Ahoy, shippers and sailors alike!

I decided to test out this plot bunny that I've had in mind ever since my suspicions about Bae/Neal were aroused in "Tallahassee" and then confirmed in "Manhattan." Personally, I love Neal/Emma and wish there was a bit more representation of them in the fandom. Although many fans of Hook/Emma were overjoyed with the recent kiss (which, while hot, was a "twist" we ALL saw coming), that pairing simply isn't my cup of tea. Love the characters, yet I felt like their romantic development in the show was more fan appeasing than plot progressing. Just my opinion; to each his or her own.

Anyway, enough of my musing; on to the story! Basically, this is an AU that takes place in the Enchanted Forest, operating under the premise of thus: Baelfire never fell through the portal and never went to a land without magic.

Join me on an adventure into a less ogre-ridden Enchanted Forest, where just because the savior never needed to break the curse doesn't mean she never has to rescue her kingdom from certain peril every once in a while. Where nothing is more powerful than villainous snark — except for an M.L.T. = mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, when the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe — I mean, twue wuv!

/end shameless Princess Bride reference.

Flashbacks are in Italics.

Present day events are not.

Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon a Time.

On the day the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming was born, there was much reason to rejoice. Her parents were madly in love, adored by their subjects, surrounded by loyal friends, and all throughout the kingdom, there was peace. And the birth of a strong, healthy little girl brought only more happiness to her parents and their people.

Unfortunately, in times of such joy, there were always those who sought to destroy it.

Such a person came in the night. With purpose, she crept through the castle corridors, slaying only the guards she had to, though each kill was silent and precise. Like a phantom, she slipped into the nursery adjoining the royal chambers, where the infant princess lay, even more precious in slumber. The visitor stroked a finger down her soft, pudgy cheek — a deceptive gesture of affection. Then, in a low and lulling voice, she began to speak.

What awoke the king that night could have been called instinct, or perhaps pure dumb luck. For whatever reason, Charming felt compelled to check on the princess, whose adorable sleeping pose brought a smile to his face. Upon seeing an ominous figure standing beside his daughter's cradle, muttering words of sorcery, the smile melted into an expression of pure horror. Shouting, the prince charged at the visitor, who fled to far side of the room. Awoken by the commotion, Snow entered the room, dagger in hand. Spotting the stranger, she didn't even think — she aimed her weapon and threw, hitting the target dead on.

However, all it caught was the fabric of an empty cloak. The couple thought the visitor had vanished, until they heard a soft click. With a swish of her hand, the masked Queen of Hearts opened the window and stood atop its sill and leapt into the midnight sky, though not before leaving them a nasty revelation

In vain, they tried to give chase. But it was too late. At the tender age of twenty eight days, Princess Emma had been cursed. Her only hope of salvation was a whispered ultimatum: "If not wed by the time the clock strikes her eighteenth year, may this girl be cursed by darkness and despair forevermore."

And with the image of a desolate, ash-ridden sky overshadowing their beloved kingdom etched into their minds, the king and queen were far from happy anymore. The queen held her daughter and wept, but not even the tears of an angry mother could quell the vision of a desecrated castle, reduced to debris and rubble, while fire spread across the courtyard where the young princess would one day play to her heart's content. . .

Emma awoke with a start, heart hammering against her chest, the taste of soot heavy on her tongue.

She took a few fortifying breaths, assuring herself that it had been just a nightmare, nothing more, and certainly nothing new. Dreams of shadows and destruction had plagued her sleep for as long as she could remember. Though they had been visiting more frequently as of late, Emma chalked it up to an anxiety. After all, her eighteenth birthday drew closer and closer with each passing day. For most, the day marked an important coming-of-age, and signaled the transition into independence and adulthood.

For Princess Emma, it meant marriage.

She didn't have time to brood on her impending betrothal, however, for no sooner than the thought entered her mind did the queen burst into her room, pleasant in a way only Snow White could manage at such an early hour.

"What a beautiful morning!" declared her mother, throwing opening the windows, allowing the bright sunlight to filter in. Her daughter hissed, feeling the sudden urge to bury her head beneath the pillows.

"Magnificent," Emma agreed sarcastically. "Aren't only birds supposed to be awake this early?"

On queue, a bluebird fluttered onto the windowsill, and when beckoned, came to rest upon Snow White's hand. Emma stared at the display incredulously, wondering how this was her life. Seeing her daughter's look, Snow sighed, and sent the bird on its merry way.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to be a little more chipper," she pointed out.

"Then you would be deprived of my early morning snark," countered Emma.

"I get plenty of that from your Uncle Grumpy already," reminded Snow, taking a seat beside her daughter. "And if you keep making that face, you're going to end up with frown lines that rival his. Cheer up, Emma. Today is your masquerade ball!"

"Hence the face," the princess mumbled, grimacing. Now she was starting to sound like Uncle Grumpy, too. Switching tactics, she said, "You know, I wouldn't have to make the face if you canceled the party. Sure, it's short notice, but you're the queen, what can they do?"

Just like that, her mother's beautiful face fell, and an unusual tiredness entered her normally vibrant expression.

"Sweetheart, I understand your lack of enthusiasm," Snow said softly, sighing. "I know you think all this is a waste of time, but sadly, time is a luxury we don't have. If we don't find you a suitable husband before your eighteenth birthday, the curse—" she broke off, too upset to continue. Unable to see her mother in such a state, Emma glanced down. She was dismayed to note that her own fists were trembling.

Gathering herself, Snow went on, "But we aren't going to let that happen. We will fix this, Emma, no matter what. I realize what a terrible burden this has been — I know that you've had to grow up faster than you should have, and yes, it's unfair. Remember, though, that there's always a happy ending worth striving for. All you have to do is figure out what that happy ending is."

"What does that even mean?" Emma groused.

Snow smiled that enigmatic smile that every parent used and that every child loathed with all their might. "Who knows? Maybe the answer will be at the ball. Mark my words, Emma, tonight will be magical, whether you expect it to be or not."

Emma sat in silence. There was so many things she yearned to say, yet didn't dare. Her parents only wanted what was best for her, she knew, and she hated to act ungrateful. She couldn't imagine having ever grown up without a mother or father. But this was her entire future at stake. Emma was dubious about letting one decision decide the rest of her life.

Then again, when have I ever had a choice? the princess thought bitterly.

Her fate had been sealed with a single, damning curse.

Emma was never the type to talk about her problems. She was the type to thrash, throttle and batter her problems with a sword until they went away or the exertion caused her to forget was bothering her in the first place. Whichever came first.

Being the daughter of a warrior king and queen had some perks, Emma could admit. At age seven, after spending years play dueling with her father, Emma had begged her parents for a tutor. At age nine, they relented, so the princess began to receive a proper education in swordplay. At age twelve, she surpassed her basic training instructor. At age fourteen, she slayed a griffin singlehandedly. At age eighteen, she could best any of the knights at the castle.

Not that she liked to brag.

Currently, none of these brave soldiers were willing to go near her, for fear of taking the brunt of the princess' ire. The only warrior brave enough to withstand such underhanded, brutal treatment was the head of the castle guard, a dear and loyal friend of the royal family, not to mention Emma's favorite tutor; Sir Lancelot.

"Something on your mind, Your Highness?" he asked as they sparred, avoiding a sharp a blow to his ribs.

"What makes you say that?" grunted Emma.

"Nothing," the knight panted, narrowly missing a strike to his nether regions. "Just that you're being even more violent than usual."

Emma glared, trying to make a clear hit, but it was too late. The knight's words had diverted her focus, and from her distraction Lancelot gained the upper hand. Feigning left, he ducked right and disarmed her with one, quick swipe. Emma was startled to find herself weaponless, and for a moment, considered wiping the smug smirk off her teacher's face, sword or no.

"That, and you're more likely to make mistakes when you're frustrated about something else," Lancelot stated. "Is it the ball tonight?"

"The ball, my parents, my birthday, you name it." Emma held up a hand. "And before you open your mouth, I know they mean well, I do. I know they want what's best for. But who are they to decide what's best for me anymore? I'm about to become a mature adult, damn it, and I am capable of making my own decisions!"

"I agree," Lancelot interjected, a calm stream to her raging river. "As do your parents. They are giving you as much choice as they can in this matter. It's not like they're taking it upon themselves to pick out a husband for you and arrange the marriage without your consent, right?"

"...right," said Emma grudgingly.

"Right." Lancelot nodded. "Not all parents would be so lenient, you know. King George sure as hell wasn't."

While Emma digested these words, the other knights sprang to attention, shouting greetings of, "Your Majesty!" Student and teacher turned to see Snow White hurrying towards them. Lancelot bowed in respect at her reproach, yet the queen merely laughed and told him to be less formal. When she went to address her daughter, Emma could see stars twinkling in her eyes.

"Mom, what is it?"

"I wanted it to be a surprise," Snow gushed. "Ruby, Widow Lucas and I have been working on it for ages. Come, you have to see!"

She took her daughter by the arm, and after bidding the knight goodbye, started for the royal chambers, dragging an unhappy Emma behind.

"Have fun," Lancelot chuckled. The soon-to-be mature adult responded with a rude hand gesture.

Predictably, Princess Emma's coming-of-age masquerade ball was a garish affair, with wondrous decorations lining the vast ballroom, filled with plenty of guests to gawk at the décor. Dancers swung around the room like a graceful flock of birds. The king and queen and most of the royal court were among them, discernible only by their masks. Below the resonating music, there was a steady stream of chatter, laughter and cheers to the princess' health. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely — except for the princess herself.

Emma leaned on the wall of the balcony overlooking the grounds of her castle, dressed in a gorgeous, flowing ball gown. The pale yellow dress had enchanted her at first sight, and after learning how much time her mother and friends had spent crafting it with their own hands, she was genuinely touched. Though a part of her thought it a waste, seeing as how the gown wouldn't be seeing much action tonight.

It was probably bad taste for a host to leave her own party, but she hardly gave a damn. She felt like a doll on display, a trophy to be won, when she was anything but. After the twelfth invitation to dance by a prince or lord from the kingdom of who-knows-where, Emma couldn't stand it anymore. She snuck away for some fresh air, needing to clear her head, and now she couldn't bring herself to return.

"Lovely party, isn't it?" a voice called, startling her from her reverie. Emma swung around, gown swaying behind her, and saw a man leaning casually against the balcony entrance. Emma's first question should have been Who the hell are you? But she was too busy wondering, How the hell did I not hear him coming?

"What?"

"I said, lovely party, isn't it?" the stranger repeated. "Forgive me. Small talk is the correct course of action when a beautiful lady is in view, no?"

"Unless the lady is keeping to herself, in which case, you should probably leave her be," said Emma dryly.

"Ah, my apologies. I have apparently committed an unforgivable faux paus." With an expression of penitence, he held out his wrists in surrender. "Off to the dungeons with me, then?"

His tone was just, if not more, mocking than her own. Improbably, Emma found herself fighting a grin. "No, I suppose you can be spared," she allowed.

"Well, thank you, Your Highness. That's awfully generous of you." He gave a short, somewhat sheepish bow. "You will have to excuse me. Although I do try, I'm afraid that my manners are quite unrefined when I attend events like these. I seem to lack a certain..." He searched for the correct word, eventually settling on, "Charm."

"Oh, I believe you're doing a fine job of it now," remarked Emma.

"Of what?" he inquired innocently.

"Charming me," the princess replied, smirking openly now.

Likewise, the man could no longer suppress a sly smile from crawling across his lips. "But if you've caught me in the act, I can't be doing all that well, can I?"

"Just because I'm aware of it doesn't mean it's not working. Not to say that it is," she added quickly.

He snorted, abandoning the pretense of civility. "Geez, are you always so coy, princess?"

"It is my party."

"Yet you don't seem to be enjoying yourself all that much," he observed.

"What makes you say that?"

"That look on your face."

"What is this look that everyone keeps talking about?" Emma scowled.

"Mm, it's sort of a cross between irritation and exasperation, with a dash of utter disdain on top."

"If this is your idea of wooing, your technique needs improvement," she deadpanned.

"Duly noted," the man chuckled. "Now, I do believe I hear a waltz about to begin. Care for a dance, m'lady?"

"As a rule, I don't dance with men who don't share their names," said Emma, aware that he had yet to do so.

"Can you make an exception, just this once?" he pleaded.

"No," she denied.

The stranger sighed good-naturedly. "You make a man work very hard to impress you, princess. I respect that."

Emma noticed that she was grinning again, and forced herself to stop. "What makes you think a dance will impress me?"

"I think you're already impressed," was the man's reply. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have let me pester you this long. So, whaddya say?"

"One dance," she conceded, after debating it. "If by the time it's over, I can no longer stand the sight of you, you won't bother me ever again. Deal?"

And with a small, crooked smile that Emma could not decipher, he agreed, "Deal."

They entered the ballroom as stealthily as possible, much to Emma's relief. Seamlessly, they fell into step, another pair of partners lost among a sea of dancers.

A few minutes into the waltz, Emma began, "So, are you going to introduce yourself willingly, or shall I beat it out of you?"

Her partner clucked in mock appall. "Such language for a proper lady of the court!"

"I don't know about proper, but in this kingdom, my sword prowess is matched by none," she retorted.

"Well, in that case, it looks like I don't have much of a choice," winced the man, subdued. "My name is Lord Cassidy, or Neal, if you will. There, are you pleased?"

Emma smiled. "Never."

For someone who supposedly lacked the skills for these sort of functions, Neal was keeping up with her step by step, note by note. Even with a name, much of him remained a mystery. His suit was a dark, formal gray; simple but stylish. His mask was a bit more ornate, and the color of fire; yet it didn't compare to the flame flickering within his warm brown eyes. If she gazed into them too long, she was afraid of being consumed by that heat. But like a moth drawn to the light of a candle, she kept gazing anyhow.

"Don't look now, but we are being watched by that woman over there," Neal whispered in her ear, lips accidently brushing her cheek. Emma hid the effect of the contact with a quick glance over her shoulder, which revealed the spying woman to be her mother. The princess emitted a mute groan, unbeknownst to her partner, who was squinting at the queen in dismay. "She appears to be either squealing in joy or having an acute seizure. Should we do something?"

"Yes. Ignore her completely," muttered Emma, mortified.

"As you wish," Neal shrugged, and soon after treated her to a twirl, and then another, and another.

Finally, Emma asked what she had been pondering ever since her first encounter with Neal on the balcony. "Why did you approach me earlier?"

"Why do you think?" At her no nonsense stare, he relented, "Why else? Because it's my duty to uplift the princess."

"Is that the truth?" demanded Emma, disappointed for reasons she didn't feel like acknowledging. She bit back an indignant, I thought you were different. Neal seemed to hear it, anyway. He smiled, then; not an enigmatic, infuriating smile — a kind, genuine one.

"The truth? All right," he acquiesced. Leaning in close, Neal whispered, "Because you looked as bored as I was."

And for a small, shimmering moment, they were the only two in the ballroom. Time seemed frozen. Until the music halted, the crowd applauded, and Neal pulled back, grounding her in reality once more. "Leaving so soon?" she inquired, retrieving her usual bravado.

"Sorry to see me go?" The infuriating smirk had returned.

"Hardly," snorted Emma.

"Now who's lying?" Bending, Neal leant down to lay a kiss upon her hand. To her own shock and dismay, she didn't clock him afterwards. "Farewell, princess."

With that, he slipped his hand from hers and disappeared into the crowd. She watched him fade into the background, willing her feet to follow, yet at the same time, fighting the urge to do so.

"Well, well, Emma." Emma turned and saw Aunt Red, donning a spicy dress of scarlet, smirking wolfishly. "You two made quite the scene. Who was that handsome stranger?"

"To be honest," she murmured, feeling as though she had just awoken from a very surreal dream, "I'm not sure."

When she awoke the next morning, post nightmare, it truly seemed as though the meeting with Neal, the dance, and the moment they shared had been all but a pretty dream.

After his departure, the rest of the night had passed in a dull, shapeless blur. Between searching for remnants of her mysterious dance partner and dodging her parents' questions, Emma had barely stopped to take a breath and replay their encounter in her head. If she had, perhaps she wouldn't have been so confused to hear footsteps clambering down the hallway.

"What the hell?" she muttered groggily, opening her door to find half of the castle guards loitering in the corridor. Spotting a familiar face, she exclaimed, "Lancelot!"

The knight in question obediently jogged over. "Good morning, princess. I hope we didn't disturb you."

"The hell you did. But that's not the point — what's going on?"

"There appears to have been a burglary last night, sometime during the festivities," he imparted gravely. "The royal tiara is missing."

Emma blanched. That tiara had once belonged to her grandmother, who then passed it on to her daughter, who later bestowed it upon Emma. It was one of the few heirlooms Snow White had of the dearly departed Queen Eva, and she treasured it deeply. To have it be stolen — right under their noses, no less! — rankled Emma fiercely. Who could have done it? she wondered. Everyone had been enjoying the party, far away from the second floor, except for herself and. . .

"Princess?" called Lancelot. "Emma? What's wrong?"

"I know who took it," she grit out, each word spitting with fury.

Wisely, Lancelot didn't comment. Instead, he asked, "Do you know where they are now?"

"No," she said between clenched teeth. "But I am sure as hell going to find out."

Long first chapter is long. But I hope you enjoyed. Please tell me what you think down below!