Staring blankly down at the novel in her hands, Regina reads the same line over and over again, unable to focus as the stifling, awkward air of the dining hall pricks her skin. She closes the book gently and sets it on the table, looking across the mahogany to catch a glimpse of her son, Prince Henry, who picks sadly at the great Christmas feast before him. She had slaved all day over it, shooing the cooks and servants away to hold on to some semblance of normality in their lives. Silver platters of duck and spiced ham work as the centerpiece, with dozens of side dishes surrounding them – beans, potatoes, a multitude of breads, cranberry sauce, stuffing. It doesn't particularly surprise Regina, though, that despite preparing all day, neither of them has the appetite to eat it; their stomachs are soured by loneliness.
Regina clears her throat and speaks, trying to cut through the unbearable silence. "How is your meal, Henry?" she asks.
Henry rolls a piece of sausage from the stuffing around his plate and mumbles with his eyes cast down, "It's good. Thanks."
Sighing quietly, she stares warmly at her son and takes in the sight before her. His hair has grown longer over the year, bangs sweeping over his forehead and into his eyes. The baby cheeks have thinned to reveal pronounced cheekbones that remind her of Emma. He is destined to far surpass her height, having grown almost half a foot over several months. She smiles meekly. The little baby boy she held in her arms eons ago has grown into a handsome Prince.
"She's not coming home, is she?" It's not the question so much as the harsh tone of it that startles Regina.
"Henry I-" She doesn't want to lie to him. He's old enough now to understand the concept of war and the knights' duties when it comes to it. The White Knight, the head of the Queen's army, is his birth mother, and as much as she wants to sugarcoat things, there's a pang of guilt in her chest at the thought of lying to him. "I don't know, Henry." It isn't necessarily a lie. It's only eight o' clock, there are still several hours left to this Christmas day; there are still several hundred minutes, several hundred chances for Emma to return to them.
Henry sighs and picks at his food once more, resting his cheek against his knuckles.
It hurts, seeing her son so desperate and lonely despite the fact that she's here. But her presence isn't good enough. It never was. It never will be.
"I have something for you," Regina informs, pushing back her chair and standing. The skirts of her lavish emerald Christmas gown swish as she moves toward the giant Christmas tree in the corner of the hall. She bunches the dress up slightly and squats, grabbing a medium sized box wrapped in silver and red with a matching bow taped to the top. Smiling, she walks over to Henry, her heels clicking against the flooring of the castle, and sits to the right of him. "Merry Christmas." She places the gift before him and waits for him to open it.
Waiting with baited breath, her heart gallops in her chest as she watches Henry's fingers curl carefully around the bow and he begins to unwrap the present. There is a warmth, a twinkle in his eye she hasn't seen in months, as he opens the box and sees his gift for the first time. His mouth curls up in a smile and she almost melts. He traces the binding of the gift with his thumbs and reads the title aloud. "Sir Duncan's Guide to Sword Fighting."
Regina pulls her chair around the corner of the table and rests a hand on his forearm. "You had mentioned an interest in such arts." She looks down at the book and then to her son. "I know Emma had promised to teach you, but-" Her voice cracks and she looks away, focusing on a candelabra across the room.
She closes her eyes and steadies her breathing, anticipating an onslaught of anger on Henry's part at the mention of his absent birth mother. Instead, he takes her hand and squeezes it slightly. "Do you miss her?" His voice is a tad bit higher than usual, taking on an innocent, almost childish tone.
Regina turns her head and meets her son's gaze. Temporarily, the dark circles of worry under his eyes are trumped by the lively hazel glow of his irises. She doesn't even think about her response; she merely gives Henry's hand a squeeze and says, "Yes, Henry. I do."
Months ago, she'd have fought to answer Henry's question. Now, her admission comes easily and her heart beats faster at the thought of their White Knight.
She blushes and stands, resting her hand on Henry's shoulder before taking her leave. Stopping beneath the doorframe, she looks over her shoulder to catch a final glimpse of her son before she retires for the evening. "Goodnight, Henry. Merry Christmas." She turns forward and prepares to walk away when Henry's voice, cracking slightly with emotion and the cusp of puberty, slices through the silence.
"Hey Mom?"
Her breath catches in her throat at the use of that word, so rarely used any more. Not 'Majesty', not 'Your Highness', not even 'Regina' – but Mom.
She turns her whole body this time and their eyes meet once more. "Yes, Henry?"
There's hesitation evident in his features, as if he wants to pour his heart and soul. Regina simply waits, resting her hip on the doorframe. Her arms itch as an overwhelming need to hold her son pulls at her. However, she remains still.
"Uh…thanks." He holds up the leather bound book and smiles weakly. "Merry Christmas."
"You're welcome, Henry."
With her skirts pulled up slightly in her hand, she walks out of the dining hall to the center staircase and ascends them, making her way toward her private chambers. She longs for a bath, her arches burning from standing in her heels all day. Opening the towering doors to her quarters, she steps in and, after closing them behind her, rushes over to her bed and slumps against the mattress. She closes her eyes and exhales loudly through her nose.
When the declaration of war had been made, Queen Regina had expected a prompt victory on her army's part. Led by Emma Swan, the Savior of all of Storybrooke, defeat seemed out of the question. And yet, ten months later and half of her army dead or wounded, the war against The Dark One's army continues on.
Emma has written them as much as possible, assuring the Lords and Ladies of the Queen's court that, despite the setbacks, they are doing well. Only one month more, she always promises.
But then Regina receives her private letters.
Regina, Emma writes in her messy scrawl, His army is stronger than we expected. He doesn't play fair, using magic that we can't even come close to combating. We're nowhere near the end of this war. We'll be lucky if we can come to some resolution within the next year.
I will be home for Christmas, Regina. I miss my son. I miss my life back at the castle, training the armies and learning to horseback ride. I will be home. No war will keep me from there.
- Emma
PS: I miss you too, Regina.
Regina bites her lower lip roughly to hold back tears.
She stands, set on taking a bath. She reaches behind and pulls down the long zipper that trails from between her shoulder blades to the small of her back. The emerald silk of her gown pools around her ankles and shimmers below the candlelight. Carefully, she reaches up and finds the dozens of pins fastened in her hair, grabbing them between her nails and placing them into a small jar on her dresser with a soft 'clink'. Her shoulder length tresses fall loosely around her face and down her neck. Scratching at her sore scalp with her nails, she moves across the room toward her bathing chambers.
She flips on the hot water – indoor plumbing was a luxury she'd grown accustomed to in Storybrooke, and she'd demanded that the technology be transferred to her Kingdom – and waits a few moments for it to collect in the bath. Steam fills the room and fogs the numerous mirrors nailed to the walls. She walks over to the tub, sitting on the edge of it, and turns the stream off. She stands and tests the water with her fingertips. Content with the temperature, she carefully steps in and moans as the water envelops her body. She leans against the back of the tub and closes her eyes, letting the warmth slowly massage her muscles.
Exhaustion consumes her and she begins to doze, dreaming about her son and her White Knight.
Half asleep, she hears a crash from outside her bathing chambers and she jolts awake. She rubs at her eyes with the back of her hands and looks around groggily. The shadow of a body is cast across the door of the room and she narrows her eyes, confused and hazy.
And then she sees it. The halo of blonde curls. The thin silhouette of the Savior.
Emma.
"Emma?" she calls out, sitting up from the tub. Little droplets of water trickle down her skin and she becomes overtly aware of her nudity. She shivers.
'I'm asleep,' she thinks to herself, pinching at her thighs. But Emma's form doesn't disappear. Instead, it becomes more prominent as she steps into the light of the room and smiles.
"Shh, it's me," Emma says softly, pulling her leather trousers down along with her cotton blouse. Regina watches in disbelief as the blonde steps over to the tub and carefully settles in behind her, the water splashing slightly over the top with the added weight. Strong legs lay on either side of her and arms snake around her waist. "I said I'd be home, right?" the Savior whispers against her neck before pressing a few soft kisses against it.
Regina blinks down at the limbs around her and, dipping her finger beneath the pool of water, traces up Emma's ankle and shin. She brushes over a patch of dark bruises just below the younger woman's knee. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," Emma assures.
Regina nods and leans back into the blonde's arms. Emma's touch wanders, moving from the brunette's stomach to gently caress full breasts. She squeezes softly, and Regina whimpers in response. Emma's touch is faint and she trembles beneath it. Who would have known that Emma Swan of all people would reduce her to a quivering mess?
Leaning her head back against Emma's shoulder, she closes her eyes and arches into the younger woman's touch. It remains soft as it trails down her stomach to between her legs and strokes her lightly. The Queen and her White Knight whimper in unison.
Regina grabs Emma's free hand and tangles their fingers together. Squeezing tight as Emma pushes into her, her lips part and a breathy moan fills the room.
"I miss you," the blonde whispers before leaving a chain of kisses across the older woman's shoulder.
"I-" Regina's stomach muscles tighten and her clit throbs. Hearing Emma's voice after so long practically sends her over the edge, let alone the feel of the knight's fingertips stroking her. She grips Emma's hand for dear life, knowing if she lets go, she will slip away. Tears burn her eyes.
She's close, so close, and she digs her nails hard into pale flesh. It feels so real, Emma's hot breath on the back of her neck, the pads of her fingers teasing her. But Regina knows the truth. "Don't go," she whimpers, her eyes squeezed shut so tight it makes her temples throb.
"I have to."
"Please. It's Christmas. We need you."
"I'm sorry. Soon."
"Please, Emma, don't-"
The clock chimes loudly and it startles her from her slumber. The caress of Emma's fingers, the warmth of another body is gone.
The clock bellows twelve times, signaling the start of the new day.
It is December 26th, and Regina's White Knight never came home.