The walk had turned dreary after the first day – the sudden reappearance of the better part of the kingdom's populace was celebrated, news was exchanged on both sides, and then conversation seemed to wear out by the mile until all that remained was a muted shuffle towards the castle and occasional calls back from the men in the vanguard.
It was the shock of jumping between worlds, Robin supposed, that quietened them so.
He hadn't been able to fix his mind entirely around their stories, still puzzling over lives that had sounded by turns wondrous and terrible, but he had heard enough to know it was more than exhaustion that bowed their heads. They had said nothing of loss, and yet – and yet (he knew) they bore the look of it, the hush of it, down to a man.
Down to a woman, too.
His eyes traveled up to squared shoulders three lines ahead of him, an easy resting spot despite the distance, and she, even clothed entirely in black, seemed the one live spark of color in the whole wood.
Regina walked alone, given uneasy berth in all directions, and out of all of them she seemed indefatigable.
From the back there was little to read of her except rich softness: silk, velvet, brocade, and Robin was putting names to fabrics he could scarce imagine the touch of under calloused fingertips. She might be no more than a fine lady (a Queen, he reminded with a quirk of his lips, and one particular of her titles) except for the fabled blackness of her heart, and the fire in every inch of her, delicate and sharp as the high-heeled shoes that sometimes flashed from beneath the hem of her skirts.
Her pace was constant, pressing, and he wondered if there was a kind of magic (there must be) that guarded her against turned ankles, or a tumble that could easily end in a broken neck.
What other kinds of magic were at work he wouldn't guess, but he could not otherwise explain how his attention wandered to her so, called back and back again with a sense of intimate knowledge that might frighten him if he stopped to understand it.
Much of the party had been dumped into clothes unsuited for the journey, and, rejecting any semblance of ceremony, had promptly begun unbuttoning shirts and trading cloaks until everyone was outfitted in comfort.
The Queen, of course, had made no such changes, and when Robin proffered her a spare shirt and breeches to replace her bloodied gown, she had thrown them back into his chest with something vehement about forests and peasants.
Snow White had given him an apologetic, if strained, smile and hurried after her, calling, "Regina, wait!" while he kept his tongue clamped down to stop his laughter.
She was fearsome, all right, this Queen, but peeking through that ire was a woman he thought he might do well to know, for all her stubbornness. She held herself quietly when she wasn't questioning orders or threatening violence, and Robin recognized something in those moments, something in her, that felt almost… kindred.
She had secrets, hidden passageways behind her eyes (behind her heart), and not all of them were dark.
He followed Regina's movements attentively then, watching for signs of regret or discomfort, and she side-stepped them all, heavy skirts and unsteady heels be damned.
During the second midday break Robin lost sight of her long enough to worry – the flying monkeys still hung close, and she had shown a reckless disregard for her life more than once already. After settling Roland between John and Belle and murmuring something about fetching water, he backtracked away from the crowd to the relative quietude of the brook they had passed minutes before.
He found her sat on log, eyes half-closed and feet slowly circling under her gown, and when he noticed her discarded heels propped against the wood he wondered if she might concede the point at last.
"M'lady?" he tested, and she bristled, one eye cracking fully open to glare up at him. "Is there something I might assist you with?"
The pause, unblinking on her part, was so lengthy he didn't imagine she would actually respond, and then, sniffing, Regina nodded to her shoes and said, "Pebble."
"Ah," he answered, desperately glad that she was no longer looking at him because he couldn't tuck his grin back behind his lips quick enough. She'd said the word as if he was the annoyance she spoke of, and he was, at that, he mused – the proverbial stone underfoot, the thief who simply couldn't take a hint.
Robin excused himself, not that the Queen even pretended to listen, and used the clamor that came with trying to feed several scores of people as cover while he stole over to the Merry Men's stake of camp and began digging through the collection of their gear.
He kept a watchful eye to the side, another lie ready on his tongue should anyone question his search (new leather to fix the faulty strap of his quiver, that was what he was after), but he found them at last, uninterrupted: a pair of boots that looked like they might be small enough to fit a rather petite woman.
They weren't pretty in the slightest, probably over-large still, and Regina wouldn't thank him for his interference even if she deigned to wear them (he had his doubts). But they were functional and a sight more suitable for walking in than those ridiculous spikes of hers that sank inch-deep into the road with every step.
He hoped whichever lad had packed the boots had no cause to miss them, though it was (should be) commonly accepted that possessions were never certain in the company of thieves – however honorable their pursuits might be.
Robin's pack was big enough to hold them, just, and he rejoined the line without drawing any unwarranted glances. He'd missed the meal, of course, and now his stomach stretched painfully thin, but it was nothing insupportable until the extra weight on his shoulder began to wear on him too, and he was forced to consider his had been a foolish plan after all.
The Queen would not accept his gift, any more than she had accepted his hand after the monkey attack, and what could he do, what was there to do, but give it anyway, and hope.
He'd seen it in her at the brook, in the hurry with which she had sought privacy and thrown off her shoes, the need of it greater than hunger (she'd missed the meal too, he knew) or the impulse to snap at him, without which she seemed almost tame.
She was hurting, that much was clear, and gambling her safety over uneven ground, and Robin suspected it was nothing but pride that kept her from limping.
And it burned him, not anger but concern he had little claim to, that she should be so careless with – well, with everything, but it was the carelessness with herself that made his grip tighten around the strap of his pack.
Night would come, the thieving hours, and it fell to Robin to leave this gift in anonymity (would she guess his hand in it?) and in darkness and watch how it was taken.
He thought again of hidden passageways, and that he was daring (likely stupid) enough to brave their unknown, and he wondered what awaited him at the end of their twistings, where daylight touched down once more.
…
He was too interested in that night's supper, a half-bowl of stew (and the last scrapings of Roland's portion besides, though it couldn't fill him) spooned up in huge, choking bites, to look up when he felt eyes on him.
The lad had marked the absence of his spare boots, curse it all, and a low buzz of interest and suspicion had begun to circulate around the camp. Robin had nudged his bag further into the shadows with a stretch of his foot, and no one had taken notice – no one except very possibly Snow, who was still staring at him when he raised his head.
One eyebrow twitched, and she bobbed her gaze to the ground between them and back, just pointed enough to let him know he was lost.
But she said nothing, and her look was one of satisfied conspiracy. They understood each other, then, and Robin was glad of it, to have a person who shared his watch.
Roland was yawning, face blank and eyes half-lidded under his mess of curls, and Robin nodded his goodnights to the group and guided his son to their bedrolls, away from the main cooking fire but still in the thick of camp.
Roland wasn't tired enough (so he said) to find sleep without a bedtime story, and Robin sat on his heels beside him and spoke of an evil witch – queen on the tip of his tongue, just caught before it spilled out – who made herself a dragon and breathed fire over the land, a princess held in endless sleep, and the knight with love true enough to break the spell.
"What happened to her, papa? To the witch?"
And Robin brushed the boy's hair back, tipping Roland over the threshold of wakefulness with his question unanswered, because that part of the story Robin had never learned.
...
He crept into Regina's corner of the camp, farthest from the others, when it reached full-dark, following the scattering of bedrolls as they thinned out, then ceased entirely, before he found her.
One woman small under her blankets, who seemed to have nothing in this world but the shoes lying beside her in the dirt, and now a pair of (probably) ill-fitting boots, and Robin wished he had something more to bring.
He lined the boots next to her heels, tempted to steal those away and make the decision for her, but with every movement, every second he stood over her instead of resting beside his son, he worried his sleeve would catch on some edge of hers he hadn't yet seen.
The Queen was awake and listening to his intrusion, he was sure of it, from the way she held her breathing and her back rigid, and he waited for the moment her voice (or a lick of her fire) would come crashing down on his head.
It didn't.
It never did.
And in the morning he tried not to watch Regina too closely when she approached the cooking fire, as regally attired as ever, and accepted her portion of oatmeal beside him. They ate standing, Regina picking thoughtfully at the grains in her bowl before dropping her spoon.
"I've heard complaints that one of your men's boots have gone missing."
"Most unfortunate," Robin said, carefully looking anywhere but down. "Perhaps we should double the watch?"
Another pause, and the briefest flick of Regina's eyes up to his own.
"I don't think that's necessary."
She pressed her uneaten breakfast into his hands, hardly waiting for him to balance it, and stalked off to discuss the day's plan with Snow and the Prince – or to berate them about the lack of progress, as seemed more likely from the sound of it.
Everything in keeping with her routine – such it was with witches and fires, Robin mused – and yet:
She was a slight woman, the Queen, but today she had measured hardly to his shoulder, and when she stepped close to pass off her bowl, he had been able to see clear over the top of her head.
Her hem dragged deeper through the mud than he remembered, the bottom ringed with wet and grime that hadn't been there the day before.
And, under it all, was a broad worn-leather sole that peeked out whenever she twitched her skirts to the side.
Most peculiar, these discrepancies one couldn't help noticing, Robin might have thought (might have smiled), but he found it rather more prudent to keep all remarks on the matter to himself.