Fic: What Might Have Been Lost
Title: What Might Have Been Lost
Author: kathrynthegr8
Fandom: Once Upon A Time
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Sheriff/Mary Margaret; The Huntsman/Snow White (I know, wtf is wrong with me?)
Warnings: Angst.
Word count: 2,352
Disclaimer: Once Upon A Time and it's characters belong to ABC. Title taken from Bon Iver's The Wolves (Act I & II).
A/N: Inspired by the sneak-peek video we were given for The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. This was written entirely based on speculation for next week's episode and the original story of Snow White. This is my first fic for this fandom (and I think the first one ever for this pairing), so reviews would be greatly appreciated!
The plan was simple: he was supposed to lead her into the woods take her heart. She wasn’t supposed to make off with his.
--
He doesn’t see her often. The most he usually gets are glimpses of her here and there, walking from the elementary school to the hospital, or at the diner nursing something topped with a dollop of whipped cream. Occasionally he’ll run into her when he’s off-duty, grocery shopping or walking the dogs from the animal shelter or something or another, and she’ll smile politely and make small-talk with him for a handful of minutes, but really, that’s the most interaction they’ve ever had.
So it makes no sense that sometimes he feels like he knows her. It’s a small, niggling feeling that creeps up on him sometimes when he’s not paying attention, and all at once he’ll be thinking of her dimples or the slant of her eyebrows or the tiny beauty mark on her collarbone (has he ever even seen her collarbone?) and it’s like he’s had these images in his brain forever even though he’s never even noticed these things before. It makes no sense.
She’s never told him about her family or her favorite books or even how she takes her cocoa, but somehow... somehow he feels like if he were to make a guess on any of those things, it’d be right. Like they were all things he used to know but then forgot. Instinctive knowledge.
It’s ridiculous, of course. They’re hardly even acquaintances, even in a town as small as Storybrooke. They’ve never had a reason to get to know each other, and their brief conversations about the weather would not give him any real insight to her life.
He blames Henry, with all of his talk of curses and past lives and how everyone and everything is connected to a book with a missing ending. Their town may be strange, but it’s not ‘fairytale curse’ strange. Clock towers break. Crickets die. Old mines cave in. There are reasonable explanations for everything (everything except this feeling).
No, it’s all just coincidence. An unexplained sense of deja vu. They’re not friends. He doesn’t know her. She’s just a school teacher he sometimes sees around town, and it’s easier to compartmentalize that strange, confusing sense of knowing when Emma’s side-eyeing him and pretending she’s not or when Regina’s nails are gouging little half-moons into his bare back.
The weeks stretch on and he thinks he forgets about it (but sometimes... God, sometimes he dreams of that beauty mark peeking out from behind the collar of a white dress, and he always, always wakes up feeling lost).
--
She was unarmed when they’d started the hike, he’d made sure of it. Slight of frame and so much smaller than him, she’s like a porcelain doll gliding across the forest floor in those expensive, soft-soled slippers. Delicate. The word had come to mind when she’d pinched the folds of her skirts and lifted a pale, dainty ankle over a branch that had fallen across the trail. It should be child’s play to overpower her, to hold her down and cut open that perfect white skin of hers.
He’s been her shadow for months now at the Queen’s request, assumed the role of personal guard so as not to raise the girl’s suspicions. He’s followed her to every lesson, every ball, every banquet, stood guard outside of her room at night. They’ve hardly spoken but he’s memorized the rhythm of her footsteps, learned her habits, watched her sleep. He knows exactly how she’ll move when he draws his knife, even knows the expression she’ll wear (he likes to think this doesn’t bother him). She’s not fast enough to outrun him, not clever enough to outsmart him.
There’s no way he can fail.
He leads her deep into the woods where the foliage is dense and wild, the shimmery fabric of her summer cloak snagging on the weeds while branches whip at his heavily armored shoulders. It will be difficult to find the way back. If she thinks it strange to be heading so far away from the castle, she doesn’t mention it, remaining silent and obedient as she keeps pace alongside him, a small, pleasant smile curling across her pretty face. She trusts him wholeheartedly because he’s never given her a reason not to (he looks at her and for some reason the weight of his armor seems suddenly unbearable, shoulders and back aching from the strain).
In a few minutes he’ll stop. They’ve long since left the beaten trail, far enough away that no one will think to look for them, no one will hear her scream.
He catches her eye again and her smile grows, crinkling the skin around those large, impossibly green eyes.
His back throbs, his breastplate suddenly gaining three pounds. Beside him, Snow White begins to hum a light, lilting melody that echoes off the trees like a round.
In a few minutes he’ll stop.
--
Aside from being the one person besides Emma to find themselves on Regina’s bad side, Mary Margaret is quite possibly one of the least intriguing people in town. She’s kind, quiet, completely genuine, but just not interesting. He doesn’t even think he’s ever heard anyone gossip about her, she’s so below their notice.
It’s not that people don’t like her. He’s pretty sure no one is immune to her sweet nature (excluding Regina, for whatever reason). It’s just that she’s so easily overlooked with her knee-length skirts and wholesome cardigans and schoolmarm haircut. By appearance, she seems like the sort of person who’d rather spend most of their time curled up alone with a book or painting birdhouses or knitting scarves for coma patients than being out with other people.
No one would guess that she’d be capable of fighting tooth and nail to bring a man back to life.
But somehow, he wasn’t even the least bit surprised to see that sudden ferocity in her features as she fought with John Doe’s waterlogged lungs, her whole body jerking with the effort of chest compressions. The sharp, almost savage determination in her green eyes still unsettles him, because he knew it was there before he’d ever seen it. Somehow, in spite of her mousiness and her shapeless grandma sweaters and the inherent softness to her nature, he’d sensed something hard and strong there beneath it all. Sensed she could be more (it’s that feeling, that horrible niggling feeling that tells him this isn’t the first time he’s been impressed by her).
It’s that unexpectedly expected strength she’d shown that keeps him thinking about her long after John Doe becomes David Nolan, brings the sound of her voice into his subconscious until he swears he can hear her humming even when she’s not around. He closes his eyes at night and tries to picture the curls of Emma’s blonde hair, the curve of Regina’s red lips, but all he can see is that visceral fire in her green eyes as she pumped air into a man’s lungs with her mouth and bare hands.
She's not even his type and he might not understand why he can’t stop thinking about her, but somehow he remembers feeling this way before, like he’ll never be able to understand how anyone could not be completely in awe of her.
--
The woods are dead silent when he unsheathes the dagger from his belt. The scrape of steel against the scabbard is near deafening in the quiet, and when he looks up to meet her eye he’s long since missed the dawning realization there.
She knows why they’re here now.
Now comes the part where she’s supposed to cower, to cry, to beg him for her life. Now comes the part where she’ll try to escape, break for the edge of the small clearing, those dainty ankles in danger of snapping as she plows aimlessly through the underbrush. After all, that’s what princesses do when their lives are threatened. They whimper, they weep, they flee.
Snow White does none of these things.
Her expression betrays no fear, only the smallest hint of disappointment as she regards him coolly, green eyes bright with an inner strength he’d never seen from her before. She doesn’t make a single move to rise from the log she’s sitting on, her silence like a challenge, daring him to approach. That moss-covered log might as well be a judge’s bench, her simple summer gown a set of robes-- he is on trial under her gaze, and he feels guiltier now than he ever has in all of his years as a mercenary.
It is now that he finally understands why the Queen is so fearful of this unassuming young girl-- reclined as she is and wearing the fiercest expression he’s ever seen, she practically exudes power (if she commanded him to drop his knife, he might actually do it). In this moment, she is by far the most beautiful woman in the whole world.
He has greatly underestimated her.
How could he have missed the sharpness beneath that pretty face, the strength behind that facade of fragility? She could fell whole kingdoms with that look in her eye alone, to say nothing of the men on the thrones. He had watched her so closely, fallen for the sweetness in her smile and the gentleness of her presence. He’d become so enraptured with the details of her that he’d missed the greater picture.
The Queen’s orders are ringing in his ears. Cut out her heart. He brought her here to cut out her heart.
Almost of its own volition, his body moves to take a step forward. His boots crunch noisily through the dry grass and his hand is sweating on the handle of his blade. Another step. Her expression never changes, and despite how hard he looks he cannot find an inch of the girl he’d been following for months. All that’s left is this hauntingly beautiful empress and her green fire gaze, fearless in the face of his brutish strength.
Another step. Her skirts brush against his knees and he can smell the apple she’d eaten when they’d first stopped. The hand holding the dagger trembles imperceptibly. He’s going to kill her.
There’s a long, suffocating moment where he can simply do nothing except stand before her, dagger slightly raised as he tries to fight the paralyzing effects of her eyes. He doesn’t want to do this. He’s not even sure if he can anymore. But the Queen’s voice is harsh in his ears and not even the princess’ beauty can drown it out. His hand tightens on the blade and he lifts it another inch. He can do this. He will do this (take her heart, it’d be so easy... just a quick jab with the knife and those fiery green eyes will dim and things will go back to the way they were, before his own heart stopped obeying him). He’s going to kill her.
And then.
Snow White smiles at him, small and sad and full of sympathy. “You’re not going to kill me.”
Her words cut through the silence so abruptly that he flinches as if physically struck. He raises dagger another inch on instinct, and the sharp tip of it hovers just over her collarbone, right above that tiny beauty mark.
“You can’t know that,” he grinds out desperately in a voice that is threadier than his voice. He shuts his eyes tight and tries not to think about what he’s about to do.
“I know you.” Her voice is soft and something inside him fights to uncoil, begs him for release. He can almost feel her smile like a burn across his skin. “I’ve been watching you these past few months. You’re a good man, huntsman, and you’re not going to kill me.”
He jerks the dagger above his head, ready to plunge it into the flawless expanse of skin above her breast. He has to do this, he'd be betraying his Queen, betraying his country if he doesn't. He has to destroy her strength and her beauty because despite what she says, she doesn't know him (after all, how could it be that all this time he's been watching her, he's never noticed her watching him back?), and his Queen has commanded him to bring Snow White's heart back to the castle in a box. He has to do this.
Before he can think otherwise, he brings the blade down with all of his might.
There’s a scream echoing across the clearing, the sort of pain-filled sound that comes ripped right from a person’s chest, hoarse and tortured and terrified. It takes him far too long to realize it’s him, he’s screaming his throat raw and he’s gripping the dagger so tightly that he fears he may break something in his hand.
The dagger. The dagger that’s buried hilt-deep into the moss-covered log.
His legs give out from under him. He screams until his lungs no longer draw in air and then he’s sobbing, wheezing wet apologies against the softness of her skirts.
“Go,” he tells her, eyes screwed shut because he cannot bear to see what expression she might be wearing. “Leave this place. Run far away, somewhere the Queen will never find you. Please, you must go.”
She allows him a moment to swipe at his wet eyes before drawing him up to his knees and cradling his face in her small, small hands. This is the first time in all the months they've known each other that he's felt her touch, her skin against his, and the thrill that races down his spine is tempered by the sour feeling in his stomach because he almost... There are no words he can think of to possibly convey how sorry he is, for everything-- his betrayal, his weakness, his cruel intentions-- all he wants to do is kneel beside her and pray for her forgiveness (he doesn’t deserve it. He held that knife to her chest and thought about the heart beating beneath it and, Christ, how could he do that to her?).
When she presses her lips gently to his sweat-covered brow, he cannot tell if she’s granting him penance or absolution.
He doesn’t open his eyes again until he feels her move away, watching her gather up her skirts in her hand and offer him one last sad, sympathetic glance over her shoulder before she takes off for the far end of the clearing. He cannot move to stand, every muscle gone rubbery and weak (he'd like to follow, to take her hand and show her the safest way through the woods, to build a new life with her far away from their fractured kingdom, but someone must return to the Queen. He still owes her a heart). He simply watches as she-- this strong, capable woman disguised as a beautiful princess-- disappears completely into the wilderness without a trace of apprehension or a backwards glance.
The last he ever sees of her is her white cloak quickly fading into the darkness of the forest. It is this moment he remembers most.
--
She kisses David with all of the desperate affection of a long lost lover, tears in her eyes and joy radiating from her so bright it almost blinds him, and it’s in that small, sweet, perfect moment that he realizes he’s been chasing after something he was never meant to catch.
He closes his eyes and sees the white swatch of a dress swallowed up by a line trees.
He lets her go.
Reviews are appreciated!
Author: kathrynthegr8
Fandom: Once Upon A Time
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Sheriff/Mary Margaret; The Huntsman/Snow White (I know, wtf is wrong with me?)
Warnings: Angst.
Word count: 2,352
Disclaimer: Once Upon A Time and it's characters belong to ABC. Title taken from Bon Iver's The Wolves (Act I & II).
A/N: Inspired by the sneak-peek video we were given for The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. This was written entirely based on speculation for next week's episode and the original story of Snow White. This is my first fic for this fandom (and I think the first one ever for this pairing), so reviews would be greatly appreciated!
The plan was simple: he was supposed to lead her into the woods take her heart. She wasn’t supposed to make off with his.
--
He doesn’t see her often. The most he usually gets are glimpses of her here and there, walking from the elementary school to the hospital, or at the diner nursing something topped with a dollop of whipped cream. Occasionally he’ll run into her when he’s off-duty, grocery shopping or walking the dogs from the animal shelter or something or another, and she’ll smile politely and make small-talk with him for a handful of minutes, but really, that’s the most interaction they’ve ever had.
So it makes no sense that sometimes he feels like he knows her. It’s a small, niggling feeling that creeps up on him sometimes when he’s not paying attention, and all at once he’ll be thinking of her dimples or the slant of her eyebrows or the tiny beauty mark on her collarbone (has he ever even seen her collarbone?) and it’s like he’s had these images in his brain forever even though he’s never even noticed these things before. It makes no sense.
She’s never told him about her family or her favorite books or even how she takes her cocoa, but somehow... somehow he feels like if he were to make a guess on any of those things, it’d be right. Like they were all things he used to know but then forgot. Instinctive knowledge.
It’s ridiculous, of course. They’re hardly even acquaintances, even in a town as small as Storybrooke. They’ve never had a reason to get to know each other, and their brief conversations about the weather would not give him any real insight to her life.
He blames Henry, with all of his talk of curses and past lives and how everyone and everything is connected to a book with a missing ending. Their town may be strange, but it’s not ‘fairytale curse’ strange. Clock towers break. Crickets die. Old mines cave in. There are reasonable explanations for everything (everything except this feeling).
No, it’s all just coincidence. An unexplained sense of deja vu. They’re not friends. He doesn’t know her. She’s just a school teacher he sometimes sees around town, and it’s easier to compartmentalize that strange, confusing sense of knowing when Emma’s side-eyeing him and pretending she’s not or when Regina’s nails are gouging little half-moons into his bare back.
The weeks stretch on and he thinks he forgets about it (but sometimes... God, sometimes he dreams of that beauty mark peeking out from behind the collar of a white dress, and he always, always wakes up feeling lost).
--
She was unarmed when they’d started the hike, he’d made sure of it. Slight of frame and so much smaller than him, she’s like a porcelain doll gliding across the forest floor in those expensive, soft-soled slippers. Delicate. The word had come to mind when she’d pinched the folds of her skirts and lifted a pale, dainty ankle over a branch that had fallen across the trail. It should be child’s play to overpower her, to hold her down and cut open that perfect white skin of hers.
He’s been her shadow for months now at the Queen’s request, assumed the role of personal guard so as not to raise the girl’s suspicions. He’s followed her to every lesson, every ball, every banquet, stood guard outside of her room at night. They’ve hardly spoken but he’s memorized the rhythm of her footsteps, learned her habits, watched her sleep. He knows exactly how she’ll move when he draws his knife, even knows the expression she’ll wear (he likes to think this doesn’t bother him). She’s not fast enough to outrun him, not clever enough to outsmart him.
There’s no way he can fail.
He leads her deep into the woods where the foliage is dense and wild, the shimmery fabric of her summer cloak snagging on the weeds while branches whip at his heavily armored shoulders. It will be difficult to find the way back. If she thinks it strange to be heading so far away from the castle, she doesn’t mention it, remaining silent and obedient as she keeps pace alongside him, a small, pleasant smile curling across her pretty face. She trusts him wholeheartedly because he’s never given her a reason not to (he looks at her and for some reason the weight of his armor seems suddenly unbearable, shoulders and back aching from the strain).
In a few minutes he’ll stop. They’ve long since left the beaten trail, far enough away that no one will think to look for them, no one will hear her scream.
He catches her eye again and her smile grows, crinkling the skin around those large, impossibly green eyes.
His back throbs, his breastplate suddenly gaining three pounds. Beside him, Snow White begins to hum a light, lilting melody that echoes off the trees like a round.
In a few minutes he’ll stop.
--
Aside from being the one person besides Emma to find themselves on Regina’s bad side, Mary Margaret is quite possibly one of the least intriguing people in town. She’s kind, quiet, completely genuine, but just not interesting. He doesn’t even think he’s ever heard anyone gossip about her, she’s so below their notice.
It’s not that people don’t like her. He’s pretty sure no one is immune to her sweet nature (excluding Regina, for whatever reason). It’s just that she’s so easily overlooked with her knee-length skirts and wholesome cardigans and schoolmarm haircut. By appearance, she seems like the sort of person who’d rather spend most of their time curled up alone with a book or painting birdhouses or knitting scarves for coma patients than being out with other people.
No one would guess that she’d be capable of fighting tooth and nail to bring a man back to life.
But somehow, he wasn’t even the least bit surprised to see that sudden ferocity in her features as she fought with John Doe’s waterlogged lungs, her whole body jerking with the effort of chest compressions. The sharp, almost savage determination in her green eyes still unsettles him, because he knew it was there before he’d ever seen it. Somehow, in spite of her mousiness and her shapeless grandma sweaters and the inherent softness to her nature, he’d sensed something hard and strong there beneath it all. Sensed she could be more (it’s that feeling, that horrible niggling feeling that tells him this isn’t the first time he’s been impressed by her).
It’s that unexpectedly expected strength she’d shown that keeps him thinking about her long after John Doe becomes David Nolan, brings the sound of her voice into his subconscious until he swears he can hear her humming even when she’s not around. He closes his eyes at night and tries to picture the curls of Emma’s blonde hair, the curve of Regina’s red lips, but all he can see is that visceral fire in her green eyes as she pumped air into a man’s lungs with her mouth and bare hands.
She's not even his type and he might not understand why he can’t stop thinking about her, but somehow he remembers feeling this way before, like he’ll never be able to understand how anyone could not be completely in awe of her.
--
The woods are dead silent when he unsheathes the dagger from his belt. The scrape of steel against the scabbard is near deafening in the quiet, and when he looks up to meet her eye he’s long since missed the dawning realization there.
She knows why they’re here now.
Now comes the part where she’s supposed to cower, to cry, to beg him for her life. Now comes the part where she’ll try to escape, break for the edge of the small clearing, those dainty ankles in danger of snapping as she plows aimlessly through the underbrush. After all, that’s what princesses do when their lives are threatened. They whimper, they weep, they flee.
Snow White does none of these things.
Her expression betrays no fear, only the smallest hint of disappointment as she regards him coolly, green eyes bright with an inner strength he’d never seen from her before. She doesn’t make a single move to rise from the log she’s sitting on, her silence like a challenge, daring him to approach. That moss-covered log might as well be a judge’s bench, her simple summer gown a set of robes-- he is on trial under her gaze, and he feels guiltier now than he ever has in all of his years as a mercenary.
It is now that he finally understands why the Queen is so fearful of this unassuming young girl-- reclined as she is and wearing the fiercest expression he’s ever seen, she practically exudes power (if she commanded him to drop his knife, he might actually do it). In this moment, she is by far the most beautiful woman in the whole world.
He has greatly underestimated her.
How could he have missed the sharpness beneath that pretty face, the strength behind that facade of fragility? She could fell whole kingdoms with that look in her eye alone, to say nothing of the men on the thrones. He had watched her so closely, fallen for the sweetness in her smile and the gentleness of her presence. He’d become so enraptured with the details of her that he’d missed the greater picture.
The Queen’s orders are ringing in his ears. Cut out her heart. He brought her here to cut out her heart.
Almost of its own volition, his body moves to take a step forward. His boots crunch noisily through the dry grass and his hand is sweating on the handle of his blade. Another step. Her expression never changes, and despite how hard he looks he cannot find an inch of the girl he’d been following for months. All that’s left is this hauntingly beautiful empress and her green fire gaze, fearless in the face of his brutish strength.
Another step. Her skirts brush against his knees and he can smell the apple she’d eaten when they’d first stopped. The hand holding the dagger trembles imperceptibly. He’s going to kill her.
There’s a long, suffocating moment where he can simply do nothing except stand before her, dagger slightly raised as he tries to fight the paralyzing effects of her eyes. He doesn’t want to do this. He’s not even sure if he can anymore. But the Queen’s voice is harsh in his ears and not even the princess’ beauty can drown it out. His hand tightens on the blade and he lifts it another inch. He can do this. He will do this (take her heart, it’d be so easy... just a quick jab with the knife and those fiery green eyes will dim and things will go back to the way they were, before his own heart stopped obeying him). He’s going to kill her.
And then.
Snow White smiles at him, small and sad and full of sympathy. “You’re not going to kill me.”
Her words cut through the silence so abruptly that he flinches as if physically struck. He raises dagger another inch on instinct, and the sharp tip of it hovers just over her collarbone, right above that tiny beauty mark.
“You can’t know that,” he grinds out desperately in a voice that is threadier than his voice. He shuts his eyes tight and tries not to think about what he’s about to do.
“I know you.” Her voice is soft and something inside him fights to uncoil, begs him for release. He can almost feel her smile like a burn across his skin. “I’ve been watching you these past few months. You’re a good man, huntsman, and you’re not going to kill me.”
He jerks the dagger above his head, ready to plunge it into the flawless expanse of skin above her breast. He has to do this, he'd be betraying his Queen, betraying his country if he doesn't. He has to destroy her strength and her beauty because despite what she says, she doesn't know him (after all, how could it be that all this time he's been watching her, he's never noticed her watching him back?), and his Queen has commanded him to bring Snow White's heart back to the castle in a box. He has to do this.
Before he can think otherwise, he brings the blade down with all of his might.
There’s a scream echoing across the clearing, the sort of pain-filled sound that comes ripped right from a person’s chest, hoarse and tortured and terrified. It takes him far too long to realize it’s him, he’s screaming his throat raw and he’s gripping the dagger so tightly that he fears he may break something in his hand.
The dagger. The dagger that’s buried hilt-deep into the moss-covered log.
His legs give out from under him. He screams until his lungs no longer draw in air and then he’s sobbing, wheezing wet apologies against the softness of her skirts.
“Go,” he tells her, eyes screwed shut because he cannot bear to see what expression she might be wearing. “Leave this place. Run far away, somewhere the Queen will never find you. Please, you must go.”
She allows him a moment to swipe at his wet eyes before drawing him up to his knees and cradling his face in her small, small hands. This is the first time in all the months they've known each other that he's felt her touch, her skin against his, and the thrill that races down his spine is tempered by the sour feeling in his stomach because he almost... There are no words he can think of to possibly convey how sorry he is, for everything-- his betrayal, his weakness, his cruel intentions-- all he wants to do is kneel beside her and pray for her forgiveness (he doesn’t deserve it. He held that knife to her chest and thought about the heart beating beneath it and, Christ, how could he do that to her?).
When she presses her lips gently to his sweat-covered brow, he cannot tell if she’s granting him penance or absolution.
He doesn’t open his eyes again until he feels her move away, watching her gather up her skirts in her hand and offer him one last sad, sympathetic glance over her shoulder before she takes off for the far end of the clearing. He cannot move to stand, every muscle gone rubbery and weak (he'd like to follow, to take her hand and show her the safest way through the woods, to build a new life with her far away from their fractured kingdom, but someone must return to the Queen. He still owes her a heart). He simply watches as she-- this strong, capable woman disguised as a beautiful princess-- disappears completely into the wilderness without a trace of apprehension or a backwards glance.
The last he ever sees of her is her white cloak quickly fading into the darkness of the forest. It is this moment he remembers most.
--
She kisses David with all of the desperate affection of a long lost lover, tears in her eyes and joy radiating from her so bright it almost blinds him, and it’s in that small, sweet, perfect moment that he realizes he’s been chasing after something he was never meant to catch.
He closes his eyes and sees the white swatch of a dress swallowed up by a line trees.
He lets her go.
Reviews are appreciated!