Rumpelstiltskin dragged the battered and bruised Emma Swan through dark and damp corridors. They were underground, she knew, the stillness of the air gave their location away. A dungeon, maybe, under the rock of his castle. Where that was, exactly, was a different matter, as she had been transported in a cloud of billowing smoke, picked off the battlefield wounded and defenceless. He paused, one hand clamped magically firm around her wrist, to open a cell door. The door screeched open, the hinges protesting against the unusual movement. "Enjoy the company," he hissed, before throwing Emma forward into the cell.
As soon as she crossed the line of the doorway, Emma felt the air shift, colder and more dangerous. Even without Rumpelstiltskin's warning, Emma would have known she was not alone.
"What's in here with me?" she called, stumbling backwards, afraid. Instead of landing on the hard floor, she fell into a soft, warm body. Out of the darkness behind her, a low voice spoke.
"It's not what, dear – who."
The voice sent shivers down her spine, trembles of fear, primal and instinctive, yet also comforted in its familiarity. Better the devil you know, Emma thought, better Henry's mom than a dragon or a lion or some other terrifying creature. At least Regina, with her anger and hatred, was a known quantity.
"Do enjoy your stay, Miss Swan," Rumpelstiltskin sang. He laughed, high and fevered, and turned to skip down the corridor, light disappearing into the blackness. The lack of light was absolute, and Emma could not even see the bars in front of her face. Were she someone else, she thought, another kid from care – even a younger version of herself – panic and meltdown would be imminent. Instead, she turned around, tried to focus on the space in front of her, on the body beneath her own, unmoving.
"You're hurt," said Regina. "I can smell the blood on you." Emma winced, the pitch black preventing her from seeing the extent of her wound, but she could still feel it, burning into the muscle of her thigh. She shifted, running her hands down her injured leg, taking stock, the clotting blood sticking to her palms. Don't be weak, she told herself – don't let her see you weak.
"It's nothing. Barely a scratch." Even in the dark, the other woman's hand unerringly found Emma's leg, and the gaping cut along its length. Regina hissed, and the hands temporarily withdrew, before beginning to glow and descending again to her leg. In all the movies Emma had ever seen, magical healing was soft, painless, a warm glow and honey feeling. This, however, hurt like hell. With each passing second, Emma could feel the muscle, skin and sinew in her leg move and knit back together.
The movies got one thing right, at least – the soft glow that flowed from Regina's hands, lighting up her face. The face Emma saw made her gasp in shock, and the unexpected noise made Regina jump, breaking the glow and causing Emma to hiss in pain. The queen's face was sunken, her hair hanging limp around her face, eyes black pits in the paleness of her skin. Even in the gloaming, Emma could see the weight loss in the inward curve of the cheeks, in the pinched and pained expression, in the lines and tensions of her neck.
The healing over, Emma leant forward and held Regina's wrist, stopping her retreating into the darkness.
"How long have you been here?" she asked, and felt, rather than saw, the answering shrug.
"Time passes strangely down here, without any light. It might be days, might be years, for all I know."
xXx
Emma woke, fretful, to soft hands pressing on her forehead. Despite the cool air and colder floor, she felt hot, flushed, and beads of sweat rolled down her chest.
"Your leg's infected," said Regina. "There are many things to dislike about the other world, but your medicine was certainly useful." Her hands began to glow, and Emma reached up to grip the loose fabric of Regina's jacket, bunching the material in her hand in expectation of the pain.
"Yeah," she ground out, teeth and fist clenched together, "and indoor plumbing." This time, instead of withdrawing out of reach, Emma felt Regina's warmth settle on the floor beside her, legs almost touching, hand still resting over the healing wound. Silence stretched between them, and Emma rested her head against the wall, and closed her eyes.
Some time after Emma's third sleep – whether or not that was a good measure of time, Emma didn't know – heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor, and a squad of guards marched into sight. They carried torches, and the bright flickering hit Emma's eyes, and made her flinch, cower against the wall, arm raised to shield herself from the light. The door was unlocked, and a tray of food roughly pushed along the floor.
As the torch light receded down the corridor Emma, ravenous, tried to fall on the tray, only to have it pulled from under her.
"Hey!" she said, "Give that back. I'm hungry." Groping blindly for Regina and the food, her hands caught nothing but cold air. She moved around the cell, trying to find the other woman, trailing her hands across the walls, scuffing her feet along the floor, leaving no spot unsearched. Unsuccessful, she slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall, only to have a soft piece of bread and meat pushed into her hand.
"We must ration it, Miss Swan. Who knows when we'll next be fed."
"You know what I miss," Emma said, her mouth full of bread, "hamburgers and fries, drenched in mayonnaise. With a big Coke, and chocolate popcorn." Regina snorted in distaste.
"It's that Chinese, off Main Street, that I miss. Pork chow mein, with crab and sweetcorn soup. Now that is real food."
"Oh God," Emma moaned. "That restaurant was good. Mary Margaret and I used to order on Fridays. But right now, this bread and meat tastes pretty damn good too."
Regina laughed, a genuine sound, that echoed down the corridor and back. In the darkness, Emma imagined the woman, laughing with her head thrown back, frown lines erased and mouth turned up. That would be a sight to see, she told herself: in Emma's imagination, the laugh made Regina look younger, softer, like a friend.
The food came irregularly – sometimes the guards had barely gone when the cell was lit up once again, and at other times, the periods of darkness stretched for years without noise or light to break them. Rumpelstiltskin had not reappeared, and Emma supposed that he was tied up fighting what was left of her parents' forces. When the guards came, they didn't speak to the prisoners, just opened the door, deposited the food, and left. They seemed, to Emma, relaxed and unguarded – for unspeaking, sword-carrying, chain-mailed guards that is. Once, after a particularly lax food delivery, Emma broke the silence.
"Why don't you just knock them flying with magic, and we'll make a run for it?" In the dark beside her, Regina sighed and tutted.
"The wards on this cell, Miss Swan, as any child should know, prevent anything magical, or tainted by magic, from either entering or leaving."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that even if this door were wide open, I could not leave. And nor could you, in fact, until the spell holding your leg together wears away."
Emma dragged her hand across her eyes, not that it made much difference to her vision, but the familiar motion comforted her. "I guess we wait then," she said, voice despondent. Regina made no reply, and Emma felt herself slump against the wall, the only indication of an end to the darkness. A warm hand gripped her arm, and pulled her bodily down, until her head was resting on a shoulder, an arm around her back.
xXx
"So why do it? Why curse everyone you ever knew, and to Maine of all places!"
"I wanted to end their happiness, as mine had been ended. Simple as that."
"Tell me about it."
"When I was young, I fell in love with someone who my parents considered 'beneath me'. I didn't care, I would have been happy. But I was engaged to a King, and my mother, when she found out, could not risk her social standing and ambition. So she murdered my lover, right in front of me." Regina felt her hand enclosed and squeezed by Emma's in a silent show of support. Despite the darkness, she knew that Emma's eyes were trained on her, her gaze a physical weight, roaming her face. "None of it would have happened had I not trusted Snow White with my secret. And I could never forgive her, especially when she was so happy herself."
"So what was this someone's name?" Emma asked, feeling Regina pull away, tense and awkward. As soon as the pressure of Emma's hand lessened, Regina moved, her warmth and hand disappearing into the cold darkness of the cell.
"Daniel," she said, softly. "His name was Daniel, and he was our stable boy."
"A boy," Emma repeated, and her tone sounded strained to her own ears. A moment paused, and she wondered, embarrassed, at just what Regina had inferred. Finally, Regina spoke, and her voice sounded far-off, as though coming from a great distance, through a fog of memories.
"Yes, just a boy. And I was just a very young girl. Too young to die, too young to fall in love."
"Do you know that there's no age of consent here? I mean, kids get married at like 13 or something. That's too young for anything. I never thought I'd say it – but I miss American laws, you know." The warmth of Regina shifted back, moved closer, sending the chill scurrying to the corners of the cell.
"Yes," came the reply, "and those that enforce them."
xXx
"Emma," Regina said, pulling Emma from her daydreams. "The magic, on your leg, has faded. You're magic free. The wards would no longer hold you." In the distance, the chink of amoured footsteps drew nearer, flickering shadows breaking the dark. Half-remembered happiness scattered from Emma's mind, her whole attention focused on the present. "That plan of yours, you remember, it would work now." Emma reached out, and her hand connected softly with the other woman's cheek, cupping and caressing.
"Not for you," she said, and swallowed around the lump in her throat. "I'll come back for you, Regina, I promise." She kept her tone hushed, voice low and quiet, not wanting her words to travel to the approaching guards. She could feel the other woman smile against her hand, the corners of her mouth turning down.
"I know, Emma. I'm sure you will." Emma would have replied, called Regina on her obvious lie, the resignation heavy in her voice, but the mocking voice of the guard stopped her.
"Well isn't this a tender scene." Regina flinched, and drew away, cowering from the torch thrust in their direction. Emma made sure to look away, shoulders down, head bent, the image of defeat. She stood, slowly, as if to receive the tray, as a bright flash of purple smoke lit the cell, blinding her. When her eyes cleared, she could make out the outline of the unconscious guards slumped by the flickering torch, lying sprawled across the open cell door.
"Go!" said Regina, "quickly. Before the magic is detected."
Moving to the door, Emma picked up the sword of the fallen guard. She paused, turned back to the now solitary occupant of the cell.
"I'll be back for you, Regina. Count on it." She smiled, brightly, trying to impart confidence in the woman left behind, before turning and running.
