A/N: This AU was born sometime ago and was sitting between my folders. Still quite unsure about it, though. It's inspired by the tv series Outlander - with a different setting, because it's more fun, isn't it? Enjoy and drop me a word, if you want - it's always appreciated!
1
The Veil of Time
My name is Regina Mills, and this is the story of how I died.
Well, I didn't really die. I disappeared.
But when you disappear for years, that's what your loved ones assume, that you're dead. I don't know how much time should pass before their hearts reach this conclusion. Some never stop believing you're alive, in some way. Others have a point in time where they simply stop thinking you can come back to them.
English and American laws declare a person dead after seven years from the disappearance. It's called death in absentia.
Seven years are fast to pass, when you're searching for someone.
.::.
Daniel is buying a newspaper and his usual cigarettes, when she comes back from the toilet. A worried frown is marring his features, as his eyes skim the first page. He doesn't lift his eyes, hearing the familiar sound of her heels on the floor tiles, and that's how she knows something is wrong.
"What's up, babe?" she says, nearing him, placing her chin on his shoulder to read the news.
"Another terroristic attack," he sighs. She can see the capital letters right in the middle of the page. This time, it was in Germany. She doesn't manage to read much more, because he folds the Times quickly, turning to kiss her cheek. "Shall we go, my love?"
The prospect of finally exiting the airport is very much appealing, and Regina nods, letting him take her hand and lead her away.
They take a cab – the usual black car they use here in London – she looks out of the window, observes the city slide next to her. London again, after all those years, London with her husband, just like last time. Daniel is tapping the newspaper on his legs, with a nervous rhythm that has her squeeze her eyes in annoyance.
It's still early – not even eight in the morning, and the City seems to be still sleepy, even if it's somehow buzzing with activity. But Regina is used to New York, and to Boston, and there's something about European capitals that's weirdly attractive.
She glances at her husband – he doesn't notice, for he's busy watching the Thames beside the road, and she feels a rush of affection for him – the way he's observing the city, the way he's always caring and attentive with her, the way he just gives her his love without asking for something in return. She loves him, of course. Even this irritating habit of tapping his fingers on the pages. She stares at the date – it's almost 2017, almost Christmas, she has agreed to this trip because Daniel doesn't get a furlough from the Army very often.
And honestly, the thought of spending Christmas with Mother is a horrible perspective.
She can almost hear her – Mother and her remarks about everything, from Regina's appearances to her job, from her childless life to the fact she has married a soldier, who isn't home for the largest part of the year. (Honestly, it's almost like she's single, at this point. Home, the hospital where she works, sometimes a few drinks with Kathryn.)
She loves Daniel, she does. But sometimes she wonders, what does he do when he's not with her?
.::.
Their hotel is fancier than she's thought – they immediately put to good use the bed, because he starts kissing her as soon as they're alone. He teases, at first, nibbling at her earlobe, sending shivers down her spine. He breathes a greedy I love you against her skin, and Regina smiles – this is what she misses most, when he's away – this is what Skype calls can't give her, the connection, the intimacy.
The bed creaks when she pushes him above it, with a sly grin, and he undresses her with the care and love she's fallen in love with years ago.
"Come here, darling," he calls for her, always so gentle, and she complies, choosing to let go her worries, to get lost into him – she always has a bit of performance anxiety, because she knows what he wants. She knows he wants a son, she knows they've tried for years and she knows she doesn't have problems in that sense, because she took a fertility test without telling him. But she couldn't get him to try one for himself. I don't have any problem, babe, he has told her.
So she kisses him, and tries to let go, but letting go doesn't come easy, when you've nowhere to go to.
.::.
"It's just a few hours, Regina," he says, fixing his tie in front of the mirror. "I'm all yours, after that."
She's sitting on the bed – tightens the knot of her bathrobe, bare feet dangling lazily. "Do you really have to meet this guy today? At New Year's Eve?"
"I promise, it will be quick – and we can meet at the restaurant after I'm done, say at… half past seven?"
"Okay," she replies. She's still annoyed by this meeting affair, but manages to muster a smile up for his sake, feels his beard scrub lightly on her cheek when he leans on to kiss it, and watches the door close after him.
Her day is slow and boring.
She gets dressed – a double-breasted coat, her favorite skirt, high heels and – yes, the weather of this town forces her to surrender to a warm sweater, gloves and scarf. Then, she leaves the hotel, thinking she can very well waste some money in a cab to get to the center.
The London Eye is not so fascinating for someone who fears heights, but a stroll along the Thames is a welcoming thought. She doesn't feel like a tourist, though. They're everywhere, taking pictures, smiling at their selfies, pointing at the Big Ben. She feels an outsider, a stranger. She feels separated from them, as if she's watching them from the other side of a veil.
After a while, she gets bored again – it's not like it's so funny, to walk around all by yourself. So it's time for a late lunch, and to go explore the unknown, characteristic little streets. Wandering, without a destination.
She buys some stuff – an elegant scarf for Kathryn, a mug with a printed English flag for Mother – oh she'll hate it, she thinks with a smirk. Tea shops, postcards, all of those touristic attractions, she skips them all. At six, she gets a message from Daniel.
Hey, sweetheart, I don't know if I can make it before nine. I'm sorry – you can go to the restaurant and start, if you want. Love you, xX
She frowns, can't help that little pang of delusion and hurt across her heart. She tells herself to get over it, to stop being so childish. She knows she always is his priority, after all – he gave her his word, before their marriage. It's you, always, my love. Before the Army, before everything and everyone.
She wonders if he remembers.
Maybe it's the message – maybe it's her bruised heart, but something brings her to stop in front of the weird shop at the corner of the narrow alley. She wouldn't have spared it a glance, but her head is pounding, her blood quickens its pace, when she passes near it. Her head turns, curiosity feels her mind.
There's no sign above the entrance, and the window glass is dirty and dusty. It's getting cold, outside – a weird, chilly wind has just begun to blow. Regina represses a shiver, and pushes the door, hearing a collection of bells jingle above her head. There's nothing festive, nothing Christmassy, in this shop. It's almost like time has stopped, here – at the time of witches and of the Inquisition. It's so dark, she can't quite grasp all the details.
There's something, here. Something that gives her a deep, primal fear. Fear of the unknown, maybe.
She takes a step – her heels make the wooden floor squeak. Her eyes try to take in the room, but it's the smell she feels first. Herbs, and incense, and – liquor? Smoke?
It's a strange sensation, as if her entire being is telling her to back out. She stops – before she can even move a muscle, she's startled by a voice.
"Come in, please, dear."
Everything in her mind is screaming No, don't go, turn back. Everything rational is disagreeing with her legs walking towards the source of the voice – her rationality fades a little more at every step.
There's a flouncy curtain, made of veils and pearls, which separates her from the voice – as if she's hypnotized, she watches her own hand lift it, slowly.
"Come, don't be shy. Let me look at you."
The room is drowning in smoke – she can barely distinguish a figure, sitting at a table. An old lady, grey curly hair, black dress. She looks like a witch.
The first word that crosses her mind is cliché. Everything is a cliché here, from the magical sphere with violet smoke swirling inside, at the middle of the table, to the mirrors hung to the walls, to the low candles everywhere. Even the ancient, instrumental music – pervading her soul.
"Sit."
.::.
Later in my life, I would have reasoned on why I kept following the old lady's orders. I guess some things just have to happen, and there's nothing rational, nothing that makes sense. Nothing of what we do can stop them from happening. Some of us are skeptical – me included – and will try to fight against their faith with every ounce of will they possess.
I remember one detail. Before entering, I was fiddling with my wedding ring – the one Daniel has given to me all those years ago. I guess some small, hidden part of me knew that what I was about to do – it would have changed my world completely.
.::.
The witch has taken her hand; her old, wrinkled fingers running above her palm.
"A marriage, no children," she starts, without looking at her in the eyes. Regina stays silent, without voicing the thoughts that are swimming in her mind. "But I see another marriage – and more children than you can possibly and humanly bear, my dear.
"I see desperation, wars, tears and loneliness.
"But if you'll be able to grasp what's good in your future, you can also have joy."
Regina stares at the witch – nothing is even remotely possible or bound to happen, between her words. This was a bad idea, a stupid idea, she scolds herself. She doesn't even know how much this visit will cost her.
"You have an interesting hand, my dear. I see a great capacity of caring for others, but also a great potential for darkness, if it's fed…"
Something jolts, inside of her – she retreats her hand, as if she's been burnt.
"Let's try with the tea leaves, shall we?"
Before she can even utter a word – no, she doesn't want to try with the tea leaves, thank you so much – the witch is rotating a tea cup in her hand, and overturning it above a small plate.
"Ah yes, the stranger," she nods, her eyes shining. "Even if it's more than one – or maybe it's you, my dear."
She inclines the cup, the leaves shift slightly. "The lion," she declares. "A very rare figure, paired with the sun – oh, you'll be very lucky, you know…"
"I don't feel so lucky, in this moment," Regina mutters. The witch doesn't seem to have heard her – she has lost interest in the tea cup, and she's getting up, her chair trembling when relieved from her weight.
"I have another way to see what the future holds for you," she says, her back turned, searching for something inside an old cupboard. "I happen to think New Year's Eve is a very good moment for… new beginnings, don't you?"
When she finds what she's searching for, she lets out a satisfied sound. It's massive – but it looks frail, and elegant, and strong, all together. It's a mirror, and it's very different if compared to the cheaper imitations that shine from the walls.
The old lady finds a support – places it on the table, and Regina can see her reflection, confused in the haze of colorful smoke that surrounds her.
"This, truth be told, is something you shall do alone," the witch says, with a final tone, and looks at her intently. "I'll give you some time – good luck, Regina."
Before she can ask how she knows her name – the witch is gone, and she's there alone, in front of the mirror.
.::.
This is so stupid, she thinks.
She can see herself, and nothing more – she can see the fog in the room, the glowing candles, but she absolutely can't see her future, or whatever it is that the witch wants her to see.
She keeps staring at her reflection, concentrating – even if every fiber of her being is telling her how stupid she is for believing to this, her hand lifts to touch the frame of the mirror.
"How does it work, hmm?" she murmurs, her finger tracing the silvery emblazonments. She blinks, trying to shake her head off the confusing mist. There's a pull, an attraction that brings her closer to the mirror. Her face still is the only real thing she can see, but inside the mirror, the fog is rotating more quickly.
Her right hand is on the frame, but her left hand goes up to trace the other half.
Her eyes widen slowly, in the mirror, when she lifts her fingers from the frame, and keeps them suspended in the air.
Don't be stupid, it's just a mirror, she thinks. But there's a voice, or a feeling, inside of her – it says that if she touches it, something will happen. Her heartbeat fastens – her fingers near the glistening surface, slowly.
She stops just shy of brushing it – her eyes fixated on her fingers – then, she takes a deep breath, and finally makes contact.
.
It's light, darkness, and flashes of light, and black spots.
.
The world starts spinning, her insides start screaming – and she closes her eyes, falling, falling down – it's not the shop's floor that meets her after a second, as she expects, but the fall continues – it's cold, and hot, and painful, it's her limbs being teared apart from all angles, it's her head cracking open and her finger burning, but she doesn't let go.
.
She falls, and sees her life pass backwards in front of her eyes.
Not once she stops screaming.
.
Until she does.