Title: Your Queen
Author: Jules-Day
Unbeta'd: All mistakes are mine. Hopefully, I haven't butchered my beloved English language too badly.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not for profit. Yaddah yaddah yaddah. Y'all know the drill by now surely. I'll concede that I may have mooched off of Game of Thrones by the use of the term Watchman and having a King's Watch. Don't dob me in, please?
Spoilers? Nothing too overt, I should think. A small nod to 2x20 The Evil Queen and an assumption of Belle's role in Storybrooke at close of season 2, but apart from that there's not much specific reference to canon.
Author's note: This little one-shot was from a vague prompt I picked up about a month or two ago and of course, assessment season kicked in like mad since it was the end of the semester so I had to shelve it for the time being. But luckily for me (and for you maybe/hopefully), I've found some time to put this together. I'd like to say since it's in the perspective of an original character and I'm loose with references to canon I'd hope how I've interpreted things is received positively. Italics denote inner thoughts in 1st person. Constructive criticism is welcomed.
Warnings: Allusions to marital rape and mass murder. Short and not graphic, but they are nonetheless there so head's up.
Oh, and for those interested: Swan Queen if you really squint.
It is a cold night on patrol.
The wind faintly whistles through the open cracks, chilling you the bone. You keep watch over the entrance to Her Majesty's bedchamber; The King is taking his leave, red faced and in disarray, his eyes forward as he shuffles in haste down the dark corridor towards the East Wing. You think it has more to do with routine and circumstance than shame for his actions.
"You are not to be seen and not to be heard. That is the life of a Watchman."
The night is quiet once more. His Majesty's privileges sated. It is time to come to attention.
20 paces.
Left, right, left.
Parade Rest.
Rinse and repeat every ten minutes until the sun breaks the yoke.
You write home, exalting on the great honor it is to serve our mighty King and the diversion to be found in town, but the reality is that nights spent on patrol results in mornings of dead sleep into the afternoon. The monotony is a daily struggle to contend with. Is this all there is or will ever be?
It was a young boy's idealism, blind devotion and an ingrained sense of duty that incited your decision to join the King's Watch. How quickly the tide turns when you are unavoidably privy to the grunts and struggles beyond those doors. You feel it is a small grace that His Majesty does not often visit.
Your feet are killing you and you really should have just eaten that last morsel of chimera instead of passing it off to Claude's bottomless pit to devour.
A party rages on in the main hall as His Majesty welcomes dignitaries from the South.
20 paces.
Left, right, left.
Parade Rest.
Your senses go on high alert as the sound of leaves rustling just over to the left of your position becomes pronounced. You sigh in relief that it is merely the Queen who appears in the garden. It does not seem that she has noticed your presence. But then, why would she? You shake your head clear of those treasonous thoughts.
The chill in the air compels her to wrap the thick shawl tightly across her body as she gingerly walks among the honeysuckles. You are transfixed. You always are when she is near. You cannot help it; there is something about her that intrigues you. You think it might be the dim in her eyes or the slump of her shoulders when she thinks no one is watching her. When she is not performing for the public to lap up the fairytale of the savior of the young Princess who became Queen of the realm, you think bitterly.
It is disconcerting to you how often these dangerous emotions seem to flare up. You are a part of the King's Watch and your loyalty should be unquestionable. And yet, here you are staring longingly at the increasingly melancholy Queen as she gazes up at the stars. You pause and consider the prudence of making your presence known to her.
The Queen has always been kind to you. A smile and a nod greets you every morning as she exits her bedchambers. Your name on her lips as she bids you a good evening before retiring. It makes you feel like more than a lump of steel, leather and chainmail that is meant to meld with the wall and nothing else.
You unknowingly must have made some noise because suddenly she is staring right at you. You flush in embarrassment at being caught looking at the Queen, though thankfully she cannot see it through the facemask on your helmet. She offers a raised eyebrow and a quirk of the mouth before gracefully settling on the stone bench near the roses.
"At ease, Loren. I don't bite." She turns and looks at you over her shoulder as she taps the space next to her. You are momentarily left stunned that she has invited you to sit with her but make no move towards her though as you internally battle with your sense of propriety.
"I can hear you squirming in those clodhoppers. You can rest for a moment. I slipped away, unnoticed of course. There's no need for rigid formalities while we're alone." She rolls her eyes and smirks, "I won't tell if you won't in turn." She spares you a last look before turning back towards the rose bushes.
Sweat breaks on your brow as you war with yourself. Do you stay at attention or do you break your post and sit with the Queen herself?
Your feet thank you as soon as you maneuver the heavy armor into a comfortable position, a safe distance away from Her Majesty. She may have offered you a seat but that does not mean you can throw out all sense of decorum and respect. You sit in companionable silence for what seems an age, though it was probably no more than fifteen minutes. To you time appeared to stand still.
The faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air long after she has taken her leave, quietly thanking you for your company and discretion. You shake yourself out of the stupor you have fallen into and return to your position at the edge of the garden.
She is so unhappy here. Does no one else see that?
There is something about that Genie from Abgribah that rubs you the wrong way. You scowl at his constant hovering around Her Majesty.
The King is dead. Long live the Queen.
Snow White is on the run for murder, treason and treachery.
You ensure the Queen is secure and safe before you gather with your platoon and take off into the forest in search of the enemy of the state.
Hunting Snow White is taking its toll.
You are not sure how much more of this you can take. The Queen seems to have gone mad with vengeance, and for what exactly? What did the young princess do? You have thought once or twice about asking Her Majesty but the deep and excruciating misery expressed in her hard brown eyes makes you reconsider the impertinence every time.
You have spent too long travelling across the Enchanted Forest, searching the homes of innocent villagers and following the leads of spies and squealers alike, to no avail. No stone has been left unturned and yet, there is no sign of Snow White.
Your body is weary as you come to a rest on the side of a welcomed creek for the night. Privately, you have begun to question Her Majesty's orders. In all the years you had been in the King's Watch, the young princess had been no more than proud and no less cordially polite, that which befitted her station. Her love for her father was undisputed and hence Snow White assassinating the father she loved so dearly has never sat well with you. It is often in the cold dead of night, when your comrades in arms laugh and drink, enjoying the merriment of the spoils of war, that you wonder if you are once again that young village boy, driven by blind devotion, a sense of duty and a false idealism of the monarch.
It troubles you that your fealty to your Queen has begun to waver. It has crept in day by day and the churn in your stomach is gradually becoming a constant unsettling occurrence.
The hopeless begging for mercy.
The harrowing screams of pain.
The pungent stench of blood and piss.
You are sure they will haunt you forever as the bodies strewn carelessly atop one another across the forest floor seemingly burn an imprint of the butchery into your brain. The bloodstained sword in your hand sags along the salted earth while your breaths of exertion appear deafening. The pounding between your temples manifests suddenly as the scene before you becomes too much to bear.
What have I done?
The roiling in your gut overcomes you as you rush from the carnage, extricating yourself from the bindings of your armor along the way.
Sword.
Helmet.
Gauntlets.
Breastplate.
Chainmail.
You nearly trip over a stray decaying log, catching yourself with the rough bark of a low hanging tree branch before violently hurling the contents of your stomach until you are left dry heaving and trembling. It shames you that you have been reduced to the wracking sobs that are all the more dishonorable as they break through the ominous quiet of the woods.
Is this all there is or will ever be?
You're in the middle of digging up Mitchell Herman's backyard when it happens.
Knee deep in earth and clay a jolt passes through your entire being, leaving behind a sudden awareness. You drop the shovel in your calloused hand and shake your head to clear the haze that's seems to have overtaken your brain. With new eyes you gaze upon your surroundings, confusion rippling through your senses. A flood of memories overtakes your consciousness.
You're not a landscaper. This isn't your home. These aren't your clothes.
You look down at the nametag. Truman?
You climb out of the ditch and dust off the dirt from your jumpsuit.
Walking around towards the front of no. 431 you see other residents of Storybrooke milling about in the street; some bewildered, others joyful, evidently reuniting with old friends and family. A few seem to stare at you intently as you join among their ranks. You know they are failing miserably at trying to put a name to your face. You politely smile at them as you make your way through the throng of people to your pickup truck.
As you drive through town it looks as if everyone has awakened from their dormancy. Over by the hardware store are Miss Blanchard and David Nolan- or rather, Snow White and her Prince Charming- passionately kissing in the middle of the road. You'd smile if it didn't cause a sharp pain to course through you at the sight of them finding each other once more.
Mayor Mills. My Queen.
You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment, ridding yourself of the pull to servitude and force yourself to drive on home instead. To return to your Queen's side would be tantamount to insanity. She cursed the Enchanted Forest, you included, to an unknown land. Your memories, your life wiped away because Her Majesty's pain couldn't be remedied or her anger soothed.
As you amble up the path towards your front door you pause and take note of the small comfortable house you've called home all these years. The perfectly manicured garden that is your pride and joy. The rickety swing chair on the porch with the soft knitted throw blanket that's seen better days.
The door swings open and you lock eyes with Storybrooke's Mrs Lance Truman.
Oh, boy.
The two in your head are warring.
It took some time to settle back into a routine.
The upheaval brought on by Peter Pan had finally been resolved. Belle gratefully stepped down from command. You liked her well enough. She seemed lovely, but the administration required in this world was clearly not her forte and the poor girl had been desperate for the return of the merry band of Charmings to relieve her of her duties.
Snow White picked up the responsibilities at City Hall soon after. It didn't turn out as disastrously as one might suspect it could've, given that she had probably never spent much time having to worry about the minutiae and trivialities of running a kingdom back in the old world. But of course, Her Majesty had much to do with that, you concede.
However, two months, several fruitless council meetings and a burst water main that took far longer than it should've to repair saw the town voting for a Deputy Mayor. You couldn't help but smile when the nominations were announced.
Candidate 1: Regina Mills
Candidate 2: Keith Shire
Regina herself had restored the Sheriff of Nottingham's tongue. The better to soundly expose incompetence during the debate with, so said Red of Regina's motives and soon after had led the way in adorning Granny's and most of the town with 'Vote Mills' posters. Apparently Red, Regina and Dr Whale of all people were drinking buddies now. Wonders never cease.
It surprised you that Her Majesty would deign to be Snow White's inferior as Deputy. You surmised that the Sheriff and young Henry had further developed the thawing of relations between old enemies since everyone's return from Neverland. Of course, rumor had it that the business end of things would lay with the Deputy's office and the Mayor would be left to deal with all of the PR and any interactions with the constituents.
Despite her efforts, many were still wary of Regina but all had to begrudgingly admit that while she had been Mayor for 28 years the town had run like a well-oiled machine. They can and do say whatever they want about the Evil Queen, but it was undeniable that Regina Mills was 'devoted to the sustainment of a flourishing Storybrooke'. You're quite thankful campaign season is now over.
It was no surprise when she was elected in a landslide.
Your eyes shift towards the back corner at Granny's where the Sheriff is currently regaling her son and the new Deputy Mayor with a colorful story by the looks of it. You think back to the withering glares and biting words the former Mayor Mills would have in store for her daily tussles with Emma Swan.
Wonders never do cease.
Laughter rings out across the diner as you watch her unreservedly throw her head back and then wipe a tear from the corner of her eyes full of mirth. They seem to gleam brighter when Swan leans over to snag a piece of strawberry off Regina's plate. She chuckles at her clumsiness as the Sheriff ends up with the cuff of her red leather jacket dipped in maple syrup.
You've been staring in their direction for too long, as suddenly your gaze is met head on with curious brown eyes. Her expression seems to turn wistful for a moment before she turns back toward her son as he pulls on her sleeve.
Enough dawdling for one day, Truman.
You fork out some bills for your breakfast and a generous tip for Red before pulling on your dusty jacket. A parting glance over to the Swan-Mills table catches her eyes once more. An imperceptible nod comes your way before she shifts focus back to her family.
The crisp air is welcoming as it clears your head while you walk to work. Day by day the old world bleeds out of your consciousness. The ties that bind have slowly but surely loosened and perhaps it's finally time to break free of them once and for all.
She's happy and for you, that is enough.