James Gamwell was being haunted. Not literally, of course. He wasn't an idiot, ghosts didn't exist. But there was a face that seemed to follow him. He was having dreams (not that sort), and a blonde head in a crowd had the ability to make him stop short.

Why, he wasn't quite sure.

He wasn't much for socialising. He'd work his shifts at the bar, do a bit of extra less-than-legal things on the side, and come home to an empty home that suited him to the ground. James wasn't sure he even knew any blonde women well enough to be thinking of them. The dreams and images had started right about when that Swan woman came to town, but he was sure it wasn't her that he saw.

So he started sketching. Each day he'd remember a little more of the face. Blue eyes that he somehow knew would crinkle when she smiled, although she rarely was when he thought of her. Her features were sharp, with high cheekbones. Thick lips he could almost remember kissing, but the memory came short. Golden hair that was high on her head in a tight bun, but he could just about feel his fingers running through the soft locks.

James added a crown, and elegant jewellery. He didn't know why, but they had demanded to be included once he'd begun. Once or twice in his dreams he'd seen her in a pink dress, but that looked nothing like the woman he was drawing on paper. He thought again that maybe he was being haunted, and she was from medieval times, but that didn't feel right. James didn't remember going to a renaissance fair, but maybe that's what it was. He could have just been drunk.

It didn't take long to finish it. It had almost crafted itself onto the paper. He'd never remembered being very artistic, but it had felt quite natural to put pencil to paper. Seeing it like this, complete, made a sick feeling fill his gut. So he shoved it in a drawer, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and drank deeply. He needed that face gone, that weird sensation in his chest to disappear, that memory of a dream to disappear.

The next day, after only a few hours at work in the bar, Will Scarlet came home. If he thought his brain was busy yesterday, that was nothing on the two lives crammed in there now. James Gamwell. Will Scarlet. He was both of them, somehow.

And that woman, she had a name. Anastasia. A swig of whiskey and he was rifling through drawers to find it again. It didn't take long before he had it pinned to the wall, right in the spot he could feel it needed to go. Will didn't need to pull back the wall to know that's where it had ended up the past twenty-eight years. He took another swig straight from the bottle, the burn of the liquor barely registering.

There was shouts and screams in the street below him, reuniting families and an immense witch hunt for the woman who caused it all, but he didn't care for any of that. There was no one for him to find in that crowd, and he couldn't care less right now to hunt down the Evil Queen.

So he played darts.