iridescence

by dee-thequeenbee

"Our cover story? Well, it's quite simple, Your Majesty. I spoke to the Princess, and she agrees our best bet is to pretend we are a noble, married couple, to sneak in at the Spring Ball – where you can keep watch while I steal our priced target – and then fly away like shadows. That, of course, if you don't grace me with a better idea."

where do we go
when we walk on light?
who do we call
at the edge of the night?

§

He was always aware of her proclivity for the creation of more drama than necessary. That being said, he isn't left open-mouthed at all when she starts inquiring about the mental sanity of all the participants to the council. She hisses those words that can be accounted as particularly painful to hear, if only he hadn't given up on any showdown of appreciation or even tolerance towards his person since long time ago.

The Princess tries with soothing words, words that have the undesired effect of igniting the flames even more. And he's dutifully convinced the Princess knows too, for she doesn't even give another round to the appeasement, but looks at him with the smirk a mother could address to her oldest son when the youngest one is having a tantrum.

He represses an equally concealed smirk, knowing better than to poke the now-unleashed rage, and schools his features into something that will, hopefully, let him get away with the amusement he's feeling. It's the Prince's turn to work convincing words, not-so-surprisingly met by offending answers.

"Don't be foolish, Charming. I have magic, he's got… a bow, and some sticks."

The utter disdain she shows could lead another man to lose his carefully composed expression to give in to sharp remarks about his own usefulness, or something in the lines, but not him. No, he stays silent, the only sign of his taking into consideration her words, a small tugging up of the corner of his lips.

It takes some time – quite a lot of time, to be completely honest, in a meeting that will most likely be remembered as one of the longest and most heated ever. It takes, also, another set of huffs and puffs from the dwarfs side of the table (if only he could define a side in a round table), steaming mugs of tea slammed down by an absolutely tired Granny. He muses that, for being one of the main participants to this newly concocted suicide mission, (most likely, they don't seem to be able to reach a compromise to satisfy all parts) he's being strangely quiet. All the more so, he doesn't think the baby inside the Princess' womb will benefit of his mother's stressed frown, of her narrowed eyebrows and the screams he's sure she's stifling.

They call it a day, to his immense relief, without coming to a final decision.

He was always aware of her stubbornness, of the way her cheeks burn of suppressed rage sometimes (more often than not, especially against him. There must be something inside him that screams for her to raise her voice and insult him at every occasion she can put her hands on, but he can't quite figure out what is it. He refuses to believe it can just be her temper or the fight between their respective mounts of self-pride, it must be something else.)

He can't place the feelings she gives him into a quiet, ready-to-study catalogue. There's nothing quiet in the Queen. (Except for those evenings where she has disclosed a curtain on her heart. But she doesn't acknowledge those evenings. She refuses to admit they even existed. Not that he dared to speak about those moments with someone, because, stupidly reckless as he sometimes his, he still values the benefits of actually having a head.)

So he excuses himself, raises from his place amongst the council, and goes to find his son. Dinner will be a mere longing of brown eyes and quick remarks – he's almost totally positive she will storm up to her rooms, secluding herself from the company of other souls, and so be it. If it was a different, more tranquil evening, he would have tiptoed his way to the highest room, the one with airy ceilings and trembling balustrades, the one with the view on the forest – the forest he so likes to call his, and he hopes she can call it hers as well – after all, he's not unaware of her escapades between yellowish leaves, riding a black mare, and the consequent reprimands from the Princess, about foolishness and about the luring, furry dangers of the outsides.

Not that he could ever blame her. It was during a particular evening, the summer haze already shimmering and fluttering above the fields, that he was on patrol with Alan on the highest tower, and she has passed between the last branches of the nearby forest to appear near the castle walls, the last light of the day filtering through the leaves, and she has pushed her horse to a last, wild ride before the saddening moment where she'd have to dismount it.

He thinks he kind of fell in love right then – with the wind toying playfully with her hair, with the stupendous horse, with the light that dared to make her shine like a goddess of all wild things. He fell in love with nature, because she is a creature of nature, she is not to be tamed like a caged animal between mildewed walls. That evening, the scoffs she addresses to the Princess when she's being chastised started to make even more sense, for he's sure she'd regained her freedom in that other land they all come from, and now she's lost it again, along with other particular dear ones she would not speak about.

Yes, there's nothing quiet about the Queen. Nothing easy, either.

.

.

A bunch of fools, they are, all of them.

She has, predictably, slammed the door – in a resounding, solemn and definitive bang of desperation. Her back falls against the wooden coldness, her knees sink to the floor, and she collects her head in her hands, immediately giving in to all of the bitterness she couldn't let filter during the rendez-vous with the so-called heroes. How the Mighty has fallen, she laughs in an acrid and twisted sense of detachment. She is a ghost, fluctuating above her weak, crying form; disapproving, distasteful. For the heroes will never – ever – comprehend her pain.

Henry, above them all, is the perfect, punctuating cause of the sourness that holds her soul hostage.

And after him, there's the freedom she has lost, immensely regretted, as if living for thirty years in a frozen-through-time city was – has ever been – freedom. If her shoulders stop shaking, for a moment, is a welcomed breath of relief. An island of bravery in a sea of grief.

She feels cold. Numb. She welcomes the zinging stabs of the hostile tiles. She relishes in her own pain, feeling deflected and defeated, never at home, anywhere. Snow and David may be her family, the only family she has left in this harsh and inhospitable world. Even their attachment or concerns sound fake more often than not – she is nothing but a weapon, her magic the one and only music they're able to tolerate and, for some instance, appreciate. She is a defense wall, not a person, not anymore.

She is swirls of purple smoke and funny toys for Roland, but the boy has never seen her darkness.

If she falls ill here, on this floor, no one will miss her.

.

.

She soldiers on, the following morning. Her preparation starts in her chambers; one of the most elaborate and intricate corset she owns, the one with sparkling black pearls as dark as her soul and heart, the one that clenches her chest and owns her breasts. The gown is simply glorious, more apt to be worn in a battlefield or during the funeral of a deity. She almost tinkles, when she moves. Her heels are imposing, her eye-shadow is smoky, her hair falls down as a cascade of brownish tones. The stairs have to move by themselves, to make her entrance even more memorable. If it's the Evil Queen they want, it's the Evil Queen they'll get. Least they forget who's (been?) the woman in front of them.

The Angel of Death, the Queen of Snakes, the Lady of Doom.

They will hate her, or fear her, or they will want to be her.

.

.

Robin thinks he has, at this point of the game, an inexplicable attraction to the Queen. Inexplicable, because how can you even start to explain the unavoidable, painful pull he averts when she's near, she's in danger, she's far, she's – always, he knows, she lingers in the corners of his dreams, she plucks at black roses and sets villages in flames, laughing cruelly. She bathes in the moonlight, she picks flowers, a crown of daisies in her hair.

It's his curse.

It's his blessing.

Regina – because she's Regina, in the private clefts of his traitorous mind – she's Regina, during those evenings where at first she bellows to leave her alone and then maybe, if he's very lucky, then she lets him see just a tiny fragment of her beautiful thoughts.

Regina, when she enters, when she does – well almost everything, she catches all the lights of the room, every eye turns in her direction. He spots the pleased glow of the Princess' eyes every time the Queen graces them with her presence for a meal. Silence falls, however, because no one is daring enough. A collection of morons, she has called them, earning herself offended dwarfy cries, but she didn't care. He wonders if she still cares about something in this life, or if it's all gone in smoke and acid rain when she has lost her son. He wonders if there's still hope to salvage a fractured heart. She's not his to save, she never will be, but he can help her see.

The powerful march of her heels on the pavement is a rhythmic staccato that reminds him of the drums before an execution. She certainly carries all of that sneaking sensation of impending death or some other sort of terrible destiny. The Princess' smile doesn't falter when she approaches the table.

The chair creeks when she unceremoniously shoves it away and regally sits, as if it was her throne and not a simple wooden almost-stool. Ignoring the Princess' awaiting frown, she takes all the time to pour tea into a ceramic cup, to near said cup to red lips, and drink a good amount of it before speaking.

"I'll do it."

They must have stopped to look at her in disbelief like morons, because she starts to grow impatient, eyes darting between him and the Princess.

"Excuse me, what?"

The question is out of his lips before he can stop it. In retrospect, he should have never intended for her words to be this much of a surprise. He should have taken what she has given, for how little it was (she always gives a little, only particles of the whole horizon she could if only there was a certain willingness from her part). Instead, her eyes narrow in a thin line of scorn, she finds herself repeating the statement as if she was speaking to a dumb.

"I said, I'll do it. Cheers. No need to force me."

The Princess appears to have regained the use of speech, because she carefully arguments. "No one was going to force you to do anything, Regina."

The Queen has lifted the cup again, wetting her lips with a sip of black tea that smells like cranberry and spices. The snorting huff she lets out would be fit for a uneducated maiden, but Robin can't find in himself the strength to blame her. Yes, they weren't going to actually force her – guilt-trip her, sure, but never force. Force is for the brutes and uncivilized, and he's a cretin if he doesn't see that she's a prisoner in her own palace, that she feels obliged by some stupid heroic code to save her family, again, and again, to make up for lost time and dark, dusty sins.

To the point when it comes to sacrifice, and right there, she has lost his backing completely. Her idea of sacrifice resembles that of a death-wish, if you may use the right nomenclature. No matter how hard she tries and donates her magic, vital strength and blood, she'll never feel like she has paid her debt. The echoes of No one you'll miss and I've already lost everything I care about reverberate in his memory.

"No."

His voice is stern, but he doesn't want any objection. Who knows what kind of suicide plan she has conjured up in her rooms.

"Excuse me, what?"

Her eyebrows are lifted above the still-fuming tea cup, the light blue floral motive on the china strides gleefully with her dark make-up.

"I said, no. I am to go alone."

Her scoff is even softer now. Almost followed by one of her rich laughs, his heart would almost inflate if this was an hushed-words-and-stolen-kisses kind of situation.

"You are to go alone?" she ridicules him, her free hand waving with scorn. "I must have entered some sort of alternate reality. Just yesterday," she says, the hint of amusement in her eyes, "you were insisting for you joining me in this heroic quest. Oh, no, wait – you actually said, if my memory serves, that you could protect me."

The Princess motions to open her mouth, but the Queen isn't finished. "You are delusional if you think you're even approaching the stables."

Her cup goes down on the tablecloth with violence, tea slashing over its edges.

"Regina, don't be stupid." He envies the calm radiating from the voice of the Princess. He wishes he could have a cloud of that calm; instead, he clenches a fist.

"He is the one who's being stupid, not me."

"You need each other," the Princess continues. "If you truly want to do this, I can only be relieved, but please, go with him. I'll feel less worried. Please."

There must be a remaining stash of affection for the Princess, buried deep in the remote folds of the Queen's heart, because her eyes soften for just a moment, before resuming the usual rage that surrounds her like a permanent storm.

"Fine," she hisses, with a carefully concentrated dose of venom. "We leave tomorrow, right before dawn."

.

.

The air is fresh when she arrives at the stables, but this doesn't give her an ounce of relief. She has tossed and turned all night, legs tangling between silky sheets, sweat drops falling from her forehead to the pillows. She can put up a brave façade with Snow – it's one of her most usual acts, really, it just comes natural, after years and years of…

She can pretend to be brave.

The issue is right beside her, walking with her, their path displayed ahead, and what she'd give to just forget her cowardice for a moment. Her cowardice along with other missteps of her past, like a dance she doesn't quite know how to follow. Her breath exits in soft puffs of air, her heartbeat quickens without a reason, and she can't find in herself the silver lining in every action she's doing. Wasted time, all of it, for if she could have just a clue of what's going to happen from now on, she'd gladly take it.

There's freedom in her foresight, after all.

The last star of the morning hasn't disappeared when he arrives, bringing apples for the horses and his stupid grin, already at its rightful place.

"You're late," she welcomes him, her hand caressing her mare's mane, holding back spiteful remarks about his tardiness, his stubbornness – because he wants to come, if he's here, he has to want it, because he's a fool, a mad man, she can't understand what would push him to give up a warm bed and the morning smiles of an adorable son – oh, if she was able to still have those mornings with hers – to find himself there, in the chilly dawn with the Evil Queen and two horses and three apples.

"Good morning to you," is his answer, untouched by her meanness. "This is from the Princess, she gave it to me the other night, for you."

A small roll of parchment passes of hand in hand, her scowl burrowing deep as she opens it. Snow's handwriting mocks her with inked, simple words. Don't do anything stupid.

Ah, the Princess still fears she's just going to kill herself. By all means, it was Regina who left her a note about The day we met I saved your life, thank you for trying to save mine, when she wanted to prick her finger and sleep forever until she could finally have her son back in her arms.

Foolish idiot, she can't avoid to think, even if, to be fair, she's right, the Princess. Her eyes dart towards the thief, but he's ignoring her, pretending he doesn't want to know what's written inside. He's infuriating, even though she can't fault for a glint of curiosity – hardly his most serious sin in her regards.

"Shall we go?"

He nods – holds out his hand to help her up, but she didn't spend her childhood and youth inside the stables for nothing, so she skims away from his hand with disdain and makes the most of her skills. She hopes that look on his face isn't due to the fact he's somewhat impressed. He mimics her, clearly interpreting well enough her impatient sigh.

"So, what's our cover story to justify our presence there?"

His horse grunts softly, when he lands on its back. He takes his sweet time to calm it down with quiet talks, ignoring her question completely, and so Regina kicks to go, her mare starts moving. If he's not able to keep up with her speed, he could very well have stayed at the castle. She's several meters ahead when he joins her.

"Our cover story? Well, it's quite simple, Your Majesty. I spoke to the Princess, and she agrees our best bet is to pretend we are a noble, married couple, to sneak in at the Spring Ball – where you can keep watch while I steal our priced target – and then fly away like shadows. That, of course, if you don't grace me with a better idea."

He concludes with a satisfied smirk, and she suddenly finds herself very busy, deciding whether to snap his neck or slit his throat.

That resolves nothing, because the only result of her musings is a horrified, outraged What? What – what did you say?

He smiles again, the idiot, then proceeds to open his mouth and re-explain. She interrupts, because she's not a moron, she understood perfectly – at least, the plan – she has it perfectly clear, just vivid in her mind – the only detail she can't seem to make up her mind around is… how dare he, to propose such a poor excuse of a plan?

"Tell me you're joking," she growls.

He shakes his head, hiding a smile. Regina looks ahead, her breath exiting in labored ups-and-downs of her chest. The rage she's feeling – that long-forgotten sensation only her sister has been able to awaken, recently, and even so, it has been dulled by her grief and depression – the rage she's feeling, is nothing but a mere flame in her chest, like a dying fire which gives a last impulse up in sparks, and then quiets again.

"I'm afraid it's one of the safest way to get there undetected," he tells her. He actually sounds sorry, if she's being honest. It comes to her mind that maybe he knows the entity of the performance he's asking from her, the burden he's subjecting her too. Maybe. Would it be so horrible, to have a… partner? For once?

Yes, the still-mentally-sane part of her mind screams. Yes, because he already feels a very much inappropriate need to protect you, and because he shouldn't care for you. Because you poison everything you touch, stupid girl. You are a venom, sweet to the lips, bitter to the taste. A snake in silken clothes.

He lets her think in silence. They ride their horses until the sun is almost up, flashing heat and a still-wintery warmth all over the land.

And Regina chews the inner of her cheek until it bleeds, but never she complains.

And she hates that he's right – that Snow is unforgivably right – that it is the only way, for no one knows them in Camelot, and they really need Morgan's pendant. She hates it.

It will end with her heart shattered, or worse, broken. Is it even possible to break my heart more than it already is?

.

.

Robin has once read, inside a beautiful story, about a lonely lady who doesn't open her heart up to love, and by doing so, encounters an ominous ending. The reminiscence of that story remains with him all day, from when the first layers of sunlight have started to enlighten the roads, to the very end of it, when they finally exit the Forest of Fogs to enter in the Camelot domains.

The Queen has been quiet – so very unlike her, of her usual fire and snarky comments. She worries him. It is true that the Forest of Fogs is a gloomy, difficult place to be inside. It requires a cautious approach to its inhabitants, a sharp and clear status of mind to look out for the numerous traps along the road. Not everyone likes this forest – the usual path to Camelot requires at least a week by horse, and nearly no one uses this shortcut.

The Council has disagreed, when Regina has proposed it as the chosen path for her trip. Too dangerous, they have said: it sounded off-put, for such an ambivalent crowd of people, used to declare their lingering hatred for the Queen, and yet, they worry for her safety. Her eyes have rolled and her lips pouted, when she has answered – with words that seemed to be gentler than her usual – that she was going to be perfectly fine, she has traveled down that same forest before, she knows how, she can do it.

Bullshit, he has thought. Not even him, or his men for what matters, have often chosen that forest as a preferable travelling-way, and this is saying much, as they like to define themselves as keen of all nature and the most experts when it comes to navigate green foliage.

No, there was another story, behind her choice. A story that began in the Princess' eyes, and ended in the Prince's hand placed promptly on Regina's arm. A tale of nearly-deaths and frequent worries, it seems, of which he's been an unwilling participant at least once.

The lady of his story was the same, he knows it. He deflects his thoughts to that legend, hoping it won't come to the same end, that he can do more than displaying his pointy sticks. After all, all legends have a kernel of truth. He has often heard of the young beautiful Queen of Misthaven, then of the infamous Evil Queen, but never he'd have imagined to ride along with her across the Forest of Fog.

The Forest requires calm, it dulls emotions, and you have to be aware of the directions even without the sun's guidance to help you. The trees are dead, rocks and stones, what once were branches curled in an eternal death. The silence is bewildering, like cotton in your ears. They haven't exchanged a single word, only gestures. The horses are bone-tired, as he expected. Regina looks tired as well, her shoulders clumping down, her midnight-blue velvet cloak covered of stone dust.

The sun is settling, when the path clears up with the last rocks in sight. An aura of orange light bathes the now green ground, he sees her shoulders shake with a relieved sigh when she can breathe fresh air again. The plumpness of a nearby river comes to his ears like an argentine welcome, he feels more alive now than he has in… years – he can't remember, if he has ever been alive, he is sure it wasn't like this.

"We're almost there," he whispers, his voice made hoarse by hours of silence. He spots her nodding, he doesn't bother to ask if she's alright. He already knows she's not, and that he knows: what he ignores, is the kind of pitiful memories the forest has enacted in her brain, giving them free control of her soul for the handful of hours she has spent in that living hell. For him, it was his father's rejection, his mother's death, that winter when he has almost died of a mysterious illness. For him, the worst memory has been losing his wife. That still stings, as if he has an amputee limb.

Robin can only imagine what kind of mental strength the forest has required of her. The demons of her past are and will always be her own, if she doesn't want to disclose them with him. It's not the first time he wonders about what has enacted her darkness in the first place, if the vicissitudes she's found herself into were truly her fault or the adverse will of dangerous stars. If she's fallen, like a once-wild horse too much tamed to have conserved a spark of freedom and spontaneity, or if she truly is evil at her core, and the absence of a child has shadowed her nurtured black soul into something plainly grey.

He doesn't believe it.

After seeing her with his child – delicate hands tying shoelaces, and wiping chocolate off his cheeks, her laugh when he brings her flowers and the lull of her voice during the stormy evenings, when she reads him stories from battered books, books they've sneaked out the library under Belle's watchful eyes – little thieves that they are…

He doesn't believe it, not even for an instant, that evilness is, in fact, her insuppressible nature.

.

.

She's going to have nightmares.

When they reach the first tavern within the Camelot borders, she slips down the horse, her hands shaking. She dives them into her cloak, hiding the traitorous fingers between blue folds, her eyes fixated to the ground. She can feel Robin's eyes on her – obviously worried, as if his obnoxious self has some kind of right about worrying – but then, she presumes he has now, or at least he can pretend, because in a matter of minutes they officially are man and wife to the people of Camelot, so he will –

Her breaths catch like a grip in her throat, her eyes close, she's back in the Forest of Fogs, not anymore under the shining sun, but between clenching dust of stone and an eternal darkness.

It was so quiet, but she was screaming.

Her whole brain was screaming, as if it didn't know what life was anymore. One day, she's going to stop punishing herself for crimes and atrocities she has committed during her crowned past. The Forest of Fogs has taken its tribute, magic always comes with a price, and it has dig its knife sharp into her head, vivid blood marring her hands, bushes of thorns gone ablaze, and sweaty caresses of unwelcomed bodies above hers, always trapped, always prisoner.

Little birdie, the Imp called her, and then she was my little dove, when Maleficent was present in the flames around her heart, burning down the last remnants of innocence, the last light blue sewn on her pretty dresses – her blonde curls between her legs, pleasure mixed with pain because no one had said she could have been given a moment of reprise or selfless love. (Selfless love, she wonders if she knows what that is.)

Her wishes have been shattered and drowned and spanked, there was purple on her wrists and a sliced lip to remind her that her life was never hers, her choices as mere illusions of a girl who used to dream too much. She has drunk potions to forget, to forge the steel around her soul. She has killed, spared, captured and used, toyed, and tried to find excuses – or forgiveness, not believing to those who have offered it to her, never faithful of truth or repentance, the acid burning in her veins, the clouds of an incoming tornado coloring of green her future.

She has confided in her horse and in the thief, to bring her body out of the Forest, closing her eyes when the shadows where too insistent around her skin, gripping with invisible nails, scratching teeth on her arms. It has been a fantasy, a living hell of ghosts and long-forgotten screams. In the fogs of her pain, she has briefly wondered if Robin was feeling the same. (Never worse than her, he couldn't have).

And glowing lime dust has skimmed on her hair, her eyes rolling so hard it hurt, making her see again who the thief really is – you've ruined his life – and to ruin his life she continues, dragging him into the Forest – where she has come to atone for her sins, giving willingly in return the most of her mental health, reliving nightmares and fearful agonies – and he didn't imagine what he was going to suffer, when he has entered the Forest – all in the name of protecting her, so she has made him swallow her same kind of pain, because she was too selfish to let him go. (Not that he would have gone.)

When they exit the Forest, he doesn't see the single tear running down her dusty skin.

.

.

"Regina?"

Her eyes open – she's still standing in the courtyard, in front of the tavern, her horse is gone – already taken care of, she imagines.

"Are you alright?"

She catches sight of him for the first time. He looks tired as well, but ever oh-so-chivalrous when he looks at her – as if he actually cares, as if he actually understands the undefeatable power of soulmates (she has tried to push it away, that power, but the cure is in the malady, he is both, he will always be.)

Her head shakes in a poor attempt of lie, her feet moving ahead, avoiding his hand, she flinches when his fingers grip her forearm.

"Regina, talk to me."

He makes not an unreasonable request. He has to know the Forest has taken a lot from her, he may still be wary for what concerns his own sanity, and yet he cares. Insufferable man, he wants to make sure she is safe and sound before they bring on their little charade with the innkeeper. Her shoulders fall in a deep sigh, her skin crawling of repulsion for herself.

"I'm not alright," she concedes. How fitting these are the first words she pronounces in Camelot, this stupid medieval land her son would die to see with his eyes – would have died to see, she corrects inwardly. "I just want to sleep."

Lies and more lies – she won't sleep tonight, least being captured by the nightmares awaiting in the corners of her mind; she will stay wide awake and she will count the stars, wetting the pillow with the stupid tears she already feels prickling.

He doesn't look convinced, but he nods. Thankfully. "Let's get you to bed, then," he says – offering those words, which in his opinion are words of solace, along with his arm for her to take. She ignores the words, but grips steadily his arm, perhaps with too much of an effort, lets him guide her to the door and slides her hood in place. Lets him take care of everything, and who knew she still had a bit of a spark inside, because she thinks Let's allow the husband the honors to provide his wife a bed, if he doesn't want to end up charred to a crisp.

.

.

He has her settled in front of a fuming soup before she can ever mutter a word against it. The innkeeper's wife is a Junoesque figure – he reminds him, slightly, of Granny Lucas – but far more obnoxious and snoopy, whereas Granny is more reserved and snarky, at times. He's still holding Regina's arm under his, when they enter. Evidently, business is slow when the sun has not completely gone down the line of horizon, before the merry participants of the evening festivities make their happy appearance, asking loudly for beer and music.

He would be sufficiently happy to see the quiet state in which the inn is right now – a fire cracking lively in the corner and enough silence to battle the start of a headache in his head, not to mention the warmth of the inside – a welcomed change if compared to the bone-chilling Forest; he would be happy, if it wasn't for this woman who is insisting for accompanying them to a table.

And she inquires.

She asks of them – how long they've been married, where are they going?, where are they from?, and Robin struggles to make up some credible answers, to shield himself from the firing of questions and questions.

He knows Regina is not as okay as she wants him to believe.

He slides next to her on the bench, choosing her side instead of her front, thinks that at least she could rest her head on his shoulder if she feels dizzy. (As if Regina would ever, ever, ask for help or physical sustenance. She'd rather fall with her face in her plate.)

She manages a weak smile to the woman – who has introduced herself as Madam Mim – and looks at him. He – strangely – can't quite read her gaze. She is acting weird, as if the Forest has sucked out a good deal of her. He knows, because she hasn't answered to one single question yet, and that doesn't seem to dance well with her usual temper.

Madam Mim procures their dinner in no time. If he didn't know best, he'd say magic is involved in some way, but his favorite magical expert is currently in the process of brushing dust off her blue cloak, and she doesn't seem interested.

"Here's some soup…" the plate rotates in front of him with a swirl. It doesn't look bad, truth be told, or maybe he's just really famished and he'll take whatever the woman has to offer.

"…and some stew," Madam Mim ends cheerily, placing the plate in front of Regina. She looks at it as if she could vomit at any time, so he's quick to switch the plates and give her the soup, instead. To the questioning look on Madam Mim's face, he answers with a cheeky I think this will fare better with my wife, thank you.

This doesn't end the incessant curiosity; instead, it does nothing but to foment it.

"Ooh, so she doesn't keep down meat?" Madam Mim asks, with the typical glee of someone who's just put their hands on some juicy news. "Is there a baby on the way?"

Before he can do something other than open his mouth, it's Regina who answers. "No, there isn't," she says curtly, her tone sharp. "I believe we're settled here, thank you so much."

There is something particularly strong in her voice, something that mutes Madam Mim and makes her leave with thumping feet. He is stunned by Regina's force of will, by that inexplicable and intimidating way she has to silence people with her presence, or with a few words. He has experienced it before – he muses it's a residual of her years as a politician and ruler, and maybe (but he's just guessing, here, walking on the thin ice of pure deduction), maybe the result – the reaction – of keeping her practically caged when she was married, unable to speak and let her voice be heard. So she made sure no one could ever ignore her again.

She's in silence, now, her finger tracing the edge of the cup of water in front of her.

"Are you alright?"

It's out before he can stop it – the insufferable wording of a too-caring man, again, the stupid words she has more than once showed she, in fact, can't stand.

And as he expected, neither this time.

"No, you know I'm not," she cuts. "So stop asking."

He can't help what comes next – he reaches for her hand, the hand she keeps folded on her lap. When she doesn't flinch, he sighs slowly, pronounces the following words very carefully, as if he doesn't want to frighten her.

"Regina, I'm sorry," he starts. "If I did say something that has upset you –"

Her sigh – different from his own, more resigned, more tired – answers more than a million words. "You didn't, don't worry. Although, you could do something useful, right now."

When he doesn't answer, she finally meets his eyes. "Get me a drink, I beg of you."

He chuckles at that – lifts her hand, before she can stop him, and kisses her knuckles. "Of course, my darling," he answers playfully, rewarded with a glare that could kill him on the spot. He leaves her hand, but leans on, to her cheek, her ear, muttering some feeble words. "Try to eat something, first, please." He brushes a kiss to her cheek and retreats as if he has burned himself.

Too daring, he thinks.

He turns around, and misses the way her fingers touch lightly the spot where he has kissed her.

.

.

Her hand is shaking, when she lifts carefully the spoon. She wills for it to stop, as if a sufficient amount of desire can control her jerking nerves and her useless mind. The few moments of solitude are a perfect way, she finds out, to try and calm down. She will not be treated as weak by him, she will not. It is a dangerous situation, the one she's swimming in, and they are both so guarded and constructed around the subject, dancing and hiding, there's nothing natural in this fake marriage. She knows he's only pretending – an excellent actor, she must say. If she didn't know any better, she'd say he looks smitten – and helplessly in love, like a real husband should be, if only she had the pleasure of actually knowing how a loving husband should be.

Instead, all she has are painful, gruesome memories. Instead, all she has are shadows of gritted teeth and marks on her skin, and just the tiniest relief in the memories she shared with her first love.

That's precisely it – the problem, the issue, the essence of her distress – it is heartbreaking, because Robin is just playing, acting, giving her a taste of what she could never have. She will never have.

For who could ever love someone – something, like her? Not even his foolishness could reach such lengths of stupidity.

But of course, there is a caring part inside of this cruel charade – which is going to leave her even more shattered and disrupted – there is, because he is protecting her, that stupid – stubborn, idiotic man, he's playing the part of the dutiful and loving husband because he knows that if they don't manage to fool the people of Camelot, if someone recognizes them, her sister will know in no time. Maybe she already does.

Her thumb jolts at the thought, the spoon splashing wetly inside the soup, her shoulders gulping upwards, eyes darting frantically towards the counter. Robin is still there – he has been stopped in his tracks by the arrival of a large group of soldiers of some sorts, red uniforms sporting a roaring dragon and shining chainmail. The soldiers must have come inside while they were busy with Madam Mim, and now they're practically owning the place, bellowing orders with very uncivil manners that she considers far than adequate for a knight. So her companion must wait his turn, and Regina sighs, her guts really craving that drink he has promised her.

Her gaze slides to the window. The dusk has finally come, the first tinges of blue coloring the sky, and this has always been the moment of day she prefers the most, when night falls slowly, like a reassuring blanket of stars and soul-healing black. This, she can learn to love, the in-between suspension of time. When she thinks of the endless hours she has spent star-gazing, fat tears landing on white gowns, bloody silk between her legs – she clenches her teeth. Not even her dreadful husband – her dead husband, that is, she is free, since that blessed, poisonous bite – not even him has been powerful enough to forbid her the collateral beauty.

The soup is all but forgotten, next to her. Regina has let the sky distract her, capture her, and she doesn't notice her surroundings before it's too late.

"Milady?"

The word is right – as right as it can be, considering she has expressly requested the thief not to call her that and to limit himself to higher titles, as Your Majesty, or just Majesty if she finds herself in a particularly good mood.

The word would be predictable, from her thief, but the voice is all wrong.

Her head snaps up, darting in a fluid movement, to find green eyes, and not the blue ones she's come to appreciate.

He's young. He sports the red tunic of Arthur's knights, the red that surrounds a golden, roaring dragon. His hand is clenched on the hilt of his sword, his body enveloped in chain mail, and he stands next to her, his gaze scanning her face in a way she doesn't like. Not in the slightest. He is too close. There's something she can't place, in the way they're in silence, awaiting for the next move, like two predators studying each other. But Regina was a predator, back in her times, long ago, when she placed herself between the wolves, the alpha, the leader, almost. Now, she feels small. Scrutinized. His eyes are roaming over her features, her body – as if he can actually see it, no, it is covered by her cloak, but it looks like he can.

He is a knight, but he is not chevalier enough to let her be, and somehow she knows that his coming here has nothing to do with checking on her – the poor woman, all alone and defenseless.

So, she snaps. "Yes?"

Her voice is harsh – bordering on rude; but he's narrowing his eyes, he's not giving her any reprise, she feels like a piece of meat under his eyes. He stays silent. Folds aside his cloak. Uninvited, he sits next to her. Right were Robin was.

Except, he doesn't make her feel safe, or protected, as a fine knight should do. She flinches, scooting away from his body. There's alcohol in his breaths, there's the distasteful way of make amends for a day outside, flying up to every tavern they could find, drinking and cheering, and who knows what else. (She knows. Somewhere out there, there is a waitress who's crying in the back of the pub, clenching ripped clothes and feeling dirty and used. She knows.)

"My name is Percival," he offers.

She won't take it.

"I'm Sophie," she replies.

He comes closer, studying her. His hand goes up slowly, stopping just shy of touch, ghosting over her neck. "Are you sure that one is your name? Because you remind me of someone."

Regina is sure he has noticed her throat and its sudden gulp.

His finger plays with her hair, twirling a lock around. "You awfully remind me of a lady I met, a long time ago. I was just a boy. Not even close to the manly age."

Regina flinches, again, her gaze hardening. She will not be intimidated by this man. She curses the Forest, that wretched and horrible place, which has taken her resolution and fractured it, leaving her in pieces. Had she been her old self – the monster, the deity – she would have crushed his bones.

"This lady – the Queen of Terror, they called her – has set my village ablaze and killed all my family. My parents, my little sister, all of them. I watched, powerless, scared, alone, praying for mercy. But none came, only this angel of death. And she slipped through the flames, relishing in the horror she wrought. But before she escaped, she saw me. And amidst the carnage, do you know what she did? She smiled."

The memory hits her like a poisoned sword.

Fly, little birdie, comes Rumple's voice. Her eyes close, burdened with the immense pain she suddenly feels. Impotent, like a stupid prey, she has fallen. Weak.

A monster.

"You remind me of her… terribly," his voice comes again. He has lowered it, a whispered something , a promise of a long and agonizing death. Drips in revenge and regret, his voice. Her magic is lost somewhere between her mind and the dusty branches of the Forest. She wants to – needs to – escape, right now in this instant. To take Robin and ride away where they can't find them, where she can make sure her past – dripping of blood and fire – cannot possibly keep him from seeing his boy again. That she won't create another orphan, not today, not ever, her heart screams, not again. Not after what she did to Percival.

"What do you say, Sophie? Or should I call you… Your Majesty?"

The squeeze of his fingers around her neck has turned from a brush to a stinging pain, air battling to exit from her lungs. Regina gasps, her hand curving uselessly around his.

He presses harder, flesh on flesh, and she sees black spots and dancing stars. The flashing grey of a blade.

.

.

The drinks he's gingerly carrying to their table fall, slowly, defying every force of physical attraction to the ground. He doesn't care. He doesn't want to care.

Because one of the most precious treasures of his heart is currently being threatened.

He's had his fair share of troubles, Robin, when it comes to impulsivity. He has had broken ribs, scars that took weeks to heal, deer escaping the perfectly balanced precision of his arrows. He has had fights with his wife, with his men, with his parents when he was younger. He once was, not long ago, a different man. Not so quietly poised, calculating and precise. He used to throw himself into robberies without an exit plan, to climb high trees without even knowing whether he'd be able to get down.

So he steps on the shattered remnants of the glasses, splashing whiskey and fragments around, and he runs – uncovers swiftly his dagger, a small stiletto he keeps in the sleeve.

The edge is pleasantly placed above the knight's neck, sinking down on his skin without cutting it – yet.

"I believe that's my wife you're mistreating, boy."

The words exit in a throaty, rasp quality. "Leave her in this instant, or we shall discover how crimson is your blood."

The world stills.

Regina has her eyes fixated upon his. Brown orbs exceedingly dilated, each one of her breaths scratching painfully. His heart clenches, for he hates to see her in pain. He is physically wounded, watching this dreadful scene, this unforgettable action that is sucking life away from his lo – his Regina, he feels like he may die of unopened possibilities. Of all the kisses he has failed to give her, all the flowers he hasn't sent her yet, all the nights they could have spent curled up together, all the words he hasn't spoken because he was foolish enough, man enough to wait her own time.

They have run out of it, now.

So he hopes.

That's the only resource he has left.

.

.

Air is a gift.

The first breath she takes after Percival releases her is a pure, perfect pouring of air into her lungs. She shatters the surface as if she was drowning, cubes of ice floating around her feverish body, so to speak, she was dead, she was watching Robin's eyes for the last time, when some obscure and unknown force has donated her the strength to do what needed to be done. A current of floating magic, the last song of a dying swan.

She has frozen Percival's hand when his dagger had just started to trespass her skin.

Deep breaths – long, long breaths, on the edge of a dead end again, as it has been many times – and many more it will be again. Regina coughs her limbs out, her hand steady, splayed on the cold surface of the table. She doesn't see what Robin is doing. Coughs and coughs and coughs again until her eyes are shimmering with tears and her head pounds in shaky ups-and-downs. The water she had in her glass is fresh, and it flows down easily, and yet it feels like sandpaper.

In the middle of this mess, another miracle happens.

When Regina was learning magic with Rumplestiltskin, he has always pushed her to the brim of dangerous situations. You learn to swim or you drown, dearie. She has almost died more than once. The darkness, swirling and laughing, was a shade of the blackest black to ever exist. She has sputtered and choked, blood running in rivulets down her skin. The monster has fed up to it, to her endless quest for more darkness and consequent fragmentation of all that was good and hers. It has killed a part of her soul. Innocence, maybe. But the stirring of the sun always came to remind her she still could have light, and that was what is going to destroy her right now.

Her magic has unblocked the last defying tool, as it always goes, right when she was dancing above the precipice. Falling down is not an option, she doesn't concede herself to consider it. Percival's tale have that aftertaste she has always been able to spot on a sore tongue, after crushing a heart. Her own stupid self telling her she is a monster, that she deserves to rot in hell, that she is damaged. Rotten to the core. So it happened, and it happened moments ago, the spawn of seconds where her soul has gone around, inspecting the damage.

Because it is hard to use magic – as to save her own life – right after they told you, reminded you, that the very same life isn't worth the effort. So she has not drowned, but at what cost?

Her innocence?

Percival's innocence?

Both?

It doesn't concern her. Not anymore.

The last miracle she twirls around, is a memory spell.

She can describe it as unfair, but there's more than just her life at stake now. And she won't risk Roland to be an orphan just because her body has decided to reject magic while his father was in mortal danger.

So Percival forgets. The Queen, the village on fire.

And her eyes close, the ghost of a smile, of a relief she never deserved.

.

.

The boy has stilled, in front of him. It looks like… what Robin could define a surrender, if he didn't know better. He spent too much time with the Queen to be baffled when it comes to her magic. He senses it. (Is it usual, to sense it? Is it a gift he and he only bears, as a payment for the privilege of having shared time with her? This, he ignores.) It's the electric purple glide of her hand, the smell of salt and thunderstorms in the air. He has watched, petrified, her features turning violet, her breath quicken, her struggling hand descending in a slow resignation. Her eyes closing.

And that red stain widens on her white shirt, like spilled wine.

The knight has released her neck. When he turns slowly towards him, Robin is aware that the man is now completely clueless of what's happening. There is, still, a vein pulsing on his temple. It is a merciless death, the one Robin wants to give him for having dared to threaten Regina. But somehow, the sight of her – eyes closed, one corner of her lips tugged up in satisfaction – the painful shadows of red growing darker, on the always-pale skin of her neck… the sight of her stops him, for she wouldn't want Robin to – dirt his soul, as she would so elegantly put it in words.

Still.

This man is a foolish idiot.

He grabs him – rudely, nobody said he should be gentle. Jolts him away from the bench, ignoring his babbles – I'm so, I sorry, Sir don't – I don't know what's happening, I didn't mean to – and impatiently pushes him away. He has stood here enough, the fool, the inconsiderate man, defying the power of one of the strongest sorceresses of her time.

Defying Robin's patience, thin as a blade of grass.

"Go away," he spits. He slides next to the Queen – he doesn't care, nor wants to discover if the man still lingers here. His eyes are glued to that stain of red.

"Regina?" a frantic word, his hand goes to press on the wound. "Regina, talk to me. Open your eyes."

Silence.

At least, her chest mounts and descends, quietly now, like the waves crashing on the seashore. "Regina, please."

.

.

She wakes in their room, the pulsing glow of a just-starting fire next to her, and the thief hovering above her. Concern, she reads in his face, and she could have fooled herself to think it was another line of their play, for the sake of these Camelot morons who believe he is her husband.

But they are alone.

He isn't pretending.

"Look who's finally woken up," he says, with words that could easily be mistaken for their regular banter if it were not for the look of relief washing on his face. "How are you feeling, milady?"

"I'll continue telling you until the day I die, Robin Hood," Regina murmurs, echoes of her stern tone filtering through the meek sound. "It's your Majesty."

"Ah, yes, I see," he nods. "Looks like you're faring better than I thought, judging from your kind words."

"What happened?" her words cut through, the unwillingness to lose other time with his useless relief pushes inside her in urgency. She stills one hand up to her stomach, fingers ghosting over cut skin, and she remembers. Bits and pieces, tiny fragments of light and dusk, of blood and a stupid, stupid face hovering over hers, a fake name, and pretended concern from a man who had no idea of what he was risking in that moment. Regina listens to her blood running, and the thief speaks.

"What were you thinking?" he goes, sharp. Her face snaps up. She didn't expect sharpness. She expected cuddling and idiotic words of care.

"I beg your pardon?"

He slumps in the chair next to her bed, the thief. "Regina, what on hell possessed you not to use magic when you needed it most? You were foolish, you could have been –"

"Been what?" she hisses. "Been what, exactly? Killed? Since when do you care, since when I'm a concern of yours, thief?"

He gazes at her. His mouth opens in a round, comic O, and she would laugh if it weren't for his incredulous expression, if it weren't for the rage she's trying her hardest to keep at bay. If it weren't for the fact that she almost let herself believe he really cared. For one moment – and saying she won't treasure it, would be a blatant, ungenerous lie – she let her mind trick her into their fake relationship.

He regains control of himself, apparently. His mouth closes, his head shakes, his eyes wide and… pained. The words he pronounces are almost shy.

"I do care for you, Regina."

She blinks.

It lasts one heartbeat, and she scoffs. "Yes, as you say."

He's still looking – he's scrutinizing her, she shifts uncomfortably on the bed until a thorny swing of pain reminds her of the clumsiness, the weakness of her body. It's like music, really, the way she would want to sink down in the flames, because this day has lasted enough and the sundown can never come fast enough for her to be well in her own skin. Today she has endured the hardest trial to her soul, and he's staring at her, because her heartache can never be ended.

He sighs. "Your wound has been cleaned and sewn after you passed out," he says in a toneless voice. "It wasn't serious, but I still would like for you to heal it tomorrow, when you will be in better shape. Now, I will let you rest."

His motions are slow, up from the chair, the dusty cloak swinging behind him – it occurs to her that he hasn't changed, and neither has she, so she coughs lightly.

"Yes?"

She points her finger at the table where her cloak rests. "Can you bring me the purse?"

He watches, amazed, as she extracts various items from the small bag she has brought from the castle. She sees the question on his face, enlightened by the flaming sunset over the window. "How…?"

"Undetectable Extension Charm," she says, rummaging into the purse, not bothering with a more extensive explanation for his ignorant self. "Tricky, but I'm positive about its success… anyway, I managed to fit everything we may need in here."

"Clever," he tells with admiration. She passes him one of his shirts – yes, she has took the liberty of stealing it from his closet, so what? – and one of her nightgowns – the light blue one, Roland's favorite, because she couldn't bring herself not to put inside the purse a small, meaningful sign of Roland.

The thief is still lingering there, oblivious of what should – will have to happen next, so she lets out a small cough to help him shake his tired neurons and wake up. Snow has been clear, redundant almost, insisting against the magic that is sewed into Regina's soul as a second skin, that magic which renders her safe and confident in her skill. Debatable, if you ask her, that her magic should be object of questioning or even of discussion, but now, she will need help. And if the thief will so graciously lend her a hand, she can change into something of a dream, something blue like a lullaby at twilight.

Shy, she is. After his dangerous (dangerous for his safety, that is) rage, she is shy.

"Can you… help me for a moment?"

He nods, limbs shattering out of his daze. "Yes," he stutters, "yes, of course…"

It's painful – it stretches her freshly renewed skin, his however gentle touch, but it isn't unkind, and the thought – she isn't used to this kindness, has tears prickle at her eyes.

"You can – you can go now," she neatly cuts, the gods forbid he'd catch a second of weakness, no, but he's still tender, his fingers still adjusting the blue fabric.

He hasn't looked. He has undressed her, stripped her dusty clothes to the white cotton that holds her breasts. He wasn't – he didn't have lust in his gaze, he lifted and cradled her head like that of a newborn, and Regina could just cry because she has wanted this for all her life and now she is too rotten to have it.

He nods again. Since when he's become so painfully attentive, since when she thinks it would be easy to mistake his words (innocent words, always waiting for a consent she won't give for fear), to mistake them for You could have died today and I can't lose you.

A candle blows out in a flicker of fire and smoke, and her eyes trace his silhouette against the first shades of blue in the dying sunset.

"Where – where will you sleep?" she blurts out, all of a sudden, causes him to turn and pierce her with blue eyes.

"Where will I – " his hands flies up and through his hair, his eyes scanning the room.

He's hesitating. The one and only chair is too uncomfortable to be an option, even for someone whose back is so delightfully used to wet grounds and covers of hay and who knows what else. She sees him thinking, Regina. Can follow the exact process of the wheels turning in his head, like an idiotic windmill of embarrassment and pondering alternatives. Her hand curls around her stomach, postponing the inevitable conclusion she has already reached and fought against – a clear lost battle, that one. For who is she, to deny herself the comfort of one's body.

"On the ground, Regina," he sighs, resigned. "Don't worry of that."

She breathes, heart pounding, glares at that ground. Even if she could be convinced there are no bugs in the bed – but maybe it's what she deserves, bites and poison and something in between – she could never…

She doesn't dare to…

.

.

"Stay with me."

Is he dreaming?

His fist clenches – ignoring his willingness to remain unfazed, but he can't possibly stop his eyes from widening. It is, definitely, Regina's voice – he has those low dulcet tones engraved into his soul, he has them, so it is her, but it isn't possible.

He turns. Facing her has never been more difficult and easy at the same time. Her eyes look sad. Is it – is it a promise, this one? That he gets to hold her, this treasure of a woman, without having to ask?

(But she would not agree to that. Treasure, is not a word for her. She is not something that can be owned – cherished, she should be, always…)

"Are you – are you sure?"

She hums, the apparent quietness of her body into a deep contrast with her fingers nervously twitching, yes, I am, she murmurs. Just this once, don't get used to it.

Silence falls in the room, his eyes still looking everywhere but at her, still searching for a place where he can spend the night, still knowing, deep down, that there is no other solution than hers. He'd have thought her truthful – she has been, during those evenings when she has let him have a drop of her soul, just a reflection of a quiet pond, where he can never dive but he's just chained outside of the water. She has been, at least, he doesn't doubt her in those moments at the castle.

Now however, he hurts for her, for the trial the Forest has requested out of her. As if her soul was a prize to be won, just a… thing, that can be tossed around and exchanged and sold at an auction. He knows she can't possibly mean it, that come the morning sun she will scramble away from his body as if she's been burned, regret roaring with its ugly head, beating her foolishness up with a stick.

"Come on, do hurry up," she whispers. "I'm tired."

Regrets be damned.

Robin strips himself almost bare, in silence, puts the white shirt she's brought on. He notices how she averts her gaze but doesn't close her eyes. Her eyelids flutter close so often, like trembling butterflies, there in the shadow of the windows, the pool of light from the candle. He is going to lie next to her, he knows, the warmth of her body away from his own, like a glistening temptation he won't pick. The coldness of the sheets will remind him of what he cannot have, the shields around her heart too hard to scar. He lets himself think how would it be if this were true. Just a couple during a pleasure trip, sharing a bed, an intimate moment but so casually shared, and it hurts his heart.

.

.

Her stomach is in pain.

She has not told him, not a single word. He'd fret, in that adorable haste he has to ensure her well-being, he would not mind her useless assurances that she's fine, she's well. He'd drag here the woman who has sewn her wound, he'd go search for herbs and remedies, because this is who he is. He is that man, that kind of selfless love – he incarnates it, she has never seen something quite like this, like his own proclivity to be gentle and eager to help everyone.

She can't hold inside the tell-tale hiss which escapes her when he climbs up next to her. He stops, the movement of the mattress stills for a second, so Regina glares at him, and he moves away the covers. "I apologize, milady."

"For what?"

She doesn't like the way her voice sound – weak.

"My clumsiness." He settles himself under the blanket, carefully, keeps his distance, as if she was affected by a contagious disease. Her lungs squeeze in a pain completely unrelated to her wound. He'd never – never dare to touch her, she knows. (He would have, with her permission. What a surprising turn, what a weird man, one who doesn't take, one who doesn't enter where he's uninvited. Yet.)

"Don't worry." Her murmur is tired, resigned. Maybe the Forest has played with her head for too long, maybe she's burning with fever, her wound infected. She doesn't know. But I would die to feel his arms around me.
Suddenly, with no anticipation at all, her brain swirls open, her skull throbs and she squeezes her eyes, a slow, whimpering moan exits her mouth.

"Regina?"

A sob cracks open, "My head – "

He scoots closer, his fingers fresh on her forehead, she nods. It is so humiliating that he has to witness her downfall, her pain, her shame. But you deserve it, Percival whispers. A snake biting off her encephalon, she nods, "No," she tells him, tells Percival, her eyes glassy and she doesn't see anymore. "Make it stop," she pleads, someone, anyone, she has pleaded so many in her life, no one has ever listened.

"Tell me what you need," Robin's pained voice comes from behind a veil. From far away, from another time and universe where they live happily. She feels arms around her, warm, her forehead is sending impulses of lightings around her bones, but it's also being touched by fresh skin, scent of pine and dust. His lips are there, pressing against the source of her pain. Her hand finds his, squeezes, goes still and her eyes open.

"Robin?"

She has almost lost her voice, now, his eyes like pools of blue, he's seeing her soul right now. "I'm here," comes his voice, "I'm here, please tell me what I can do."

He's scared.

She has scared him, it is indeed worry the emotion she sees and feels around her, like a cloud, like a ball of magic, pulsing its contours in a slow motion of blue and black. He fears for her, and Regina sees with the eye of her mind what he has seen until now – herself trembling and her eyes rolling back, her skin burns, and guilt seizes her – she has never wanted him to share her demons.

"Hold me."

In her good days, this would have been a command, now it's a request or – the gods forbid – a plea. He is the cure, though, his contact heals her. He doesn't know, that the power of soulmates is precisely this – a power of sharing and healing, and his kiss on her forehead has abated her migraine, his hands have given her strength and she has let purple tendrils pour magic in her wound. Robin doesn't know, of the ink of his arms that ties them together, that forces him to feel something for her – something fake and artificial, a mere tantrum of the gods who have split their soul in two. Robin doesn't know, because she hasn't told him, because she's a coward.

He doesn't know, and still he says yes, still he slides on his back to surround her with his arms, still he presses his lips to her temple and says Oh, Regina. Her head turns, cheek presses on his chest, a tear rolls down. I'm sorry, she desires to say, but sleep takes her, and she drifts away.

.

.

Robin wakes slowly, at the crack of dawn.

The first impression of the new day carries ancient memories. Having someone in his arms is an old, long-forgotten feeling, that shadow of his wife and their long nights together. So at first, he doesn't open his eyes. His arm circles her, he lets out a content sigh, relishing in the feeling of her skin against his, of the rays of sun bathing the bed of light, light that he feels in particles of dust and a familiar warmth.

Then it washes over him, that it can't be Marian, the one he's holding. And those who were old and battered sensations are replaced with fresh flashes of yesterday. He blinks. The long hair tickling his skin is decidedly of a too black shade, satin-like at its extremities, heavier and curlier next to her forehead. The scent he's feeling is not of flowers and sun, it's of apples and the ozone of magic. Regina. She's still asleep, slow breaths in and out from a corner of her mouth to his chest. He forces those flashes away – a blade, a pool of wine-colored blood marring a white shirt, purple clouds of tender magic and – she looks like she's engulfed by a light blue cloud, her raven hair the only detail to give some contrast between pastel colors.

He closes his eyes, places his lips on the crown of her head. She seems to be alright, the night has healed her, like a goddess who takes care of her sister, like a blessing conceded to those who are too precious to be lost.

Maybe she has felt the rhythm of his breaths changing, because she stirs slightly, pressing on his chest as if she's seeking his heat, slumberous movements of her hand up on his stomach. He tenses, because when she will be fully awake she won't consent to this proximity, he will lose this closeness, her heartbeat against his.

"Robin?"

The surprise in her voice was to be fully expected, and yet it is not – disgust, or whatever he'd foreseen her to do, or feel. He dares to hope, and curls his hand around her shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

A pause, just the tap of her finger on his stomach, reflects on her answer. "I… don't know."

He could insist, but this is however a step ahead from her usual I'm fine. His hand finds her hair – tiptoes between the flames as he starts caressing it, because maybe it's real and he has a death wish, but it's too good of an occasion to waste it.
She stills, at the contact, his hand stills too, she glances up. Carefully, a glint softens in her eyes, she nods. "Keep going, if you wish so," she concedes. His heart swells of tenderness for this woman, who's not used to human contact and impulsive demonstrations of kindness, not anymore, this woman who has reacted like a scared wild animal, then has slid her mask in place and pretended (but does she pretend?) to be uncaring of him.

"I was worried," he offers.

"Sounds likely," she murmurs. "You shouldn't, you know. Worry. About me."

"And yet," he smiles. His fingers tangle in her hair. "I happen to worry a great deal about you. Especially since we left the castle, it appears."

Her fist clenches. Robin wonders if he should stop his hand, leave her be, but he settles for continuing. Leave it on her to set him on fire, if so she wishes. Leave it on her to set the boundaries, the rules, if this grants him tranquility and the knowledge she's completely agreed with every action.

"We should go get… breakfast," she says. He somehow knows, not one morsel will reach her lips, maybe some sips of tea, nothing else. But the moment is not over, she hasn't moved yet, he can still gain a drop of her, a plight, while this lasts, while he still has her here and safe. He still can convince her.

"Promise me something first, milady."

The huff of her breath reaches his skin, but he doesn't weaver in his resolution. This, and only this, will put his mind at ease for some hours.

"What is it?"

Still kind, she is, he tugs up a corner of his lips in the amused knowledge that she won't be kind after she's heard what he wants. He tangles his hand in her hair, twirling a lock around his finger, softly. "Promise me… you won't hesitate to use magic, if the time comes."

"Robin…"

"Please." Just this once, please. He needs to hear her say it, that she won't put herself in unnecessary danger. If he could, he'd go back to the castle in a swirl of smoke, to his son and morning raspberries and Snow's delighted smiles. But they can't.

"It… will depend on the circumstances," she tries. He feels her sigh, she isn't at all thrilled about her words. It makes him hope – a traitorous thing, hope, hope that maybe she can reciprocate what he feels. His hand is bathing in sunlight, now, the rays have inclined. "Alright, I promise."

"Thank you," he exhales. Before anything can stop him, he presses his lips on her head. Knows this will mold their wobbly relationship into awkwardness, he doesn't care.

.

.

Her heart aches.

It aches for something she has never had – or, she has tasted but never got to try because they ripped it out from her hands too soon. She is tempted to linger in this dreamy morning, crispy air of spring and lazy sunshine. To stay in his arms where she feels at home. She's still asleep, probably, this is just a trick of her mind – a cruel joke, made to take her soul and shatter it the moment she realizes it's just a fantasy. His fingers feel so real. His words too, his body feels so real, she's never had such a realistic dream. (Nightmares, yes, those she has had. Not tonight, though.)

Because who could ever want to fall asleep holding the Evil Queen in their arms?

Oh, if this is a dream, let me here. Don't make me wake up. Just this once, I want to feel how it's like.

When he kisses her, on her head, she is about to jolt.
She doesn't.
Maybe my mind still is in the Forest, maybe I died there.

"Shall we get dressed, milady?" he whispers in her ear.

Oh, if only he knew. He is, still, unforgivably ignorant about the golden wire tying their souls together. He ignores it, that he's been doomed since his birth day. That one day a capricious god has found amusing to shape a single soul and to split it and since then, they are halves, forever magnetized together, and he can't escape. He ignores this is a trick of his mind (and body), that what he feels is just a fraud. It's not real. Her heart aches, for him, condemned to love a monster and to believe it is his choice. It's on her, to call him out, to keep them in safer shores, without him ever knowing of her deceit.

"Yes," she mumbles, resigned, gathering her blue nightgown to an elegant fold and pushing herself to get up. "We shall."

Their day is slow. Boring, even.

The Spring Ball is at sundown, but the mighty castle of the Pendragons is just two hours away. They will arrange for a carriage in some way, she knows, their horses will do just right to accomplish the job. She spends hours perched on a chair, in Madam Mim's drawing room, reads a book, but she doesn't see the words. They skim under her eyes, her heart sloshing blood around her veins, slowly, her vision blurry. She doesn't tell him. He brings her tea, soup, urges her to eat. If it weren't so painful, to have his attentions, it would be annoying. He plays the part of a doting husband, impeccably so, they would look like a long-married couple to the outside eye. Regina thinks about writing a note to the Princess, to send it with a raven, but was it intercepted, it would do no good to their plan.

Robin calls her darling, today. Caresses her head, while exiting.

She hates herself for wishing it to be true.

.

.

She is stunning.

A vision. He's never seen the equal. When she has told him that she was going upstairs to dress herself, he's imagined she'd change into a slightly more elegant dress. After all, they're not to be noticed, tonight. And her dress is not, absolutely, of the kind that draws attention. He knows – for a queen, being demanded to pass as unnoticed is a heavy constriction. That is, he has seen her extraordinary corsets, her feathers and hats and the lustful promises of her cleavage. He has seen what she has let him see, no more, no less. The beauty of the queen is a treasure to be cherished. It has been a part of her reign, as effective as her magic or her laws.

He feels like a buffoon, like a man of the woods, and he is ashamed. Nothing, in his suit, can compare to what she is now. So that, what should have been a compliment exits like a remark, and he wants the ground to crack open and the pits of hell to take him immediately after.

"That dress is never going to work."

He could just kick himself in the teeth, for the way her smile and blushing cheeks of when she lets him see her – turn into a scowl, and her eyes bear the signs of one who's been hurt. Her gaze falls, her lip trembling, for just a mere instant before she answers with a retort. "Well, trust on you to compliment a woman, thief."

"No," he rushes to stutter. "I didn't mean…"

Her wordless nod, angry, is more meaningful than his words.

"Of course, you are breathtakingly beautiful."

The roll of her eyes tells him he's greatly lost on this one. Foolish, stupid, to poke her after months of work to gain an ounce of her trust. "I mean it," he adds, in all earnest. "I was just saying… we don't work well together, it looks like I'm your servant."

"Maybe we should keep it that way," she narrows her eyes, the haughty tone of her voice battling with her eyes, softer now that he has explained the misunderstanding. She snaps her fingers, his vision blurs with her typical smoke for a moment, and he's met by her (approving?) gaze. "Much better, I'd dare say."

The mirror shows him a very different suit – green and brown brocades, a cape, different shoes, and now his attire complements perfectly with hers. "Thank you, Regina."

"Yes, yes, let's get going," she dismisses him with a wave of her hand. She marches on, towards the door, but he doesn't move. He's too busy admiring her again. Her dress truly comes right off a dream, the deep wine-red fabric draped up at the end of her back in a bow, the veils of her sleeves dangling like a promise of forbidden touches, her dark locks wavy in an elegant, classy hairdo (that will, most likely, make the very queen of Camelot pale in her comparison). His eyes are – guiltily – skimming down her curves, when she turns, painted lips pouting, her hand placed on the door. "Well?"

"Oh – yes," he shakes himself from his dumb-gazing state and follows her – he'd say he's even blushing, for having been caught so blatantly.

.

.

The carriage ride is smooth and silent.

Regina tries to avert her gaze from his, choosing to keep her eyes fixated on the outside world without seeing it. It's just a confusion of black and greens, this land, young trees and occasional huts. The comparison with the Enchanted Forest is inevitable and natural. Nevertheless, Robin keeps glancing at her – whether it is to ensure her well-being persists, or to annoy her, that she ignores. Still, he remains in silence for most of the time, never tries to spark a conversation, and for that she is grateful. She has no need for soothing words, right now. Not when her heart is throbbing nervously against her ribcage, not when anxiety frizzles in her veins. Her encounter with Percival, yesterday, has made it clear that she isn't safe here – they really need to fool everyone, they need to look like they're helplessly in love, to chase all doubts from the people of Camelot. For even if they wonder, is she the long lost queen, they will see a man with her, a man who's generous and good, like the sun, who loves her like she's his moon – and they will shake their head and whisper It can't be her, the queen was murder incarnated, this woman is loved.

Her thoughts wander to darker places, alleys where she's stabbed, Robin falling down because someone poisoned his drink, her sister prickling her finger with a sleeping curse and she won't ever wake again, because Henry is lost to her, and no one loves her enough here…

"Regina?"

She looks up, startled. "Oh – what is it?"

"We're here."

And they are indeed – a glance outside reveals the castle, its imposing medieval style so different from the ones they have at home. The banner of the Pendragons flutters everywhere. She represses a shiver, for this is one of the last images she had while Percival was so focused on choking the life out of her lungs. A deep breath goes out, as a reminder that she's not dead, she has saved herself with a magic trick good for a beginner, and he can't hurt her here. Never again.

The carriage stops, at the gate. She sees Madam Mim's stable boy jump down of his seat, quickly going to open the door. Takes his hand to climb down like she's in a drug-induced dream, her head feeling decidedly lighter, the brisk air of dusk twirling around her skin a meek wind. Robin dismounts after her, whispers something about the horses to the quick boy – he will need to unfasten them from the carriage, leave them in the stables so that they can deliver a rapid escape once they have stolen the pendant. This was part of the plan they have concocted with the Charmings' help, and it seems so far away in her memory, despite having been decided just two days ago. Her eyes glance at the countesses and dames who are impatiently waiting for their husbands to accompany them inside. They are elegant, disdainful, with their long gloves and vivid gowns, the flowers marring otherwise perfectly fine fabrics, the hats – now and then with exaggerated feathers and fake diamonds that catch the torches' light.

"Regina?"

Again, she has been caught distracted.

Robin is offering her his arm.

(Since when he's become Robin so often, though?)

"Shall we, your majesty?"

"Don't call me that, here," she warns, surreptitiously, throwing a glance at her surroundings. "Yes, we shall."

He nods in agreement – she is immensely grateful he does not bother with remarks about I'd never thought you'd agree to be called milady, but he remains silent and plays the part of the chivalrous husband. They start walking behind the other nobles, slowly, in a procession that is both scarily perfect and potentially fatal.

She hears music, once they pass the gate, the sound of lutes and citterns, jingles, and her hand tightens on Robin's arm. There will be dancing, tonight, happiness in form of twirls and poured silk, and it is not Regina's strongest skill. What possessed her to think she'd be actually able to participate at a Spring Ball without dancing, is beyond her comprehension.

"Robin."

"Yes?" he murmurs back.

"You do know how to dance, I hope?"

"Of course, m'lady," he answers, kind. "I had the chance to learn, as the son of a nobleman."

"Right," she says, her fingers sinking even more in his arm. "Of course."

Here's to the thief saving the day, then.

.

.

He's left Regina alone for mere minutes, and here it is – the usual knight battling for the most beautiful woman's attention.

She has requested him a drink, right after they entered. The music was slow, a duet of strings, the dances had yet to be opened. She has installed herself next to a column, a finger twirling up and down a lock of her hair, and told him to please fetch her some kind of beverage from the refreshments. She hasn't said why – to gather courage, maybe, perhaps to forget the dreadful prospect of an evening in his company. He doesn't do drinks, during a job, but Regina is not a thief, and if she judges she needs some liquid bravery, so be it.

The memory of Percival choking and stabbing her flashes in his eyes like an obnoxious, frightening prediction. He sees her cornered, her back almost pressed to the column, as this knight hovers around like a hawk, but then, he sees her smile. She shakes her head, gentle, the knight lifts her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. He bows, without leaving her eyes – who would want to leave her eyes, after all?

He bows, and gets up straight, and Robin knows he's saying Until then, my lady. Regina's eyes are still fixated upon the knight's back when Robin returns, a stretched smile and offering her the mixture.

"Having fun?" he asks, tilting his head. To his surprise, Regina blushes, her eyes darting towards him in the guilty expression he's only seen on fawns while hunting.

"He was… kind," she admits, taking the cup he is offering, her cheeks of a lovely pink shade. "I didn't… I'm not used to…"

Robin's heart squeezes painfully. (Only Regina could make him feel such pain with only three words.) he knows, what she means: she is used to dubious gazes, to mothers pushing their children to safety when she's in sight, to threats and loneliness. Here, she is just a noblewoman, a beautiful dame with whom anyone would dance – here, she is unburdened, and free.

"I… I see," he says, slowly. Her gaze drops to the ground, and he has the strong and inexplicable impulse of hugging her. "Do you care for a dance, perhaps?"

The moments of openness pass, rapid like a summer storm, and her eyes are dry again, her glare hard as steel. "Don't forget why we are here."

"A bit of dancing never hurt anybody," he reasons. Places his cup on the nearest table, and offers her his arm. "Besides, we have to wait a little longer, if we want to sneak out unfazed."

"Ah, indeed you are the expert here," she smirks. Her cup joins his, she turns, takes his arm. "Don't step on my feet, dear."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

.

.

This ball is… unexpected.

She'd dreaded the foreseeable kind of evening waiting for her – always alone in a corner, since she was a young bride – then, during her reign of terror, who could have danced with her. And now, in her palace, parties such as this one are rare, and find her locked in the library, with some sort of protection spell molded appositely against a certain Princess.

Now, it is different, to say the least. She lets him lead. Of course her agreement is accompanied with the words Don't get used to it, thief, but she lets him. Finds it easier to pretend, to put on her façade of Duchess of Somewhere in Misthaven, wife of… him, of all people, and her eyes close, and this is another universe where she has fallen. One where she married because she fell in love with him, one where his father was a loving father and her mother was a caring mother. One where they have met and united their fortunes, one where they wake up every morning, kissed by the sun, in each other's arms.

This could have been mine.

It lasts a song, and it's over, the magic ends, drop the curtain.

A tear escapes her eye. He catches it wordlessly, and kisses her temple. He whispers, It's alright, darling, it's alright.

"Aren't you two just adorable?"

Regina turns, stiffening, and meets the scrutinizing eyes of an old lady, dressed up in a violet motive and enormous feather of her hat. Robin slides down his hand to her back, and coughs slightly. "I don't believe we have been introduced."

"Of course, no," the lady nods. "I am Lady Moira of Avalon, the Dowager Archduchess."

Regina's instincts, filtered in her soul with years of practice with Cora, kick in almost immediately, and she bows, with the exact kind of bow she is supposed to use with a superior noblewoman. "We are very pleased to meet you," she answers. Robin follows her lead, bowing his head, thank the gods his father has, as well, taught him all the right manners. "This is my… husband, uhm, Lord Robin," she could giggle just at that, this is utterly ridiculous.

"My wife, Lady Sophie, Duchess of the Citadel in Misthaven," he says, his voice carries so much more ease than her stumbling words, and just now she remembers they have settled for a fake name instead of Regina.

"Well it is an uplifting view for these tired eyes, to see such a loving couple," the dame says, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I mean it – there's no amusement in those horrible arranged marriages, my dears. You two are a novelty in this frozen world."

At this point, her blushing cheeks feel on fire, her hand curls around Robin's – since when she's holding it? – and she nods, "Thank you, Lady Moira," she tells her. "An arranged marriage would have been far worse than this one, I assure you."

Robin squeezes her hand. She doesn't know if he's understood the reference to her previous husband, or if he even knows about it. "Of course," he agrees. "The stars have treated me well." His head turns and she lifts her eyes, meeting his. "I couldn't imagine a life without her, not anymore."

She manages a smile, for the lady's sake, but it hurts her. That he's lying so easily, and he's not even sorry. Lady Moira nods appreciatively, pats Robin's arm, and tells them she will see them later, and she's gone. Regina realizes she's still looking at him.

"Uhm, yes," she gulps down, averting her eyes. "Well played, my congratulations."

Robin doesn't answer, but she still feels his eyes on her, her skin prickling. There is a single sniff, from Regina, because she is not a child who falls under the weight of her emotions. She is a queen, and tonight, she will be a thief. "Yes, well, let's… let's go, I think it's time."

"Wait," his hand is around her arm, and she stops in her tracks.

"What is it?"

He smiles at her. There is so much, in his smile, she might be crushed in seconds. "Let's have a last dance, first."

.

.

Regina is like a dream, in his arms.

But all dreams have to finish, somewhere. His dreams have always ended, him jolting awake, or turned into nightmares – less defined, more rich of shadows and smells from another time and place. They follow the song together, a slow one, she needn't worry about her steps. It's just them, dull lights around, the moon filtering through the high windows, them and the music. She places her head on his chest, holds his hand, as they swing slowly in place.

This is very close to love, if he ever knew what love is.

He wishes to tell her he is terribly sorry. That he wants for this to be true, immensely, but she is a very good actress herself, or else, she wouldn't have almost fooled him, so many times. Maybe those times were her true self, and he is the fool?

His chin goes above her head, his hands pulling her closer. The rich brocade of her dress reflects the lights, the deep red shines like rubies, and he very much wants to kiss her. Right here.

"Regina?" he whispers.

She hums against his chest, still follows the music. When he doesn't answer, she lifts her chin up to look in his eyes. "What is it?"

Wordlessly – who needs words, in times like this – he takes her chin between her fingers, and her eyes are impossibly close, her painted lips inviting, her perfume intoxicating. "I wondered," he tells her, drawing patterns with his thumb on her hand. "if I am a fool."

She blinks, frowning. "Why?"

"Because I wish this was true."

She gives him the hint of a smile. "Well," she licks her lips, just an inch closer. "I think we both are."

"You do?"

"Yes."

They are so close, now, her eyelids start to flutter down, her chin inclined, near and near, until their lips meet. It's a sweet thing, at first, a tantalizing promise of more, when her lips disclose ever so slightly and she dares another peck. He encounters her with kindness, slowly, exploring, another peck, one more.

They don't go any further, not tonight. Regina scoots away, in the end, their foreheads touching. "We both are," she smiles, sadly.

He'd desire to hold her some more, to kiss her some more, to whisk her away to some hidden corner. But she makes her own destiny, because she steps away, and motions upwards – the Tower, he knows. "It's time."

.

.

It is easy, to walk away. She has done it before, her entire life, actually. She has loved and hated and lost – almost everyone. So it feels easier, in retrospective, to focus on her target rather than on his lips on hers. To direction her thoughts on the pendant that could save Snow's baby, where this is her atonement, as she has condemned the first of Snow's children to a life without her mother. She could admit she is scared – or terrified, or whatever word they do use to describe her fears of commitment that doesn't sound like crushed hearts or damned curses or eternal torment. She will be her own monster, she will not give in to this fire he has ignited as if she was a plaything.

She will not surrender to the power of twin souls.

They stalk away as if they have all the right to be here. Walking through the crowd, she ignores the annoying heralds who announce the Queen's arrival – Guinevere, that is, in a purple gown, reaching for her king's hand. Robin's hand presses urgently on her back, and she lets him lead her in the shadows. It's stairs, and more stairs, she just wishes to end it all with a snap of her fingers – how delightful it would be, to give in to magic, but she can't. Magic would, imperiously, tell her sister she is here, here to steal a magic necklace she doubt even exists.

Robin reaches the highest tower first, where Morgan le Fay used to live. Belle assured she is not here, but Arthur has left her trinkets untouched, the poor man, scared of magic. She watches, as her companion makes a showdown of his stealing skills, fumbling and working on the locks. Again, magic pulses almost painfully at her fingertips, but she holds it in. A clang, and the door opens.

"After you," he motions, his arm extended, offering her the first steps. This is her area of expertise, after all. Robin steps back, her gown rustles on the floor, they enter.

"Didn't you say you were going to find the thing?"

"Changed my mind," he mumbles, still looking at the corridor. They haven't found any guard, and that alone is pretty suspicious. "Hurry up, we don't have much time."

"I'm trying," she bites back. She likes to think she is quick and effective, as her hands lift covers and books, even if perhaps, for Robin every second she wastes is a second closer to being caught. There are old potions, magic amulets, signs of dark magic that make (even) the Evil Queen shiver, runes and ancient tomes, herbs and black viscous substances.

"Regina, hurry," he says. Her pained It isn't here! is almost comical, as she is rushing to open and close as many boxes as she manages to. Come on, come on…

"There are three guards coming, you have thirty seconds or less," he announces, just as she declares triumphantly, I found it!

He looks at her, a smile mingling with his worried expression. If they catch them, there is no doubt Zelena will immediately be informed – it only takes a cuff, and Regina would be powerless, and she is sure these stupid guards have plenty of cuffs for those of her kind. (Her wretched, frightful kind, of witches and sorcerers too powerful to reason with.) He throws another glance at the guards, while she lets the pendant slide around her neck. Its gemstone, an enormous opal, shines of the colors of the rainbow. She plunges it between her breasts, inside the corset, and she immediately feels its healing powers starting to filter through her skin.

Robin closes slowly the door, and nears her in two swift steps. "Now, we don't have time, so follow me, I'm sorry," he tells her, so quick she almost doesn't understand his words. He cups her cheek in a single move, Regina hears the guards approaching, almost at the door. "I'm sorry," he repeats, and then… he kisses her.

It's not like earlier, not in the slightest – it's raw passion, his tongue against hers, and she melts into his embrace, her back pressed against the table, and it is good. It's a fire, ablaze, to burn her alive, it's nothing like the gentle pecks on the ball room, this is – Robin slides his arm down her curves and to her thigh, quickly lifts her leg against his own, oh…

As expected, the door slams open, three guards pouring inside, and – that was the plan, to be found in a compromising position, so that they could avert their attention from their actual purpose… her leg falls, their mouths parting with matching guilty looks.

"Oh," a guard says, stepping back. "We… we heard noises here, what…"

"We apologize, gentlemen," Robin says, with the customary nonchalance of a natural thief. "I was… just in search of a private place, to spend some quality time with my wife, you see."

Regina gulps, her cheeks heating up – this is not the right time to incinerate the guards. Her hand slides behind her back.

"Yes," the guard looks at her for a moment. "Yes, of course, I can – imagine. Anyway, I must insist for you to abandon these quarters…"

"It won't be necessary," Regina intervenes. "We can… continue afterwards, can't we, dear?"

"Of course," Robin answers, pecking her lips. (She should be used to the way it makes her rejoice and hurt at the same time, by now.) "Now if you'll excuse us," he says swiftly, taking her hand, he steps away from them, and Regina follows, too stunned to speak again.

Robin does not walk fast, in a hurry to escape the curious guards. Instead, he chooses a slower rhythm, leaves her hand and brings her body closer, an hand around her waist. He intertwines their hands above her shoulder, his lips pressed on her temple in an excuse, she knows, to look at the men they've left behind. "Slowly," he murmurs. "Just behind the corner, don't run down the stairs."

Their steps fall in sync, Regina counts in her mind, one, two, one, two, and tries to calm her furious heartbeat. (Why is it, this thumping assertive sound, because she is alive, because they are followed, or – because the memory of his fingers on her skin is, still, ever so strong?)

"You took the necklace?"

"Yes," she whispers. She can feel it – the necklace, Morgan's masterpiece, tossed there in the Tower, when she was murdered – burned at the stake in the cruel destiny of the sisterhood, Morgan's pendant which will save the baby Snow is bearing. It's a source of warmth, the opal, hidden fire next to her heart. It's slowly mending her bruises, her wounds, her cuts. A passing thought, maybe she should offer it to Robin for a while.

It is hard, not to run, now. To trust him, this is what he does, after all. It occurs to her, that she has trusted him from the start – and it is too complicated not to think how natural it was. The music grows up, again, the end of the stairs is near. Robin, then, pushes her against the wall. I'm so sorry, Regina, he murmurs again. Her head spins, as the guards join them. "If you'll excuse us, now," he tells them, his hands tangling in her hair, mussing up her hairdo. The chief of the guards nod, the others follow, this must have sold it – that they are just a couple in search of intimacy. She feels the chief's eyes on her, sends him a smile. A ghost of the sexy, promising smile she'd have used as the queen, but it will do. And Robin's lips are on hers again, and the world disappears until it's just them, them and the burning host near her heart.

They will have to escape, soon. They will have to fold up her gowns and to dress as outlaws and bandits, to pull out bows and daggers from her purse, to find their horses in the stable and ride away like shadows in the night. She will face the Forest again, but she won't be alone. Not this time, no.
For this time, Regina holds the fire of the witches to guard her soul. And – maybe, once upon a time, once upon a dream – a thief's unguarded love, to guard her heart.