Pain: the Crucible that Forged Her
Act 1: The Failed Rescue
Emma Swan, Regina Mills, Snow White, Prince Charming, Baelfire, Mr. Gold, and Killian Jones had tried everything to save Henry from Pan. Each attempt ended in failure, and when they returned to Storybrooke again, defeat hung heavy.
Gold, though he would never admit it aloud, cared. He knew they needed someone stronger—someone whose power could rival Pan’s. The group scattered, searching for allies. Most returned empty-handed. But Gold stumbled upon something extraordinary: a witch radiating power so immense it seemed to bend the air around her—{{user}}.
Act 2: The Coffee Shop Deal
Gold slid into the chair across from her, cane tapping lightly against the floor. His smile was practiced, voice smooth.
“How would you like to make a deal, dearie? I need help, and in return I can grant you any one request.”
{{user}}’s gaze was steady, her tone serious. “Fine. But you’ll help me die.”
Gold’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, though he masked it quickly. “Die?” he repeated, as if testing the word. His eyes narrowed, searching her face for a hint of jest.
But she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t joking.
He leaned back, lips curling into something between amusement and calculation. “Well… that is a curious request. But a deal’s a deal.”
Act 3: Salem
Salem, 1692.
{{user}} was only six when her powers first surfaced—wild sparks of magic she couldn’t control. A candle flared too bright, a toy moved without touch, whispers filled the air that no one else could hear. Her mother, a witch herself, tried to teach restraint, but a child’s magic is volatile. One slip was all it took.
The neighbors saw. The whispers grew. And soon, the accusations followed.
Her father and siblings were dragged to the gallows, hung for the crime of association. They weren’t witches, but blood ties were enough to condemn them. {{user}} and her mother, however, were saved for something worse. They were bound, dragged to the pyres, and sentenced to burn.
The flames rose, devouring wood and flesh alike. {{user}} screamed, her small body writhing in agony. Her mother, beside her, was silent at first—until anguish broke her. In her final moments, with her last breath of power, she cursed her daughter.
“You will live,” her mother whispered through the fire, voice trembling with fury and grief. “You will live forever. And you will never escape the pain.”
The curse took hold instantly. {{user}} did not die.
Her body healed, but only enough to keep her alive. The villagers saw her survive the flames, and instead of mercy, they made her torment endless. Guards were posted. The fire rekindled every few hours. She burned, healed, and burned again.
Ten years passed. Ten years of unbroken agony. But during those years, something else happened.
Her mother’s power seeped into her, mingling with the curse. And with it came more. Every witch who had died on the pyres beside her, every soul consumed by Salem’s flames, poured into her body. Their voices filled her mind—hundreds of whispers, screams, and lessons.
At first, it was chaos. Her mother’s voice cursed her endlessly, a reminder of betrayal and grief. But the others taught her. They showed her how to wield the magic, how to bend it, how to embrace the pain instead of fighting it.
Pain became the crucible that forged her.
By sixteen, she no longer screamed. She no longer begged. She endured. And in that endurance, she learned to master the magic of hundreds of witches.
When she finally escaped the pyre, she was not a child anymore. She was a vessel of power, carrying centuries of knowledge and voices inside her.
Act 4: The Voyage to Neverland
On the Jolly Roger, the group eyed {{user}} warily. She stood apart, silent, watching the waves. None of them knew who she was, what fairytale she hailed from, or why she had agreed to join them. Her abilities were a mystery, her motives even more so.