Summary: Regina is a legend, a ghost story. A weeping soul haunting the North of Sherwood Forest. Legend has it she's horrible, relentless; murders without remorse, rejoicing in her victims' screams of agony. She's stuck to this earth by a magical tether, until someone relieves her of her past sins, and brings light back into her soul. For Robin of Locksley, the legendary outlaw, ghost stories don't exist. They are merely stories used to scare children into submission, and he intends to disprove that one. Though as it turns out, Regina is still very much alive.
For Brittany. Who prompted this and made me write what is now one of the works I'm most proud of. Thank you for for being an amazing friend.
A millions thanks to Maggie (my eternally fantastic beta), Jess and Bea (for telling me countless times I could do this when I wanted to stop), and to Nina (for putting her final seal of approval on this little piece). This story wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you four.
HIDE
There is a legend.
Hidden away by the tallest trees of Sherwood Forest is a woman. A ghost, lurking in the shadows. A lone, tormented soul who never found peace, resting (maybe unresting is closer to the truth) in the ruins of the Dark Castle, haunting the northernmost part of the woods, killing everyone who dares cross her path. It is said that the last thing you hear as she rips your soul away is her shrill, desperate cry. The mere sound of it is enough to rouse fear, to chase away animals and humans alike, as the echoes of your own agony ripple through the forest, your soul leaving your lifeless body behind, relieved to not have to listen to her voice any longer.
Children are warned about the North growing up, are told they need to avoid it at all costs. "Don't venture into the darkness, or you'll meet your demise," parents tell their sons and daughters, threatening to send them to the haunted forest as punishment. "If you don't conduct yourself properly, you'll be sent up the northern road," is how scolding goes, and impeccable behaviour usually follows for a few days, as children fear their parents will make good on their promises.
Legend has it death had claimed the woman's fiancé before they could walk down the aisle, and the pain and sorrow drove her mad, never abating, transforming the gentle person she was into a monster that hunts at night. The tale continues, telling stories of her tortured victims, but none is worse than her last kill. Legend says she murdered her own father on the brink of insanity before throwing herself from the highest tower, the name of her lost love a last, dying breath on her lips.
And now she's hanging by a thread, stuck in this world by a magical tether, a punishment for those she'd killed in her madness, until someone releases her, heals her wounds, and brings light back into the darkness of her soul.
But her heart only blackens, sours, turning to coal as time passes. Anger chains her to this world, and the only way to appease her soul is to kill those whose happiness she envies and craves. If she can't have it, then so can't they. And her chance at redemption, at a better life, or afterlife, diminishes with each new kill, with each person she robs of a future (just as hers had been snatched away from her).
Or so the story goes.
No one has ever tried to save her, to bring her peace. Some say she's not real, only a legend born to attract pilgrims and risk-takers; others have it that if she is indeed real, she's not worth their trouble, that she deserves her sentence, that there isn't anything they can do to save her. There's nothing but death awaiting in the North. No one wants to risk it; and why would they? Why risk your life for a soul who doesn't even want to be saved?
.
.
.
"Ten silvers you'd never dare," John challenges before taking a full swig of his beer, the gold liquid half gone from his pint when he sets it down ungracefully, almost dropping it on the table. He's on his eleventh, and even large men have their limits.
Little John, as they affectionately call him, is Robin's best friend, and his challenge only serves to make Robin raise an unimpressed brow, but before he can say anything, the others chime in. "I raise you five!" comes Will's enthusiastic voice to his ear, "Fifteen silvers to see his face when he comes back!"
"I bet you twenty he wets his underclothes!" Much raises, earning him gruff and throaty laughs from all around the table, made louder by the alcohol that has flown freely since the beginning of the night.
More of his men add their bets, and soon it's blown out of proportion, to a hundred silvers and golden crowns and more money than they'll ever have.
But they all know that. They boast and brag and chortle, but they're good men. They might be thieves, but they have a code: take care of the less fortunate, give the riches they steal to the poor, and keep for themselves but the bare minimum, only enough to fill their basic needs.
When he'd left his father's estate at the turn of adulthood, Robin had never thought this would be where he'd end up: travelling, hiding, not staying in one place longer than a few nights, but the lifestyle suits him. He'd never been one for the stillness of castles, the pompous decorations and acerbic nobles who smiled and waved with mouths pressed in tight lines, only pretending to like one another, gossiping the moment the other person turned away. It was all an act, and one Robin had been tired to play.
Bustling receptions, overflowing banquets and chipper music had been as much his style as arranged marriages and fake smiles. In escaping one, he had escaped the other, and he couldn't be more glad.
He'd been promised to a young girl a few year after his birth, one with a spark of mischief in her eyes. They'd met only once, as children, unburdened and ignorant of their future duties, had run in the gardens until their hearts gave out. She'd punched him, broken his nose, which had prompted a hasty departure from her estate, but the engagement had held.
Until the day he'd chosen to flee the faith his father had chosen for him. Until the day he left his home and became an outlaw. The best thief in the kingdom; a tad reckless, maybe, but unrivalled.
He wonders sometimes what became of her, the young girl whose name he'd all but forgotten, who'd beat him in a race and whom he'd rewarded by taking a handful of her hair and pulling hard, purposely irritating her and springing them back into a chase that had her tackling him to the ground. He hopes she was able to escape her fate too, doesn't wish a marriage of convenience on anyone, not even his worst enemy.
"So what do you say, Robin?"
John brings his attention back to the table and the conversation he's been half-listening to. Robin's mouth curves into a lopsided grin, and he leans in, whispers, "I say," forcing his friends to quiet down their ruckus and inch closer to him, "I don't believe in ghosts," and he sits back as protests are made and words like coward and scared are thrown around in playful jest.
Robin chuckles, shakes his head, and finishes his beer (his second) in one gulp as he lets his men make fun of him for a few moments, for effect. When their delusions have escalated, he stands, stating that he'll go, effectively shutting them up.
For all their bravado, they suddenly change their discourse. It's now full of worried glances and comments like Are you sure? and This could be dangerous, and it makes Robin smile because these men are family, the one he never had, the one all of them never had. They would die before letting something happen to one of their own. But Robin nods. They wanted him to go, and he would, because there's nothing to be afraid of. He tells them so, and, "I shall prove it to you." That effectively shuts them up long enough for him to exit the bar, objections becoming incoherent mumbles of good luck's and see you tomorrow's.
This is how he finds himself riding North in the middle of the night. The Dark Castle is only a two-hour ride away from their campsite, and he always goes easy on beer at the tavern, never drinks as much as Tuck or John because he somehow feels responsible for his men, this band of thieves, even if they're old enough to take care of themselves. He's glad for his clear head tonight, as he ventures into the woods in search of a long dead woman, one who supposedly haunts the northernmost part of Sherwood Forest.
The path of dirt and mud narrows as he nears his destination. Twigs and branches hit the horse's flank, this road long abandoned and rarely, probably never, used.
He's greeted by ruins when he arrives, the castle's outer walls destroyed and covered with thorns. The fortifications are still standing, but the rusted gates hang ajar, half-fallen off their hinges, wild near-dead plants curled around the metal and falling on the other side of the fence. Fog sits around him, and Robin doesn't know exactly when or how it started, but it's now keeping him from seeing further than three feet in front of him.
Everything is grey and bleak. Trees, barely standing, sway back and forth with the smallest gush of wind. Dead branches cover the front lawn and the cracked cobblestoned path leading to the castle's main doors. Nature seems to have died along with everything else around these parts. His horse whinnies and protests (Robin should probably listen to his mount, but he doesn't – what does it know anyway?), but after a rub of its neck, his mount agrees to pass through the gates, and trots toward the old, battered double doors.
This place unsettles him, and Robin can't quite shake the eerie feeling it gives him. He doesn't believe in ghosts, but there's a reason this place is feared. He can't help the shiver that runs down his spine, but there's nothing to be afraid of. Absolutely nothing. He won't let scary children's tales get to his head.
Because that's what they are. Stories. The dead do not haunt us after they've passed, he knows that, because Marian's gone, and she's never coming back. Ghosts are stories meant to scare the young into obedience, and this particular tale, only amplified over time, has no basis in reality. He will head back to camp tomorrow, and besides a few chills, this place will not have given him anything.
He lights a fire in the main foyer for the night, where he has a clear view of everything around him. Just in case. Or at least, that's what he tells himself.
Sleep claims him an hour after his arrival, and he thinks that this is it, that he's going to sleep through the night, wake up and leave.
.
.
.
He jolts awake an hour later when thunder shakes the sky.
Robin looks up and squints, but he can't see anything in the darkness of the night. His fire has been reduced to embers and a few flickers of dying flames, barely bright enough to illuminate his immediate surroundings. The clouds are there though, even if he doesn't see them. He can hear the thunder as it roars anew, see the lightning strike in the distance as it tears the sky in two. He should probably find better shelter before the storm comes.
After a half-hour cautious search through cracking staircases and crumblings walls, he stumbles upon a chamber. A lit-up, lived in chamber, protected from wind and rain and hail. The perfect shelter. Too perfect.
The furniture are few but what's there is rich in colours and comfort. To his right, a four-poster bed complete with burgundy drapes and a canopy takes over half the main space, with deep blue sheets and wine-red cushions and a knitted, silver quilt folded at the foot. A redwood nightstand matches the low table by the fireplace to his left, where a fire roars in the hearth, casting an orange glow on the burgundy two-seater that marks the middle of the room. A plate of leftover cheese and bread sits half-finished on the table, the food starting to dry but still edible, and whoever was eating can't have been gone that long.
Robin draws an arrow from his quiver, notches it in place and pulls the string, not quite ready to shoot, but better prepared. Just in case, he tells himself, just enough to give him a quicker response time if someone comes in. It's not that he's worried; his reflexes are good (one doesn't escape the King's knights for years without a sharp mind and nimble fingers), but he knows preparation is always best.
When he enters the room, the feeling that he's invading someone's privacy assails him. (It shouldn't. No one lives here, no one can possibly live here, but these ruins, this room especially, feel inhabited — and not only by a simple traveller seeking refuge for the night.)
He steps further in, nears the fireplace, and that's when he hears it.
Footsteps. Someone coming up the stairs at the end of the hall he'd just come from.
There's someone else here, someone who'd arrived before he had because he'd been right by the entrance since he arrived at the castle and would have seen or heard anyone walk past, and he hasn't.
But that seems impossible, despite the leftovers and burning fire staring right back at him and proving him wrong, because no one ventures this far North. No one dares. This castle is said to be haunted, the legend more and more ominous every time he hears it – from death by fright to bloodlust and cries of agony as the ghost plucks at your soul one tendril at a time. That someone chose to visit these walls at the same time he has seems highly unlikely, but the footfalls are getting closer (faster too, or maybe it's only his imagination and increased heartbeat playing tricks on his mind), and he must act. Get away.
Hide.
It's a little absurd because whoever is coming is surely only a curious adventurer like himself or someone looking for shelter from the storm. But there's this little voice at the back of his head he can't shake. A voice saying that this who is actually a what, but he shushes it because now is not the time to start believing in foolish ghost stories.
Luckily for him, an archway on the opposite side of the chamber leads to a balcony, where he'd be out of sight to anyone who would enter by the door he came through. Robin crosses the room in quick, large strides and sweeps around the corner, presses himself against the stone wall once outside, and stretches an ear back towards the bedchamber.
Nothing.
So far, the voice in his head murmurs, and Robin closes his eyes, tries to level his breathing back to normal.
He winces when a large, heavy droplet of cold water lands on his face, followed by another, and one more, then loads of them. Great. The storm. Just what he needs.
His hair sticks to his forehead in a matter of seconds as the downpour starts, water dripping into his eyes and he has to blink profusely and shake his head to try to remove it. He's soaked to the bone and shivering in a matter of minutes, but he doesn't dare peer inside to see if the intruder is here (technically though, if this is the ghost from the legend, he is the intruder because this is her haunting ground, and he'd invaded her space; not that the thought makes him feel any better about the situation). If he looks, he has to bend around the corner of the arch, and whoever had been coming his way would see him. His shoulders tense and his fingers flex around his bow, grip the supple material tighter at the prospect of a possible encounter. Ghosts do not exist, Robin repeats to himself, a mantra to make him feel better, and for all you know, it could be one of your men who followed you and is reporting to the others how you scampered off like some scared little girl, and they'll be having a good laugh at your expense back at the camp.
He breathes in, and out. Does he risk it? Does he dare look inside and face the circus, or the legend, or whomever he'd been sharing the castle with for the last few hours? One quick glimpse won't kill him. Right?
Pushing aside the dread creeping up his spine, Robin steps to the side until he's aligned with the end of the wall, and turns his head to peek inside.
The room is as empty as he left it.
He puts one foot forward, another one, and scans the room, the tip of his arrow following the same path his eyes take. The string of his bow is drawn, his fingers to his chin, the fletching scratching at his stubble, arrow ready to be released.
But it proves to be useless when he's thrown against the nearest wall, head smashing against the stone before he falls to the floor. His grip on his bow loosens, and his weapon flies across the room as dizziness takes hold of him.
He fights it, turns his head around to see who attacked him, but the quick movement only blurs his vision further, makes his head throb. He's pulled up before he can recoup, hanged in mid-air, his body held up to the wall by an invisible force. He feels a hand wrap around his neck, fingers digging into his skin, but when his hands claw at his throat, they're met with his own skin; there's nothing there, and he's at the complete mercy of his attacker.
That's when he sees her.
Her long, raven hair cascades down her shoulders in waves and curls, stopping a few inches above her waist. Her pale skin, ghostly almost, as if she hasn't seen the light of day in years, contrasts with the midnight blue of her dress. The corset of her dress accentuates her slim waist and allows him an ample view of her (very lovely) cleavage. The skirt dances with each sway of her hips as she walks (more like glides) in his direction. Robin forces his gaze back up, skims every inch of her body and commits it to memory. If he has to die by her hand, he wants this vision to be the last thing he remembers. Her eyes are dark as night when they meet his, deep as a bottomless well, eager to swallow you whole.
And her lips. Her lips are crimson red; blood, passion and revenge and love all in one. His breath catches in his throat, but this time it has nothing to do with the magical chokehold she's exerting on him.
She's beautiful, exquisite. Stunning, in every way.
He's transfixed even as she speaks, and she has to repeat herself twice for him to understand. "Who are you and how dare you trespass on my castle?"
Her tone is sharp, cold, and it finally sparks his unresponsive brain back into functioning, but her magic is still choking him, and his reply comes between rasping breaths, "I meant— no disre— respect, milady."
"Then why were you sneaking in, thief?"
"I want—ed to see— if the rumours were true."
Her hand drops to her side then, her hold on his throat releasing at the same time, and Robin slumps to the floor with a thud, panting heavily as he refills his lungs with much-needed air.
When he looks up, she's observing him, her haughty stare belittling him. "Most people turn around after just a glimpse at the castle," she observes as if she'd expected him to do the same.
Robin finds in him the strength to reply, "I'm not most people," voice still rough at the edges, but laced with his best innuendo, offering her a small lopsided grin.
The mood is killed when he's thrown into a loud coughing fit, his lungs still protesting the lack of oxygen they've just suffered, but he catches her appreciative hum, "So it seems," and he knows he's scored a point. Now he only needs to last long enough to convince her not to kill him.
She sashays past him while he catches his breath, and he can't help but watch her. She moves like she owns the place, with grace and composure and an elegance worthy of the noblest family. (He surprises himself thinking his father would approve.) It's not a thought he has often; he tries to stay away from anything and everything reminding him of his childhood, and his father is a most painful reminder of that, but he finds he doesn't want to stay away from her).
When his breathing has calmed down, he offers his name by way of introduction, but she merely casts a look over her shoulder before returning to her task. Robin is certain it was supposed to be insulting, but she hasn't quite managed to put him off (he's not sure anything she said or did would).
She has her back to him again, looking for something in the redwood dresser on the opposite side of the bed, but the imposing four-poster is obstructing his view. He can't see exactly what she's doing, but he can observe her, and observe he will.
There's something about her.
It's like she doesn't belong here, yet he can't imagine her elsewhere. She's not a ghost; she can't be. Ghosts don't look like she does. They're not flesh and bones like he knows she is; she doesn't carry herself like a spirit. She feels alive, and he wants to come alive with her.
But, "It's you, isn't it?" is the first sentence to escape his mouth after he's stared at her for a few minutes (ogled her would be more like it, and he mentally kicks himself for being so shallow. It's the last thing this woman – any woman – deserves, entity from the afterlife or not). His voice is hoarse, and barely above a whisper, for he's still entranced by her beauty, frozen in place by his heart throwing a tantrum in his chest, from fear or something else, Robin doesn't know.
If her proud smirk is any indication, she picks up on his apprehensions, clamps her heels in the ground as she turns to him and lifts her chin. "There's no such thing as ghosts," she replies, looking down at him with a haughty stare, and Robin feels suddenly very, very small.
It's her. She's the ghost, he not a ghost at all in fact.
She haunts this castle, not some form of spirit, and that makes Robin's curiosity win over his fear. How? How is she so young? His father had told him of the legend of the Dark Castle when he was but a boy, and this enchantress is without a wrinkle on her face. She can't be an ordinary woman. (It's already obvious to him she isn't.)
He watches her as she lays clothes on the bed, then heads towards the fireplace, motioning for him to join her.
Robin doesn't need to be told twice, and he scurries up, following suit, reaching her in a few large strides.
"Regina," she introduces herself when he's next to her, and he's stunned by the softness of her voice when it's bereft of malice. It's refined, sophisticated, fits her perfectly, and he immediately wants to hear more, wants her to tell him everything about her, her deepest secrets and desires.
"Milady," he greets back with a smile, bending his neck slightly. His hand comes forward next as he adds, "Thank you for the hospitality," with a hint of sarcasm to his tone.
She's pleased, he can see it in the way one corner of her mouth has a tendency to hinge upward. She appreciates his sense of humour, even if she's fighting not to let her interest show. Her hand goes for his: a firm grasp and a steady handshake, nothing to hurt but strong enough to assert authority, enough for him to know she's not giving in that easily. (He's not fooled one bit by her demonstration of power; if she truly wanted him out, she'd have kicked him out long before.)
But something happens when they touch. Something Robin isn't ready for. It's not a feeling he can explain, nothing he has ever experienced before. There's a heat that blooms inside him, a tingling starting where their fingers are linked and travelling through his body, a pleasant shiver of some sort.
He doesn't notice when his grip gentles, when his thumb starts absently rubbing small circles on the back of her hand. Her chest rises as she takes in a breath and doesn't release it, but their eyes are already locked together, brown on blue, and the intensity of her gaze captures all of his attention, leaving very little place for his mind to wander down. (It saves him from gaping like a fool at the display before him. She is stunning, there's no denying it, but he doesn't want to let his body betray him. Not now. Not when he has her full attention, and she his.)
Time seems to slow down.
How long they stand like this Robin has no idea, but he notices then, despite the acerbic demeanour that seems to be her default, how empty her gaze really is. She hides it behind her impetuosity, but her eyes tell a different story, one that's discordant with her actions. One of loneliness and sorrow and misery.
One Robin wants to uncover.
It's potentially dangerous; she's potentially (most likely) dangerous. He'd gotten personally acquainted with her not-so-gentle temper when she'd hurled him against the stonewall without hesitation earlier. But he can't seem to leave. He's rooted in place.
He wants to know her, wants to know what brought that torment he glimpses in the depths of her eyes. Wants to alleviate the hardships she's suffered in her life, to lift her up high and catch her when she falls. He wants her to not be afraid to fall.
It scares him, how much he's in over his head already. How she in fact doesn't feel like a stranger at all.
Everything about Regina feels familiar, like they aren't meeting for the first time. A force akin to a magnet pulls him to her, and he should be afraid, but he isn't. Ever since she'd thrown him against the wall, he should have been overwhelmed with fear, but her presence is oddly comforting, like an old blanket you wrap around your shoulders on cold winter nights.
He knows it's impossible. He can't have met her before; he'd remember meeting someone like her. But the feeling is one he can't shake.
The spell that has him wrapped up in her (or rather, has them wrapped up in each other, if the tongue that slips out to wet her bottom lip is any indication) breaks when a swift gust of wind makes him shiver, reminding him of his still damp clothes from the earlier rain shower.
His breathing has gotten heavier, and they have both inched closer. Who moved or when or why is a mystery to Robin; a mystery he doesn't mind when his nose catches a whiff of apples and cinnamon, brought to his nostrils by the gentle breeze, the spicy and sweet scent putting to rest the last of his qualms. The smell suits her, he decides, and it makes him want to close the remaining distance, to pull her to him and wrap his arms around her waist. To bury his nose in her hair. To hold her until his arms go lax.
His body, however, has other plans. Robin trembles slightly as another wave of shivers runs through him, and crosses his arms against his chest for more warmth.
It gives Regina just enough time to back away (probably a wise choice considering the rapid thumpthumpthump of his heart), and she throws a fireball at the hearth when she realizes how cold he is. The flare intensifies immediately, and Robin gasps in surprise, jolting away from the rising flames, his taut muscles protesting the hasty movement.
She laughs at his reaction, a shy laugh, but genuine, and if the circumstances were different he'd be upset that someone is making fun of him, but it's her. And oh, how sweet her laugh is, even if laced with haughtiness. The sound is enchanting, dulls his sense and leaves him staring.
For once he does not see the woman in front of him but the reality of his situation: whoever she is, ghost or entity or witch or who knows what else, she's in control and clearly means to keep it that way. He may be attracted to her (she is stunning after all), but he can't let his libido cloud his judgement. Regina can easily lead to his demise. Be his demise altogether. He may want to hear her laugh again, but it could be over his dying breath if he isn't careful.
When her amusement subsides, Regina leans in, mirth shining in her eyes as she drawls, "You're not afraid of a little fire, are you thief?"
Robin is spellbound, can't look away. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, then answers with a sheepish, "Never, milady," and if his voice weren't quavering, he might have gotten away with it. (It's not so much the fire as the sudden upsurge of the flames that had startled him, but arguing with Regina seems like a pointless endeavour. One he's not going to take on. Not just yet anyway.)
She cocks her head to the side, a disbelieving eyebrow arching upward at his words. "That remains to be seen," she notes, a hint of conceit to her voice, and Robin bites his tongue, holding back a witty retort. Arguing with this not-a-ghost-in-fact woman from the legend would get him nowhere.
Regina seems pleased with his silence and flicks her hand, a towel appearing in a swirl of purple smoke. She hands it to him with an air of contempt about her, before turning to the fireplace, grasping the iron to reposition the logs.
Robin releases his breath the moment her attention is not on him. It's uneven, and heavy, and he hadn't realized he'd been holding it.
This woman, whoever she is, is way out of his league. He studies her as she pokes the fire, the flexion of her arm as she replaces the logs, the small creases next to her eyes as she squints at the intensity of the flames.
He doesn't know what to make of her.
She's captivating, thrilling, a spark waiting to be ignited, and oh, how he wants to get burned.
If it wasn't for his men waiting for him back at the camp, he'd risk it; he'd risk everything for this woman, and the thought alone should be enough for warning bells to go off in his head (she probably has him under a spell, the same one she'd used to lure her previous victims, and he is falling into the same trap he'd promised himself he would avoid), but he can't bring himself to stop. She intrigues him, and he wants to unveil the mystery, to get to know her down to her battered heart and dark soul (if the legend is in any way close to the truth).
He wraps the towel around his shoulders tighter to fight the chill settling in his bones. One that has nothing to do with the cold night air.
This woman is trouble, and the best kind of it.
She catches him staring when she turns around, nudges the iron back in its place on the support next to the hearth, and returns the look, steadies her eyes as she closes the distance between them again. "You should change," she proposes, and the words are coated in velvet, ethereal almost. "You'll catch cold if you stay like that."
Not for the first time tonight, Robins finds himself fascinated. The refined and detailed lilt of her voice, the upward flick of her eyebrow, the depth of the dark brown of her eyes, the small scar that graces her upper lip. One untold story after another.
Her head inclines forward under his scrutiny, tongue peeking out to lick her bottom lip, and Robin sees his thumb replacing her tongue, his finger running over her plump mouth before he's leaning in and tasting it, over and over again.
It verges on ridiculous, how he feels about her, he knows that. He's only just met her, tells himself his attraction is purely physical, the years spent without another warm body finally taking their toll on him, but he knows the reality is far from it. There's something about Regina, something he can't explain. She sets his soul ablaze, and she's the only one who can tame the flames (he's not sure he ever wants her to).
The look in his eyes must have betrayed his train of thought because when she looks up, it's with a self-satisfied, tight-lipped smile, albeit a little coy, and she says, "I'll give you a moment," before exiting swiftly, avoiding his gaze, and Robin has no choice but to turn to the bed.
He strips and lets his damp clothes drop in a pile to the floor, then reaches for the ones she has laid out for him: brown trousers and beige shirt, nothing flowery or too fancy about them. The fabric is less expensive than the gown she wears, but it's good fabric, more luxurious than what you'd normally find in the village. (He'd learned to recognize anything of value since he'd become an outlaw. The simplest outfit, if made out of the right material, could sell as fast as the most expensive of dresses.) These must have belonged to some servant of this castle. Whatever reason has made Regina keep them, he's glad for it, relishes in the feel of warm, dry clothes against his skin.
He's fastening his own belt, still bare to the waist, when he hears the clicking sound of her heels drawing closer. He turns his head around just in time to see her stop dead in her tracks at the sight of him. (If Robin has been a little more observant, he'd have noticed her zero in on his forearm and not the rest of him, but at present, he's too pleased with himself to notice such a detail.)
After a moment, a blush creeps up her cheeks, and Robin thinks it's adorable (who can blame him if he's a little smug about the effect he has on her?), but she'd probably kill him on the spot if he points it out, so he doesn't say a thing, pulls on the shirt, and makes his way to her.
He relieves her of the tray she's carrying (fresh bread and fruits; he's touched by the gesture), the spark he'd felt earlier manifesting itself again when their fingers brush. He can't help but ask, "Do you feed all your victims?" in a half-mocking, half-serious tone. The tale tells of a ghost who attracts men and women to her before ripping their souls out. Even if Regina hasn't demonstrated any similar inkling since he's been here, Robin has his reserve.
The question brings a dangerous smile to her lips, erasing all trace of how he'd previously unsettled her, and she shrugs, relinquishing her hold on the tray. "They can't fault me for my hospitality."
He counters with a cheeky, "Only your bedside manner," and she'd have chuckled, he's pretty sure (her breath had caught in her throat and the corner of her lips had turned up), but she catches herself just in time, and gives him a glare instead. The most beautiful glare he's ever seen.
Robin smirks in response, carries their food to the low table by the fire, her gentle footfalls following him until they are both seated on the floor, cross-legged for him, knees bent to the side for her.
And then, he's stuck.
What does he do now?
They're sitting on the ground in front of a roaring fire, a full platter of food in front of them. Robin doubts Regina will engage him in a conversation, so he should probably eat, but what if she's poisoned the stuff? It looks perfectly edible, the fruits had seemed fresh and the bread still warm when he'd carried the tray here, but he doesn't know what kind of dark magic she controls. He's pretty good at spotting different kinds of mushrooms and berries in the forest, but when it comes to spells (and, apparently, women), he's terrible, and out of practice.
It's quiet between them until his stomach growls, and he scrambles to cover it with his hand right away to quell the noise, but the soft giggle to his left tells him it's too late, she's already heard it.
"It's not poisoned you know," she assures, when he glances back at the table. "If I wanted to kill you, there are far more effective ways to do it than a poisoned fruit." She snickers, laughs to herself, and Robin knows he's missing something.
He gulps when his stomach makes its presence known again, loud and clear this time.
He lifts his arm and puts it back down, then reaches for the tray again, finally snatching a loaf of bread from the platter. He tears a piece and hands it to her. If he's going to eat, she will too.
Regina takes it from him with a knowing smirk, rips a bite off and pops it in her mouth, chews under his watchful stare. When she's swallowed, she challenges, "Are you going to eat, now?" and Robin has no choice but to accept that she's telling the truth, that if she'd wanted to kill him, she would probably have done so already, in a far less pleasing manner, if myths were to be believed.
He rips another portion of the loaf for himself, puts the rest of it back on the plate, and grabs a few grapes and pieces of apple that he sets on his lap.
They spend long minutes in silence, her nibbling at her bread, him eating a bit more eagerly, the only sounds in the room that of the crackling fire and the thudding of the rain. They mingle and interweave, creating a melody that lulls him, that appeases his apprehensions.
It's oddly comfortable, being in silence around her. It puts him at ease, something that only ever happens around his men. But if he's going to spend the night here, they may as well talk.
He plops his last grape into his mouth, then settles back against the couch. "I'm surprised you have men's clothing lying about," he observes as he rubs his hand to let the bread crumbs fall to the floor. "Your last victim?" he mulls out loud, but regrets it the next second, for her face contorts and she momentarily loses her composure, and Robin knows he's hit a nerve.
She doesn't speak at first, and he isn't sure if he should pry (he shouldn't), but she confesses before he has to, "They're my fiancé's." Her voice is hollow and detached, but her eyes glimmer with emotion, and he knows the admission surprises her as much as him. She amends then, "They were," the sorrow in her tone unmistakable. He knows where it comes from before she even completes the thought with, "He's dead," because there'd been a time after Marian's death where he hadn't been much different.
He feels like an ass (there's no other way to put it), can only say, "I'm sorry," but she chuckles in response, like she doesn't believe him.
"You'd be the first one." Her voice is so placid it scares him. What happened in her past to make her so emotionally detached? For her to prefer living in a ruined castle over the vibrant life of a village or an estate? (He guesses she'd be the estate type; she's ladylike, despite her temper.)
She's fallen silent, and Robin already misses the uninhibited fervor she'd shown him earlier. He wants it back, so he changes the subject, something hopefully a little easier, while still feeding his curiosity. He shifts his knees, turns to face her, resting his elbow on the double-seater behind them. "Explain something to me, would you?" He goes very matter-of-fact about it, and she hums, prompting him to continue. "The legend," he starts, "it spoke of a ghost. You clearly aren't one."
"I'm not," she confirms, and the change in subject seems to have succeeded; she seems more relaxed. But she doesn't elaborate her answer, or even look at him. Simply pops another scrap of bread in her mouth and rests her back against the couch, several inches away from his hand resting on the cushions. It's a gap he can cross if he extends his arms, but he sits back too, respects the distance Regina puts between them.
She studies him, but he catches on, knows she's testing him, waiting to see what questions he'll ask, making him work for the story, deciding meanwhile if he's worthy to hear it (how he wants to).
Robin ponders his next question, knows he's only getting one shot at this, but she surprises him (again) and lets out another bit of information before he has a chance to ask. "Sometimes, it's easier to let the story be true," she muses out loud, "and play along with it."
Robin considers her answer for a moment, thinks about the ghost, the lone, tormented soul scaring children into submission. That woman had killed, committed countless murders – likely exaggerated by the tale – and even if Regina has the spirit and the desperation it takes to kill, Robin's convinced she's not evil. Tales are often incomplete, just waiting for someone to fill in the missing pieces. This one is no exception. This woman is tortured, just like the story says, but she's the furthest thing from a monster. He tells her so, and, "I don't believe you'd ever hurt anyone if you could avoid it."
She scoffs, "What makes you think you know me so well?"
"You could have sucked my soul away ten times by now." He shrugs nonchalantly, as if he weren't discussing his theoretical demise, "but you haven't," and it's enough proof for him. Regina might act like she doesn't care, but Robin doesn't even begin to see the vile soul the legend describes in her.
Her expression shifts as he holds her gaze, to a sadness he's not unfamiliar with. Self-loathing and heartbreak. A profound wound that time alone is not strong enough to heal.
"Evil doesn't always look evil," she says, contempt for herself evident in her tone. "Sometimes it's staring right at us, and we don't even realize it." She's resolute in her fate, like she's accepted that nothing good will happen to her (like she's stared at evil before).
"With all due respect milady, I disagree."
He thinks he's proven his point when her attention switches away from the hearth and onto him, but she simply scorns, "That makes you a fool," and stands abruptly, leaving Robin to stare at the empty space beside him.
He gets up, following after her. "Then a fool I will gladly be," he accepts the title, hell-bent on not letting her win. She can push as hard as she wants, he's not running away that easily. They've already established she isn't going to murder him in cold blood, and as far as Robin is concerned, he feels safer in her company than he had by his fire in the main hall at the beginning of the night. Whatever horrors her past holds (he doesn't know, not really, can't strictly base his knowledge on some legend he's heard since he was a child), he won't let them drive him away, like he guesses others have. You don't come to believe so little in yourself like she does without having had a few people kick you when you were down.
His reaction makes her grumble, and she veers around, almost making him stumble into her. "You're not going to change your mind, are you?" she huffs, he thinks she's quite adorable when she frowns like that. (Not that he'd ever tell her.)
Instead, he goes for, "I see no reason why I should."
Regina purses her lips again, but says nothing, and Robin delights in the way he's just made her speechless. (He can think of a few other, more pleasurable ways to do that, but he quells his fantasies, knows they're unlikely to happen as much as he'd love nothing more than for her to feel what true happiness can be.)
Not one to stay in silence for long (living with a group of rowdy men would that to you), Robin follows up on his questioning, "Why are you here? In this castle,"
Her eyes meet his despite her frustration, studying him, as if deciding if he's worth the trouble. He thinks she's not going to give him more answers when she surprises with, "I'm trapped here."
That, he doesn't understand. "But - you have magic." He's seen it – quite powerful magic even. "Can't you use it to leave this place?" But she shakes her head.
"I can't."
Robin's curiosity gets the better of him then, and he bombards her with questions, "Why? Is there an enchantment? Surely there's a counter spell," and he's too busy trying to figure her out that he doesn't notice her drawn features, or the way her neck tenses and her fingers flex. He's still going on about how she can't stay here forever when she stops him.
"Magic doesn't bring back the dead," she says, and the tantrums of the skies fill the room as they stare at each other in silence. The air between them stills, thickens, and if it wasn't for the pulsing vein on her forehead, Robin wouldn't be able to tell he'd hit a sensitive nerve. She's stiff, heavy-hearted, and throws a last distasteful look his way before she sighs and closes her eyes.
Robin swallows. He feels small, tiny even, like she could crush him without a second's notice. Still, he risks, "Your fiancé?" because he needs to know – wants to know.
His boldness pays off, has her opening her eyes, squinting at first, then fully, and all is not lost because she finally nods, and confides, "I stay here because I have nowhere else to go."
The admission hangs in the air, disturbs the quietude of the room, her words echoing down the hall during this lull in the storm, back to simple raindrops clattering on the rooftop.
She's done something to him, this woman, and it's no magic or curse. She's wormed her way inside his mind (his heart) in so little time. Robin knows that if he leaves now and doesn't help her, doesn't do everything in his power to save her from further torment, he won't be able to live with himself. She'll haunt him, and he'll be forever regretting the day he turned his back on her, like many had no doubt done before.
"You could come with me." The offer is out before he can fully think it through, but he finds he means it, means every word down to his very bones.
She's shaking her head almost immediately, "There's nothing for me back there."
Robin sighs, but he won't let her win. She might not believe in a better future for herself, but he does, and maybe his belief will be enough for both of them. "That doesn't mean it's not worth it." He'll fight her tooth and nail until she accepts what he sees when he looks at her, "We all get a second chance, Regina," because what he sees is beautifully complex, and worth more than a thousand golden crowns. "You just have to seize it."
She laughs at his words. "And what? You think you can help me?"
"I'm certainly going to try."
"Others have. And they're dead." Her words are tainted with hatred – at the world or at herself, Robin can't say.
He offers her a casual shrug and a smirk, and points out, "They weren't me," hoping it'll make her smile.
It doesn't.
But maybe he can make her change her mind, make her see the beauty of the world beyond the stark cold of the forest that surrounds her castle. He wants nothing more than for Regina to see herself the way he does, a broken flicker of light amidst the shadows, struggling to survive, but still burning despite the lack of oxygen. How he knows that, Robin can't say. He feels it. All he wants is for her to be happy.
"I can take care of myself," is her last, feeble attempt at making him change his mind, "I'm no princess who needs saving."
And the face she makes just now – that pout, the small furrow of her eyebrows –
Robin is again assailed by the nagging feeling that he knows her. There's a familiarity about Regina, one he's been trying to understand all night. He'd thought it might have been a spell, or his out-of-control lust, but he'd been wrong. He'd been oh so wrong.
But he gets it now.
It's her.
And he doesn't understand why he hasn't seen it earlier. She's been in front of him this whole time. He should have known. And why now? Why is he so sure of himself now? But he looks at her, and he is. Perhaps he didn't want to see it earlier – it's been years after all, they've changed. Or perhaps it's what Regina just said. Because she'd said something similar to him once, long ago. When times were different. Their lives, too.
You, be the princess in distress, his young betrothed had ordered when they'd been but children, I get to save you. He can still hear her fiery determination, as if the encounter had happened yesterday, as if years hadn't passed and darkened their souls. He looks at Regina and finally sees her with clarity. He sees her– the girl she keeps hidden inside.
His reply is out before he can think twice, "You never were," and there's a pause as they both let his words sink in. Their eyes lock and exchange a silent understanding: this is not their first meeting.
She flicks her gaze to his wrist before staring right back at him. She stands firm, doesn't back down despite the slight hesitation in her voice. "You know." It's a question disguised as a statement, but it confirms his suspicions. There had been something familiar about Regina.
"You have quite the right hook," he recalls fondly, rubbing his nose where she'd punch him all those years ago.
She shrugs, brings her chin up. "You deserved it."
"You broke my nose," he observes without judgement.
"You broke our engagement," she returns, and he can't deny it. He'd fled his father's estate barely out of his teens. Noble life hadn't been for him. A few pompous balls and he'd had enough. (He would had given anything to see his father's face when he'd learned of his escape.)
Robin whispers, "I'm sorry for what happened to you," because he can't help but feel responsible for how her life turned out. If he hadn't run away, they'd have been (forcefully, but still) married, and whoever had hurt her wouldn't have been able to lay their hands on her.
She shakes her head, "Don't be," her eyes wide and shallow, a display of contradictory emotions fighting for control. A tiny part of her is happy for him, he can tell. "You did what I couldn't." At his inquiring gaze, her heads falls down, like she's ashamed of what she's about to confess. She lets out a shaky breath, it's loaded, and she mumbles something that sounds like, "You got away," then she inhales loudly, tilts her head back up, straightens her back. There's no trace of emotion left when she admits, "I envy you."
He nods, accepts that she resents him for being able to flee, and gives her some time to recoup (she doesn't look like someone who shares her vulnerable side with others often). She turns her back on him, presses her palms to her head, lets her fingers rake down her long tresses.
Robin wishes he could do something, anything, to alleviate her sorrows. When he'd gotten away from the noble life he'd despised, he'd hoped the same for his young, feisty betrothed. (Maybe it isn't too late for his wish to come true.)
"When did you realize?" he asks when silence weighs heavily on him.
She doesn't look at him. "Realize what?"
"That it was me."
He's curious. He'd known from the start there'd been something, a familiarity about Regina, even if she'd rubbed him the wrong way. Then he'd remembered a little girl with raven locks doing the same many years ago, years that seemed like a lifetime, and it had all started to click.
She says nothing at first, but stops moving. Slowly, she turns to him, closes the distance in a few quick steps, and reaches for his right hand. She rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, and lets the tip of her fingers trace the inked lion decorating the skin she's just revealed. "Of course," he whispers, his gaze following her own to the dark family crest that mars his forearm.
His father had insisted on marking him at a young age, and he'd hated him for it. For the first few months after he fled, Robin had kept his tattoo hidden under long sleeves. But over time, he'd come to see it as a symbol of what he'd never be again, of what he was fighting against. Most days, it's just a blur in his peripheral vision, but to her, it had revealed his identity, and for that, Robin is truly grateful.
He can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. "Well, for once, I'm glad for one thing my father did."
He can still hear it, the contagious, sparkling laughter of his one-time friend, his partner in crime, as they'd run down the hill to steal apples from her neighbour's tree. Can hear it as if it had happened yesterday.
But if the recollection of their childhood meeting lightens his heart, it only darkens her own features, creates creases of sadness that draw her face down, casts shadows of a lifetime he knows nothing about. Not since he got away. Not since he left her to a fate worse than what destiny originally had in store for them.
Her next reply is timely, urgent, but her voice quavers when she confides, "That girl lost much."
She tries to dismiss it with a chuckle, but it's a broken one, and he knows better.
Robin takes one last step towards her, bringing their bodies within arm's reach. The movement steers her gaze back to his, brown to blue, and he holds it there, steady and unwavering, when he proposes, "Then let me know the woman," and waits.
It's her move now.
Regina licks her lips, her eyelids fluttering closed. The choices they've made, the ones they will make – should make – weigh on their minds as they take into consideration every possible outcome of this. As if this moment right here determines the future of their lives.
(It does.)
"Death follows me," she finally whispers, opening her eyes, her voice cracking and for once she doesn't shy away from it. "Stand too close and you'll get burned too." Of course she doesn't mean literally because he'd be charred to a crisp by now if she did (or maybe she does), but how little she thinks of herself gnaws at him. How she doesn't see an ounce of goodness, when he sees enough to drown in it.
He steps closer, non-intrusive (he'd never want her to feel trapped), but close enough that she has no choice but to listen to him, that she doesn't walk away. "I lived in limbo when my wife died. I thought there was no reason to go on," he admits, wets his lip before he continues. "But then I found one. My men. They're like family, and for a while it was enough. I had to let go of my guilt. But now," he brings a hand to her cheek, frames her jaw, "you've lit a fire inside me, milady." His thumb brushes across her cheekbone. "If I have to get burned, then so be it," he's even closer to her now, but doesn't bridge the last few remaining inches. He wants her to do that; he wants this to be her choice too. "Because I'll be damned if I ever let it go out."
Regina holds his gaze for no more than a second before her lips crash on his, heat instantly blooming in his belly, pent-up tension and desire disintegrating into the kiss. And there it is, that flame that sparks his soul back to life, the passion that's been lacking until now.
She's everything he's imagined and more. Her kisses taste of apples, and she smells of cinnamon and firewood, the combination bringing his senses to high alert. Her hands fist his shirt, pull him closer, and he responds in kind, his tongue teasing at the seam of her lips. She's one step ahead of him, already parting them willingly, tongues tangling as his fingers weave into her hair, his free hand wrapping around her waist, every wonderful curve of hers pressed against him.
Robin has the fleeting thought that maybe he'll regret this tomorrow, that this is wrong and he shouldn't be taking advantage of her like this (he's not; she kissed him first, she wants this too), but the thought is pushed aside as soon as Regina starts tugging him toward the four-poster bed at the back of the room.
She clings to his shirt as she falls to the mattress, resulting in them landing in an uncomfortable position, him half-spread on top of her, half on the bed. They readjust just as fast, Regina scooting up toward the headboard and Robin following suit, his lips already missing the inviting warmth of hers.
Before he reclaims her mouth he takes a moment to admire the line of her jaw, the rosy pink of her cheekbones, and the dark pools of her eyes that study him with just as much intensity as he does her. She's a vision. A kind of beauty he's never seen before in his life. Her dark brown locks create a dishevelled aura around her head, eyes heavy lidded from pleasure, lips pursed and swollen from their previous kisses. She's never looked more enticing, more beautiful to him than she does now, slowly releasing control and letting go of her burdens, if only for tonight.
She's peering at him from under long lashes, eyes twinkling with a challenge, burning with a want only matched by his own. She looks younger than she has in the hours he's known her (not counting their childhood encounter), and Robin's heart swells at the sight of it – of her. The way he feels about this woman is completely illogical, he knows that, but he can't bring himself to care. This feels right. She feels right. And he'll walk through hell before he walks away from her.
They shift their position, and she's grinding on top of him over too many layers of clothing as he kisses down her neck, stopping to give particular attention to that one spot under her jaw, the one he discovers coaxes the most whimpers out of her. She's warm and vibrant in his arms, and he can feel his cock harden with each new moan that tumbles from her lips.
This is certainly not how he'd expected to spend the night when he'd agreed to go on this fool's journey. Who knew that a friendly wager with his men would get him here? In the same bed as his childhood betrothed – his very alive, much more mature, and utterly stunning betrothed – who is now moving her hips on top of him, looping her arms around his neck, biting his lip, dragging it teasingly between her teeth.
Robin grunts, whimpers, shifts so the pressure is a little less intense. She protests against his mouth, but he won't last long if she goes on like that. She feels good, so good. Surreal. A goddess and him a mere mortal. An apparition he's unworthy of. One he wants to celebrate.
It doesn't take long for their clothes to be discarded, thrown across the room carelessly, not to be picked up at any time during the next few hours, or at any time, period. He intends to ravish her, to make every inch of her skin beg for his touch, to make love to her until she's spent and loose-limbed, unable to move until the sun rises on the horizon. (Perhaps he shouldn't be thinking of such things like making love, but ordinary things are beneath his affection for Regina. This is no casual sex, no matter what they fool themselves into believing.)
She's exposed to him fully now, her enticing expanse of olive skin, and he takes in every curve and plane, first with his eyes, then with his hands, his mouth following a moment later.
Her body arches under his touch as he learns what she likes, which flick of his tongue or squeeze of his hands have her moaning out loud. He follows her cues, finds himself giving particular attention to her breasts, licking and sucking her stiff peaks as his hand travels south, where he discovers she's already wet and ready for him.
She tugs him up the moment he starts teasing her, rakes her fingers through the hair at his nape, and pulls his lips down for a kiss, her free hand reaching down for him. He gasps against her mouth when she traces his length with her fingers, and she grins mischievously, teeth scraping against his jaw.
Robin decides two can play this game and, for a few minutes, they're children again (except, no, they aren't because they're playing a very mature game), trying to best one another, to make the other breathless with as few strokes and nips and licks as possible.
It ends when they're both flushed and panting, him on top of her on his elbows, mouths scant inches apart. He can feel her warm breath on his skin with each exhale, and it's intimate, and perfect, and he'd give anything to stop time and capture the moment. To remember forever how her eyes look just now, dark with want, shining with gratitude.
There's a loaded moment where they both know what's coming next, where he silently inquires if she's okay with it, but Regina simply smiles and nods, already reaching for him. Their lips meet again, the playfulness gone, replaced by lust and desire as she guides him to her entrance. He slides in easily, releasing her lips to look at her, to peer into her eyes as he fills her to the hilt. She scrunches her face in ecstasy and whimpers, grasps his hip to hold him in place.
Robin can almost feel their hearts connecting, beating in tandem as they slowly start to move, sensual and unhurried, savouring each rock of her hips and in and out of his cock. And he thanks again whatever rule of destiny had guided him here tonight, for nothing has ever felt as right as this.
She comes undone in his arms as he repeats her name like a prayer, lips and hands covering every available inch of her skin. He nips and sucks at her collarbone as she whispers how good he feels in his ear, and her encouragements have him thrusting faster, and then he's tumbling over the edge too, capturing her mouth in one last, searing kiss.
Their bodies stay unmoving while their breathing evens out, one of her hands on his nape, fingers playing with his hair, the other at his waist. Robin is still on top of her, hasn't moved from where he's comfortable, still buried deep inside her. They don't move, simply continue exploring this connection they share, one tongue-filled kiss leading into another, neither of them ready to put an end to this. When he finally releases her lips (after pecking them one last time for good measure), his eyes finds hers, shining with gratefulness as she glances up at him; an almost coy look, one he'd never have associated with her. He wonders how this is even possible, how this woman, this ghost from the legend, can truly be real. How can she be his Regina – his childhood betrothed? Perhaps she really is a ghost, and all of this is happening inside his head. Perhaps he's dreaming. But the look on her face, the way her fingers clutch at his waist, flex then splay, sending new rivulets of desire through his veins; the softness of her hair as he pushes it away from where it's fallen over her face; they have him wishing to never wake up if this is so.
How long they stay like this Robin doesn't know. Regina eventually ends up cocooned in his embrace, tucked comfortably against him, her fingers drawing idle patterns on his chest. They swirl and tease around his ribcage, not enough to fully spark his need, but enough for Robin to want to capture her mouth again, and he does, languidly, lazily this time, enjoying the way she melts and mellows under his touch.
They fall asleep in each other's arms, as the storm outside dissipates into the night.
.
.
.
He stirs in bed hours later, conscience still floating between dream and reality, not quite ready to wake up and face the world. There's a pleasant ache in his muscles from last night's activities when he stretches his limbs, and it brings a smile to his face, makes him extend an arm to his side to reach for the woman who'd made him see stars (who was made of stars herself as far as Robin was concerned). His eyelids spring open when his hand lands on soft cushions instead of the warm body that had fallen asleep next to him.
Robin turns his head to the side; the covers are drawn, the sheets crumpled, and her place on the bed is still lukewarm.
She hasn't been gone for long.
His gaze travels up to the rest of the room, squinting at the dazzling, white glow coming from the archway, a blinding light his eyes weren't ready for. The post-storm tranquility of the morning has the birds chirping, the sun shining in what Robin guesses is a spotless sky. Quite the change from last night's weather.
A shadow on the ground alerts him to her presence, and he gets up quickly, grabs trousers and shirt from where they'd lain on the ground all night, pulling them on before joining her outside.
He finds Regina in a pale blue nightdress, a silver shawl wrapped around her shoulders to stave off the gentle breeze, the sole remnant of last night's storm. Her dark locks take in a golden hue as they bathe in the sunlight, making her hair more chestnut-colored at the top. Her eyes are riveted on the horizon, on something only she seems to see.
She has her back to him, so he greets her from behind, voice still rough from sleep, "Good morning," before he settles his elbows next to her on the parapet. He fills his lungs with fresh air, takes in the view they have from their perch on the balcony, something he hadn't realized when he'd come out here during the night. The darkness of Sherwood Forest stretches for miles and miles around them, contrasting with the yellow glow of the morning sun on the skyline. It doesn't look as terrifying from up here; it's actually quite beautiful, and a glance to his right confirms the thought. Beautiful, indeed.
She doesn't look at him, but acknowledges his good morning with one of her own, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders as a gust of wind blows their way. It's slightly awkward, the conversation doesn't flow as well as it did last night, and it takes Regina a few seconds too long to ask, "Did you sleep well?"
Not one to make a big deal of things, Robin lets it drop, but side-eyes her as he divulges, "That was the best…sleep…" she fights a smirk at that, and Robin feels an iota of pride, "I've had in a really long time." But he means it. He really does. In both ways. He'd stopped having nightmares of Marian's death a while ago, but last night had been restful in ways his sleep hadn't been in a long while. He'd gotten so used to it he hadn't realized he'd never been getting a good rest. But last night had also been amazing for reasons that had nothing to do with sleeping, and everything to do with her, and he likes that it makes her smile this morning – that he makes her smile. He'd hate for him to be the only who enjoyed it.
Her grin is fast gone, replaced by a not-quite-frown and an odd stillness in her composure he's only ever seen once last night, when her past was brought up. She's far gone in her thoughts this morning, and avoiding his gaze, that much is clear, and he's left staring out at the forest, too, in a stiff silence that shouldn't be, but is. Why does starting a conversation feel like a burden today, when it had come so naturally to them yesterday?
Robin stands straight, rubs a hand against his nape, and when he can stand the quiet no longer he asks, "What are we doing now?"
Regina is cold when she answers, "We are not doing anything," and she finally turns toward him for the first time that morning, and he can see that as restful as the night was for him, it wasn't for her (there are dark circles under her eyes and she looks exhausted). "You need to forget about me." That freezes him in place. Forgetting about her is the last thing he ever dreams of doing. "Head back to your camp," still she insists, "tell your men you survived. Sell your story of how the ghost let you live. It'll bring you a few coins."
He's shaking his head halfway through her sentence. "I don't think I could do that."
"You have to," she states as if this was his only choice, as if there was no other solution to her predicament. She still sees the worst in herself, and he stubbornly refuses to see it.
He counters her offer with, "Not if you come with me."
Her sigh is loud and loaded. "Robin, we've been through this. You don't want me around you," and he can see she's already overthinking the situation, as she always does.
He takes a step toward her. "Stop thinking," he whispers, cups her jaw with one hand, strokes her temple with his thumb as his fingers delve into her hair. He tilts her head up gently, brings her gaze to his. "Give me a chance to help you. I owe you that much." He had after all been partly responsible for the way her life turned out. Not directly, no, but it is his fleeing from his father's estate that had steered her life away from the path it was originally on. They might not have ended up together, but he likes to think he might have saved her some of the heartache she went through.
But she's still shaking her head, "I'm a monster–"
"You're not a monster, Regina," he interrupts, doesn't let her mind go down the dark path her thoughts always seem to lead her on.
"You have no idea what I've–"
"You know you can tell me anything," he nearly pleads, doesn't want to force her hand, but he needs her to know he won't think any less or any different of her once she reveals what's burdening her heart.
She considers a moment, her breathing shaky, chest trembling in its rise and fall.
But she does. She tells him, lets it all out.
How her mother had killed her first love and forced her to marry the King, her father too weak to oppose the decision, even though it had left her crying at night and he'd been the one to rock her back to sleep. How she'd been forced into a loveless marriage, mother to a child barely younger than her. How her magic lessons with the Dark One were supposed to free her, but had only turned her into a monster; she'd taken so many lives during her training, people the Dark One wanted eliminated, and she'd never thought twice about it. She didn't know better. How she'd banished her mother to a far off land in a fit of rage days before her wedding and then fled the castle, her teacher and the King; had come here, to Sherwood Forest, to find solace in being alone. How her father had finally come to her, but only because the King had sent him, and it'd been so easy to give into her anger. How she's killed him; she'd killed the last person who cared about her as if he was just another victim to add to her toll.
She's sobbing by the end of her tale, turning red, shaking, and Robin wraps his arms around her, cradles her head with one hand and rocks her against him, his heart swelling with affection for this woman, this survivor. She'd told him the truth. She was surrounded by death, but it hadn't always been of her own making. And when he looks at her now, trembling in his arms, destroyed from the inside by her mess of a life, Robin wants to avenge her, to eliminate every damned person who has ever made her suffer.
He won't, but he promises to himself it'll never happen again. Never again will someone make her feel like she's unimportant, or worthless, or undeserving. He's going to give her the world, so long as she lets him.
When her tears have subsided, down to hiccups and sniffles, he brings one hand to her cheek, strokes her temple until she's looking at him with those beautiful chocolate eyes. Her hand covers his own, fingers intertwining with his, head canting to the side with that adorable frown she makes when she's thinking too much (he'd noticed last night, and again this morning, and he secretly loves it, loves how it gives her away even when she tries to make him believe she's fine).
"Come with me," he urges, hopeful that'll she'll accept this time, that she'll see this isn't another way to trap her.
For the first time this morning she smiles, sighs, "The King is still after me. He won't come here, not after all the guards I've killed, but if he learns I've left– Robin, if he learns there are people I care about–"
Robin cracks a grin at that, bumps his hip against hers playfully, "You care about me?" and the scowl she gives him in response widens his smirk, teeth dragging against his bottom lip.
She rolls her eyes, replies with an off-handed comment about how he knows what she means, and of course he does, so he schools his features back into a more serious expression. "Whatever happens, we'll face it together," he declares, and smiles, genuinely this time, willing her to take his offered hand, to leave with him and never come back to this place. To take her future into her own hands.
She does.
.
.
.
What saves the ghost is not True Love's Kiss as other grand tales put it. There are no rainbow lights spreading around them, no sense of fulfilment that they've defeated an unbreakable curse, no birds chirping or bells ringing. No unnecessary flourish to it.
But in every way that counts, it is True Love. The best of it.
She'd been lost, and broken. A lone soul fighting for survival, trying to mend its way in a place it didn't belong. There had been no spell to trap her inside the castle walls, only her own demons restraining her, a punishment for her soul she'd believed unworthy of a second chance.
But the moment her lips had met his, a flicker of light had erupted inside her and broken through the darkness that surrounded her heart. It was like breathing again after being underwater.
Her blackened heart remains, or so the legend says. It's still ugly and charred, for love doesn't erase the past, but it strengthens the small flame burning amidst the shadows, helps it to fight the darkness, to chase away the demons of the night.
It's the dawn of hope. And what was once black as coal slowly turns to red as it learns to love again.
It is said that this is where the ghost starts to heal, right here, in his embrace, his flesh against hers, two lone souls joining as one, tied by the red string of destiny, bound together by forces of nature, for the near and far future.
In every way that counts, it's a kiss born out of love that saves her, and it breaks the curse around her heart.
Rumour has it the ghost is gone now, and the Dark Castle empty.
Before it left, it lifted the curse on the land, allowing nature to bloom back to life, transforming the bleak ruins into a safe and welcoming shelter for animals and humans alike, a harbour, a place to seek help and refuge in dire times, to help people find their way.
Out of the shadows, flowers had grown, pinks and blues and whites, a colourful scheme bathing the castle in light and hope, filling the gardens with beautiful hues, pushing away the last remnants of thorns and spines.
The story ends with a message, a call to lost spirits trying to find peace. It guides them down the path to the ruins of a castle, where the once darkest of souls had found light. And gives them the one thing they need.
Hope.
Does the ghost get her happy ending?
No one knows. The legend doesn't say.
But for them to get their happy ending, the tale would have to end. And their story? It's just beginning.