To my OQ Valentine, Hannah.
Happy Valentine's Day, #LoveFromOQ – and me, your secret admirer. :)
I hope this story brightens your day!
'Tis not my holy day—and yet in essence it is.
For me 'tis business as usual, even today, even with a world full of non-believers. Barbarians, the lot of them. The threads of their lives intertwine, their hearts connected by an intricate web one could easily entangle themselves in—and they have. And they shall.
On this misty morn, I descend from the skies on feathered wings, a menace to some, a gift to others, my golden bow strung and quiver heavy, and make for the dark castle bustling with life.
No shield, magic or not, can stop me.
She's going to murder Snow White. Rip her pathetic heart from her chest and mount it on a wall amid the atrocious sea of reds and pinks. If it's hearts they want, well then they can damn well have a real one instead of the ridiculous paper cut-outs the simpering princess and her uncharming husband have plastered Regina's hallways with on this wretched day.
Regina had explicitly warned them to do nothing of the sort, but no one seems to have taken her threats to outlaw the bloody farce of a holiday seriously.
"Come on, Regina, it's fun," the god-awful girl reasoned, as if that settled the matter. "The people need to have a good time sometimes—between this witch and her winged beasts, we all can use a bit of positivity, don't you think?"
And yes, sure, fine. Let them have positivity. Let them have music and merrymaking. But what happened to good old-fashioned balls? Ones that are not, preferably, Valentine's dances? Not that she'd ever consider attending one of those either—certainly not after the fiasco that had been Yule.
No, not again. Let them have their stupid celebration of love. Regina is staying away from hi—it all.
Sequester herself in her chambers she shall—and to hell with Snow's well-intentioned lovefests and hope speeches.
Regina's stomach rumbles, loud and crude, and that's the snowflake's fault, too. Must she go overboard every single time? Must every dish from fruit to pastry be cut and served in the shape of hearts? Can she not have provided one sensible option for people with actual taste, not to mention with a reasonable contempt for clichéd holidays?
Pacing furiously, Regina tries to tame the magic crackling at her fingertips—a necessary feat if she's ever to conjure herself sustenance without accidentally burning the place down. On a particularly sharp turn, she catches a glint of silver from the corner of her eye, and rounds on the tray resting amid her satin sheets.
It's not supposed to be there—she certainly hasn't put it there.
Not the tray, nor the apple hearts, and certainly not the single yellow crocus.
Regina stalks over, her nails digging into her palms to contain her ire—how dare they, the fools, how dare they infringe upon her privacy—and snatches the flower from the tray, fingers itching to crush the gentle petals to dust, when a folded square of parchment slips from the tray and lands on her sheets with a barely audible rustle. Regina stares, the stark contrast of eggshell against deep purple switching a flip in her mind somehow, the anger fizzing out of her and leaving curiosity in its wake.
She slides a finger between the folded pages and opens the tiniest card she's ever received, blinking in confusion as she reads.
Pinecones are brown, forests are green,
You are the prettiest I've ever seen.
Regina blinks and blinks at the tall, slanting letters in green ink—and flings the card into the fire.
That pestilential thief, the presumptuous outlaw! Just because she'd had a momentary lapse in judgement some two months ago doesn't mean that he can—than she can—that he gets to pretend to woo her when she's made it perfectly clear she wishes to see as little of him as possible. Because she's weak, and those dimples of his and his too-understanding eyes are dangerous.
Suddenly her chambers, with their cold stone walls and stifling heat from the fireplace (now having devoured the little note with blazing tongues), the cloying smoke stinging in her eyes (her chimney's never let her down before, but what else is there to blame the prickling sensation on?), it all feels suffocating—and the thought of barricading herself in here for the entire day sends a stab of panic slicing through her.
Regina wants out.
So does her magic—and so she lets it, gives it free rein, and disappears in a cloud of purple.
This is a mistake, her brain screams, just like it did on the eve of Yule, as she materialises in the very same hidden nook of the forest they found refuge in. She supposes that's what she gets for letting her impulses, her unconscious, feed her magic unfettered, without direction.
The weather is milder today, chilly enough to have her wishing for one of those extravagantly high collars a number of her gowns boast, but lacking the piercing bite of December. Specks of snow linger on the ground littered with squashed leaves and pine needles, sparser and sparser the closer her eyes travel to the rim of the natural pool. Steam rises from its smooth surface in soft spirals instead of the thick curtain of weeks ago.
Regina is cold, inside and out, and the warmth calls out to her. It's safe this time, safe because she's alone, because he's not here. There's no one here to tempt her to seek the kind of warmth she cannot ever have, that she cannot seem to keep because it just never lasts no matter how hard she tries to hold on to it.
With a wave of her hand her clothes disappear, and she shivers in the pristine February air for the few moments it takes her to immerse her goose-pimpled limbs in the scalding water. It's hot, but not dangerously so, Ro—the thief had assured her, and so she sighs and settles against the smooth rock sticking out from the stone wall.
And she soaks.
The day is cheerfully sunny, disgustingly so, as if the weather, too, were intent on raising everyone's spirits, and the scenery is a blue ribbon above a blur of greens and browns (much like the thief's pathetic little ditty) dusted with snow. The bright rays bounce back from its pristine whiteness, shimmering brazenly and making Regina's eyes hurt. Scoffing and scowling, she shuts them against the cheeky light.
That, it turns out, is a mistake, too.
The water ripples with each breath she takes, sloshing over her arms and breasts like a gentle caress that makes her shiver despite the heat seeping into her every pore. It's the water, she tells herself, it's the hot spring, the heated rock her back and backside rest against that's making her skin flush. Or is it? She shifts and slides in her seat, toes curling for purchase against the bedrock, much like they did that other time for reasons entirely different. It was slippery—she was slippery, and his fingers wandered down and lower, finding that sweet spot and flicking just so, and her knees buckled from the unexpected shock of pleasure.
The very thought makes her groan, a half-embarrassed, half-aroused sound, and it's his fault for finding a way into her dreams more often than not since that one unfortunate night, leaving her hot and bothered and incredibly frustrated by morning.
The water is hot, yes, but so is she right now, heat radiating from the inside out, pooling between her legs as she rocks her hips involuntarily, ineffectually—for he isn't here, and she's all alone.
Regina inhales sharply and her eyes fly open, scanning the woods as if she expected him to come tearing through the trees to ease the tension she feels building up. He's not, of course he isn't, but it doesn't help that mounting need any when her eyes fall on the boulder on the opposite end. Her spine tingles as she swallows back a moan—successfully this time, unlike those before, with him—and her thighs clench at the vivid image etched into her mind of him fucking her against said boulder.
Her eyes fall closed again, she simply cannot help it, and her head falls back against the pine-cushioned ground as she sinks into the water up to her neck. She breathes in the vapour wafting about as she gives herself over to the memories that won't stop haunting her, lets her mind float about freely as her fingers roam her body underwater.
She's all alone, bereft of searing kisses dotted wherever he could reach, without his tongue laving at bared, glistening skin, or his teeth nibbling at her collarbone just so; but she has hands to cup herself just like he would, to roll and pinch and rub until gasps turn to moans as she riles herself up more and more, and damn if the sounds he coaxed out of her didn't drive him to distraction, make him groan in return until their very own little piece of Eden came to life in a heady, sensual symphony.
He's never going to know, she vows even as she climbs higher and higher, working herself towards that blissful peak, to the release she so craves. Soft curses are spilling from her lips as the rocks scratch softly against her back (it had been him then to end up with angry red tracks on his shoulders left behind by stone and her nails alike—and not a word of complaint), and she almost wishes she were pressed against the wall of the pool again and held snuggly like his life depended on it.
And he'd feel so good—felt so good buried in her to the hilt, rocking gently at first then switching to hard, sharp thrusts just like she'd asked, and he'd whisper her name like a broken prayer, Regina, and that's right, just let go, and please come for me—and fuck, how she did. And she is—coming, harder than anticipated, something unspooling in her belly and exploding in her chest as she shouts his name to the woods for no one to hear (she choked on it last time, swallowed it back down and buried it deep inside her, the name of the man promised to her by pixie dust many years before).
Her thighs quake as her fingers slip out, and her head lolls back once more.
She's alone, and the thief who'd sneak his way into her heart isn't near, so she doesn't have to worry about weakness and defences and lion tattoos while a foolish part of her only wishes to linger in the afterglow.
For a few blessed moments, she floats, boneless and completely relaxed.
It doesn't last.
For some reason—not that she needs one, she owns the damn place after all—she fancies a walk, and transports herself into the palace courtyard rather than her own chambers. Which in turn means she cannot possibly miss the papier-mâché cherub hoisted over the main entrance, fake-floating and showering the passers-by in pink and red confetti. Honestly, Snow White couldn't have opted for kitschier decor if she'd tried.
The chubby little nuisance is, however, not the worst of it. Not by far. Because when Regina steps into the garden just as dusk descends upon it, scores upon scores of fairy lights twinkle from branches bare and prickly alike, bathing the tinkling fountains in soft light that paints the singing water gold.
It's absolutely sickening.
"Your Majesty," comes perhaps the last voice she wants to hear (all right, not quite, but her recent pursuits have made this encounter somewhat awkward for her, not that he has an inkling, and of course he's going to turn up at the worst of times). She schools her features into something hopefully resembling composure as he emerges from the rosebush before her. "I come bearing a message."
Regina regards him with a veritable jumble of emotion dominated by suspicion, irritation, and—annoyingly enough—curiosity. She snatches the folded parchment he's handing her, tears it open, and reads:
Arrows are gold, fletching is grey,
Meet me in the garden and we shall have cake.
Cake? What the hell is he even thinking?
Enough.
She rounds on him, fists clenched and eyes flashing.
"Is this your idea of funny, thief? Because even you can't be daft enough to think yourself charming. No, don't say a word. It's not worth a dime anyway, is it, your word?"
"Milady," he objects, and the damn fool is smirking, actually smirking, like he finds this exchange entertaining, like he finds her amusing. "You misunderstand. I—"
"It's Your Majesty! And it doesn't take much to understand that you apparently can't take a hint, nor do you know what no means! All those promises, and yet you break them at your nearest convenience. Are you hoping to, what, wear me down? To persist until I give in? Is that your idea of honour? I'm not some—some fox to be hunted, to be run to earth—"
That seems to do it for him. For a brief moment, he just stands there, blinking stupidly, like he simply cannot believe her, like she's mortally offended him.
"Regina, will you bloody listen to me for five seconds! The message isn't from me." Her cynical little scoff must make something unravel inside him, because his next words are soft and sincere, and they make her heart clench. "I would never force myself on you like that. Not unless you're ready. You've set clear boundaries—all any honourable man can do is respect them. And so I have—and so I shall."
She swallows heavily, looking askance. Both her assumptions and accusations were false, and yet he's not mocking her for having made a complete and utter fool out of herself. Here he stands, his eyes going from briefly stormy to calm and kind again, assuring her he won't be joining the ranks of people in her past who staked their claim on her without a single care for how she felt about it. She's not quite sure how to respond to all that without baring herself to him too much (one time was enough, she thinks even as a tiny voice peeps up that no, it definitely wasn't). So she challenges him because it feels like a safe bet—it is a challenge, is it not, no matter how many degrees milder than usual her retort is.
"So the note just wrote itself then? And the one before?"
Robin shakes his head in exasperation, opens that insolent (talented) mouth of histhat's tipping up into a half-smirk again, but before he even gets a word out, there's a shout of R'gina!, and a mass of curls and dimples and pure excitement is barrelling into her legs and hugging them tight enough that she barely manages to keep her balance.
Oh.
"Roland," Regina says lamely, realisation dawning all too clear in her voice if the wretched thief's chuckle is any indication.
Robin couldn't help his smirk if he tried to—Regina looks so wondrously gobsmacked, and how could she not have seen this coming?
"I wasn't expecting you here, sweetheart," she stutters as Roland tugs at the hem of her sleeve, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
And for a moment there her brow creases, her eyes widen—she's worried Roland might take her words the wrong way. But he merely beams up at her instead, a ridiculously wide grin plastered over his triumphant face.
"That's because I'm your secret admirer. Secret, see?"
"That you are, my boy," Robin chimes in, unbothered to hide his mirth as he raises a cheeky brow at her. She's so bloody stubborn, this woman, so hell-bent on antagonising him—and in this very moment, rather enchanting in her exasperation.
"I made you cake, R'gina! Granny helped me, and Papa packed everything in a basket so we can make a—a—picnic!" Robin clears his throat softly, and Roland takes the cue, adding a slightly bashful and a whole lot more hopeful: "Would you like to?"
She glances up from where she's already stooped to his boy's level, heavy skirts dragging in the dirt, seeking permission Robin's granted long ago and many times over.
"I would love to have a picnic with you, Sir Roland," she tells his boy with playful yet impeccable courtliness, earning herself a giggle, "and try this delicious cake you baked."
"I'll go and get it ready!" he squeaks happily, and off he runs.
An awkward silence stretches between Robin and the still somewhat shaken queen. She's going to great lengths to avoid his gaze, directing it downwards to where her fingers play nervously with the scrap of parchment Robin handed her.
"Roland asked me to fix his poems up for him," he offers mildly. "Wanted his identity to remain a bit of a mystery, seeing as that is the point of secret admirers after all, as he very kindly and patiently explained to his dunce of a father."
He expects her to rise to the bait, ever ready as she is to tease if not mock him, but instead Regina's eyes flit to Roland and back to the note again, a touch of panic and remorse settling in her turbulent eyes.
"I burned it," she exhales, horrified.
"He won't mind," Robin assures, an unspoken as long as he doesn't know trailing in the wake of his words, and rummages in his pockets, hoping against hope he hasn't disposed of the now pitifully worn piece of scribbling. He produces the note in the end in its original form, pinecones are brown, forests are green, you're the most prettiest I ever seen, traced in Roland's messy scrawl.
Regina chuckles wetly, and Robin has to fight valiantly against the surge of affection this infuriating woman inspires in him by the vastness of her heart—a heart Roland has unquestionably been allowed in even if he, Robin, isn't quite.
"And here I thought you were just a terrible poet," she teases with a spark returned to her eyes.
There she is, Robin thinks with an untoward amount of satisfaction. He'll give as good as he gets, now, soon—but he's something else in mind first.
"Admittedly, poetry is not my forte," he shrugs. "But I am rather handy with a knife, if I do say so myself."
"Please don't tell me you cooked for me."
"I could have, and I would—you need but to say the word, milady." He means it in earnest, and it comes out that way, too—too much so perhaps, for she's withdrawing again, he can tell by the way her eyes sweep over his face and how she drops a curtain over her own to keeps his searching gaze out. He rushes to reassure her. "I haven't, no."
She seems at a loss then, guarded still and unsure, glancing to where Roland is dragging the food-laden basket towards the pavilion.
Robin fumbles around in his pockets again, not for lack of memory but out of sheer nerves. He doesn't intend to but he draws a deep breath that seems to get stuck in his lungs as he coaxes the object out of his deepest pocket and presents it to her.
Regina freezes, dark eyes glinting—the stirrings of tears or a steely gaze, he cannot quite tell as she retreats to the shadows.
"What's this supposed to mean?" Wary, always wary of the world.
"Open it." Robin holds it out to her like an offering, praying that she accept, wishing she'd find some semblance of comfort in it. "Please."
"Robin," she warns, her tone as intimate as it's been since that fateful night of the Yule Ball (now's not the time to ponder that, he chastises inwardly, and yet how could he forget?). Intimate, yet cautious. Cautioning.
Robin holds her gaze, willing her to see his intent is pure. They've reached an impasse here, each as stubborn as the other, until eventually she sighs and rolls her eyes for good measure.
Slowly, hesitantly, she reaches for the package and unwraps the cloth he's bundled his handiwork in, traitorous fingers shaking ever so slightly. And then a hand flies to her mouth, lips quiver and jaw goes slack as her eyes pool with instant tears.
"Oh…" she breathes, very nearly sobs, and lowers her hand again to the thin slab of oak cradled in her palm. Her touch is ever so gentle as she explores the carving with the pads of her fingers, tracing the features of her beloved boy with a reverence that makes Robin's chest constrict.
"How—?"
"The princess was kind enough to describe your Henry to me in great detail, and I tried to capture his likeness in wood. It's not a photograph, but—I hope it brings you joy, Regina."
"I—" Words seem to fail her, this sassy, sharp-tongued queen; she shakes her head and sniffs. "Thank you."
Robin smiles, a crooked thing and almost timid, tamed in part for her sake because the full brightness of his own joy over her reception of his gift would undoubtedly have alarm bells going off in her head. Their eyes lock, a dreamy look in hers he rarely sees there, one that never lasts very long, and so he relishes it now, his smile stretching unauthorised, and it's too late by the time he realises there's nothing at all reserved in the way his features spell smitten. She sees it—she must, because there's that look of incredulity creeping onto her face.
And just like that, the moment is gone, snatched away by old scars and thriving fears, by lingering grief and nagging self-doubt.
"Now," she clears her throat, delivers what is still a jibe, meant to put distance between them, but what lacks in sincerity and the usual bite, "if you'll excuse me, thief, I have a date with a real gentleman."
"Ah, you wound me, milady. Perhaps there shall be leftover cake?"
Her lips twitch as she throws back a coy:
"Perhaps."
The stars twinkle, and a child's laughter rings through the night as I rise towards the skies, the tips of my winged sandals brushing fluffy clouds on my way home.
My arrows are manifold, their number plentiful—but they're not needed here. Not where a feeling's already taken root in hearts bruised and battered but beating nonetheless, each rhythm attuned to the other's where two souls have recognised their mate.
Ba-bam. Ba-bam.
The Thief steps closer. The Queen backs away.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump, I hear their hearts go.
And so it goes—the same old pattern, same old dance, hearts racing, pounding, clapping in sync. The Queen agonises, torn between fear and longing; scarred but yearning she expects the Thief to tire of this charade any moment now. The Thief waits, drowning in the depths of eyes and soul of unprecedented shadow and light, wonders if she'll ever be ready to try a new figure or an entire routine; nevertheless, he stays.
Riddled with insecurity though the pair are, I am not worried. For in the end, I shall prevail.
'Tis but a question of time.
Another day.
Soon.