radiating off of her husband beside her, and she reaches out a hand to touch his.

"Maybe not. Maybe it was only lying in wait, like the rest of us."

He takes the time to marvel at their surroundings, flooded by the sensation of being home again and how little he had expected that he would see these walls and the view from the windows in their room -- the room where Emma was born. "Snow," he whispers, fond as anything. "We're home."

She smiles, finally, that excitement and acceptance of where they really are beginning to take the place of questioning if only for a little while, and she leans in toward him, gazing up into the eyes she knows and loves so well. "We're home," she echoes, kissing him briefly.

Every morning for the past several months, Emma Swan has awoken under the expectation that she'll find herself in the apartment she shared with Mary Margaret back in Storybrooke, tangled in soft sheets and nursing some kind of head injury. This morning is no different, in fact, save that her usual disappointment is replaced with a sudden, overwhelming panic when she cracks open her eyes and sees, not the thatched roof of a Tabula Rasan hut, but the high-vaulted ceiling of what she instinctively knows to be a castle.

"What--"

Her voice comes as little more than an exhale as she shoves herself out of the impossibly comfortable bed, half stumbling until she finds her footing in the center of the room. She couldn't look more out of place, dressed in nothing save the red cotton shorts and white tee she fell asleep in, bare toes curling in the plush carpet at her feet. Hair tousled and eyes wild, she turns on the spot, taking in the sight of it all, wondering why the hell this place feels familiar in spite of everything, and stopping only when her gaze lands on a pair of swords crossed over an empty fireplace.

Jaw set, Emma strides forward, pressing up onto the balls of her feet to gain enough height to free one of the swords from its scabbard, steel stinging the air with a sharp sound that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. It's heavier than she anticipates, bulkier than a gun, if easier to handle than a chainsaw, but just having something in hand eases her nerves. Staying here isn't an option, wherever here is, and while she wishes there were at least a pair of boots laying around to complete her mismatched ensemble, she heads out into the stone-floored hallway without, sword in hand and disbelieving mutterings under her breath.

Hearing voices up ahead, just around the nearest corner, she speeds up, sword lifting in anticipation of needing to defend herself, only to stop short the moment she turns when she sees just who she'd be attacking.

"What the hell is going on?"

Habitually, Charming draws Snow behind him, sword at the ready as he lifts it -- having seen only the sharp glint of steel out of the corner of his eye. One more moment to process and he realizes that the attacker in question happens to be their daughter, the rightful heir to the throne and the castle in which they're standing. He can't help the rueful knowing that Emma likely won't believe that. "Your guess is as good as mine," he admits, given that he's still doubtful that the Queen had left these lands standing after everything. "Wait. What date is it?" he asks, the question more important now that he thinks about it.

Being home is one thing, but being home in the midst of the war means they are truly and woefully unprepared. He trusts Snow to deal with Emma, sheathing his sword as he begins a stubborn campaign to find some measure of the date.

She glances around Charming's shoulder with confusion that blossoms quickly into surprise and delight at seeing Emma there, looking as confused as the both of them feel at having been brought back home so unexpectedly. Her own sword she lowers, assuaged against any looming threat for the moment, and crosses the stone floor towards her, her smile still warm.

"We're home, Emma," she replies. "This is where everyone came from before Regina - the Queen - before her curse sent us all to Storybrooke - save for one person. You."

Anne woke alone, which was not unusual, and so completely comfortable that she for a long while did not want to get up at all. But it was that very comfort that began to worry her, for it was not her bed that she was so comfortable in and that fact made itself quickly known. She was on her feet a moment later, looking at the grand floors and ceiling and out the window into a land that she had never seen before.

"Oh, it's wonderful!" she said, but that was her only moment of delight before there was a loud banging outside the door to her erstwhile bedroom.

She looked around the room, quick and frantic, and to her relief—and also dismay—saw Matthew tugging on the heavy curtains to see out the other window.

"Hide!" she hissed at him, and prayed that he listen at once.

Moments later the door opened under the force and a half dozen men burst into the room.

"You are to come with us at once!" the first of them said, sword in his hand and seizing her arm, taking her away in her bedclothes.

"I haven't done anything!" she said, pitching her voice as loudly as she dared. "Oh, I haven't meant to trespass, if that is my offense!"

Please, Matthew, please just this once have listened to me.

She didn't dare look in his direction.

"You're to be brought before the queen," he said, and said no more about it as they dragged her out of the room and into the corridor, not making any secret about it as they did.

Charming doesn't find record of the date, but what he does discover during his search is the cacophony of distressed noise through the chambers of their home. Clad in nothing but his bedclothes, he heads for the noise, determined enough to begin to run. "Hey!" he shouts at the guards in their unmistakable finery of the queen. "You have no jurisdiction in this place."

"Take it up with the Queen," one of the guards' suggested and Charming's eyes widened when he saw who it was they had in their grasp.

"Anne," he said. "Let her go!" he demands, even as he stands aware of the odds against him. Maybe if he had a bow in hand, but a sword can only do so much damage and he is weak from not having practiced in recent days. Still, he refuses to let her go without a fight, charging with sword at the ready.

Two stay to defend their ground, but the rest continue onwards and fight as Charming might, the cowardice of running makes this an incredible uneven fight. Two bodies crumple to the ground at the end of his sword, but by that time, Anne and her kidnappers must be far gone, by then. He sighs and descends to a knee, wracked with the grief of defeat.

And on this level, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the slightest of movements. Charming quickly sheaths his blade and scrambles to the bedroom, on his stomach as he reaches both hands out to him. "Matthew? Do you remember me? I work with your mother with the sheep. Would you like to come out, now that it's safe?" It's a relative term, but he wants to get everyone dressed and after the Queen. It seems they cannot escape her, no matter where they go.

Matthew doesn't crawl out from beneath the bed, he bursts out as soon as even this tenuous permission is given.

"Mum!" he says, and he's already charging towards the door at determined and increasing speed. If he doesn't have anything in his hands to throw right now, well, he'll just find something on the way.

"Hold on," Charming insists, worried about the situation they're walking into. He chases after Matthew with long strides, wrapping his arms around him as firmly as he can without putting too much pressure on him. "Matthew, it's me. Remember me? We're going to find your mother, but you have to help me. We need a plan," he says, looking back the way he'd come. "Some other friends are mine are here, we'll go to them and make that our base of operations."

"I have a plan," says Matthew, all but striking out for the door again despite Charming's grip on him. It didn't seem all that complicated to him. "Plan's to find Mum. And eat breakfast!"

"How about breakfast before finding," he suggests, wrapping his arm around the young boy in an effort to keep him somewhat close at hand. "I promise that I won't rest until I help you to find her. Matthew, I promise that," Charming swears, bringing the boy along with him. By the time he makes it back to Snow and Emma, he's got terse apology writ in the tension around his eyes.

"The Queen took his mother," he says firmly. "And Matthew would like some breakfast. I'd like to find that for him before we hunt that woman down."

Her worst fears are confirmed when Charming returns to them with the boy, looking more determined than before. The Queen is here, and what's even worse is that one of their friends has suffered as a result. She opens her mouth to speak, closes it, and then realizes that anger isn't how she wants to approach the situation. Not anymore.

"You poor thing," she murmurs, bending down low to greet Matthew with a smile. "Of course we'll get you something to eat." Her eyes find Charming's above them, and a frown briefly sets in.

There are plans to be made, things to do, weapons to find, but in this moment, all that Charming finds occupies his mind is his daughter -- their daughter. The Queen's dark heart at the fringes of his mind, he turns to Emma and keeps his distance, but makes the effort to pitch his voice lower. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry you had to come here, with us, into this mess."

Everything's moving too quickly for Emma to process it, the snippets of explanation she's managed to gather in the past few minutes spinning in her head, that they think this is home instead of just a particularly vivid dream. When David returns with a little boy in tow (younger than Henry, though the comparison's already there, stuck in her head so she can't shake the thought), it's all she can do not to stare at the pair of them, her gaze eventually turning solely on David.

"You didn't bring me here," she says, sure of that much, if nothing else, and God only knows she has to stick with what's certain as to not lose her mind.

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