Sing to me of soul mates, Muse, the love of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once they had stepped from the hallowed page of lore.
Regina comes alone.
She tells no one of her plan as she watches Robin's coffin be lowered into the ground (and bloody hell, if that—his near and dear ones mourning his loss, his son crushed and his soul mate heartbroken—isn't the most fucking dreadful thing he's ever witnessed). She says nothing of it as she sits at their table, in their booth, stroking his empty spot on their bench, deaf for the most part to the condolences laid gently, if hastily, at her feet. Once the wake is over and everyone scatters from Granny's to their homes, Regina does the same—and Snow White's watchful eye is fooled by the ploy just like everyone else.
No one knows of Regina's plan—except for Robin.
For Robin, stuck in boundless fields of pale asphodel, is listening.
He can almost hear the soft click-clack of her heels she berates herself for as she sneaks out like a shadow under the cloak of night; can imagine the gentle rustle of a satchel of provisions clutched under her coat; and distinctly makes out the last, barely whispering vestiges of hope hunkered in the deepest corner of her heart.
It's that wonderfully resilient heart of hers that speaks to him even now, though in slightly different ways under the circumstances. He knows it well enough to understand why, loath to risk any more lives, she sets out to brave the dark Stygian depths on her own. She carries so much fear, so much doubt, and guilt, and pain; yet the weight she ultimately bends under is that of love. Every other thought, every other emotion is imbued with it, fuelled by it, drowned out by its might even as she follows him where she's no way of knowing he's presently to be found.
Affection swells within as he waits for her, itching to reach out and alleviate some of her pain as she ventures to do the impossible.
Then again, had they not beaten impossible odds time and again before? Was he not supposed to have ceased to exist? Could there be a way out for him after all? Is there a way-or must they be ripped apart again, with the sole consolation at least this time they get the chance to say a proper goodbye?
Robin knows exactly when Regina's descent below ground is complete, for the moment she embarks to cross the mist-hung waters in Charon's ferry, he no longer hears her thoughts.
Isolated in this squalid place with a myriad listless, wandering souls, he's left with no way of knowing what goes on beyond its confines.
And so the wait begins.
Regina's been preparing for the worst-for Robin's absence in the land of the dead and no proof of his existence elsewhere-but she's nowhere near ready for this.
Barely has she reached the other shore of the River Styx when the first stirrings of trouble present themselves.
"What the-?"
"-hell?" the gnarled-limbed ferryman finishes for her. "I know, right? Even with the old order I had my work cut out for me, but this? This-chaos? This pandemonium?"
Manoeuvring around a cluster of howling souls crowding the usual landing spot, the skeletal man rows further upstream. The sight of him only seems to act as bait, luring dozens to give chase.
Regina grips the sides of the dangerously rocking boat.
"What's going on?" Her first thought is they're here for her, bearing old grudges and wounds inflicted by the Evil Queen. "What do they want?"
"To cross, of course! But I sure ain't ferrying anyone back to the surface-look what happened the last time we let you mortals walk outta here. Hades-gone! Stripped of his powers! His realm in disarray!"
Charon continues to steer them off course, spilling profanities at the souls clamouring after them amid the tireless tirade he rains down upon Regina.
"Even the afterlife isn't what it used to be," he carps. "Sure, that flea-ridden beast Cerberus is having a field day, chasing around the damned and the redeemed, but does anyone give a damn about my workload? I'm not cut out for this border patrol duty-not like this anyway."
Regina, fighting back an eyeroll in hopes of gleaning some useful information from this outburst, looks up into his flaming eye sockets.
"The damned and the redeemed?" she repeats. That's new-and most definitely not good.
"Why, after Hades' fall, all hell broke loose! Without him, there's nothing keeping the damned from walking in the light, or the good from being cast into eternal night. I swear if I could hold my liquor," he pats his belly, rattling the bare bones underneath his filthy cloak, "I'd already have started drinking on the job."
"Yeah, well," she scoffs, "perhaps there's an alternative solution to the problem?"
She's here for Robin. She never once dreamed to find herself in a world upside down in a way more atrocious than the mess that had been Underbrooke. But just as she couldn't leave the first time to chase her own selfish goals, the sense of obligation wins out again. They are, after all, somewhat responsible for the current state of affairs, having upset the balance on their quest to bring back Hook ending in Hades annihilation-never once considering the consequences for the order of the world. So she can't help the question, even though it derails from her original mission.
"Sure, Your Majesty," Charon cackles, coughing up little balls of dust as he finally heads to a patch of rocky shore surrounded by jagged cliffs, and shoos her to disembark. "Just a trifle, really. Tiny little thing-almost unfit for a hero of your calibre."
Regina sees it coming-should have seen it coming all along, really.
"You must find someone else to take Hades' throne."
She fucking hates this godforsaken-pun absolutely intended, thank you very much-place. The first time had been bad enough, but at least Underbrooke had been familiar, its streets and buildings interwoven in a pattern they'd recognised. But this, now? They should give out fucking maps on entry.
Except those wouldn't really be needed ordinarily; it's precisely the utter lack of order that makes the task of finding one's way around so damn frustrating.
Regina roams the bright fields of the blessed, on the lookout for former leaders with the potential to take on the delicate task of restoring said order. She scours grassy hillocks and babbling brooks of a countryside so gorgeous and idyllic it puts the most sickeningly sweet of pastoral images to shame. She braves the desolate wastelands, dark rocks dotted with seething, fire-spitting volcanoes and pits of molten lava, seeking those wielding magic and willing to take the reins. Everywhere she goes, she crosses paths with a motley of souls of the most varied of merits and depravities.
Regina's head aches, her fists clench from sheer frustration when neither the deepest circle of hell nor the brightest tier of light brings answers. Not a single candidate seems a decent match-and none, no matter how noble or distinguished, seem all too keen to ascend the hellish throne. From the depths of depravity, where the only volunteers rear their heads to slobber over the idea of such power, she refuses to choose.
Worse yet, her eyes are sore and scratchy from scouring the horizon for the familiar figure of her soul mate-all in vain.
Not another failure. Not another heartbreak.
Even if she did find him-it seems fucking impossible to find anyone at all, even knowing for a fact they're actually here, in such disarray-they'd still need to find a way to get past Charon, who'd categorically stated Regina herself, much less anyone else, won't be leaving without the express authorisation of the new ruler.
"I suppose you could try one of the Titans," says a man fumbling to hide an ornate sceptre (the reason she, in her final desperation, chose to address him in the first place) as his two companions throw her evasive glances. "Some of the better ilk might be grateful enough for the rescue not to wage war on the world like they did in the days of yore. But I wouldn't rely on it. In fact, I strongly advise against it."
"Why would I even need to free them?" Regina frowns, irritation catching flame quickly-why do people always insist on wasting her time by dwelling on things that cannot be done? "Aren't all residents able to go wherever they please nowadays?"
"Not all, no. The Titans' chains are forged with the power of the Olympians-they're held by more than the mere might of Hades. Ironically, so is Hades himself."
"Hades is dead," she says flatly. "Obliterated."
And if the damn crystal can do that to a god, then Robin-
"Hades is immortal." The man puts up a hand to stop her from speaking, and Regina, forgetting momentarily about the limitations this awful realm places on her magic, is about to incinerate him on the spot for the sheer daring and blatant condescension of the gesture, when he adds quickly: "You can't kill gods, not even with the Olympian Crystal-merely trap them. Hades was cast down to the depths of the same prison he'd been lord of."
Oh.
So Hades had lied to them after all.
Could this mean-?
"What would the crystal do to a mortal?" Regina asks, tripping over the words as her heart picks up speed. She tries, truly she does, not to get her hopes up-but she's already here, isn't she, so who is she even fooling?
"There's no such precedent," the second man cuts in, fidgeting with the diadem in his curly hair.
"True," nods the first. "In theory, though, such a soul would be exempt from our-exempt from judgement," he corrects hastily, yet too slow to cover the collective intake of breath of his distraught companions. "Trapped by the crystal's power, they could enter neither the highest nor the lowest tier of afterlife. They'd be stuck in the middle for all eternity."
"A harsh punishment for the righteous," adds the third man, twirling his bright flowery crown. "Possibly a relief for the wicked."
"Debatable," argues the second, prompting a lively discussion on the subject.
But Regina is in no mood for philosophical debate.
Robin is here. He has to be. He may be dead, but his soul's intact after all, and she will get to him, she will-if it is the last thing she does.
"Where exactly would I find such a soul?" she cuts across them unceremoniously.
"Why, in the Asphodel Meadows, of course."
It's bloody torture.
Ever since Robin's demise, the thoughts of his loved ones have kept him company-a blessing and a curse alike. Of all those he'd left behind, it's Roland's tender heart that calls out to him most often, shattering his own to pieces with his incomparable grief. Robin hasn't lost his son entirely, remains connected to him through Roland's memories, but the inevitable heartache means he's constantly torn between joy and sorrow, oftentimes wondering if, given the option, he'd choose to sever the connection to (selfishly) spare himself the pain.
He wouldn't.
He knows this now, because while it pains him greatly to be witness-and source-of their suffering, the silence is so much worse.
How long has it been since the last echo of Regina's voice? Days? Weeks? A decade? Time is an elusive concept down here.
Elusive. Like that satisfying smile of hers he still thinks about every time he closes his eyes. Not that he's any thought of sleep-there's no need for him to anymore, anyway. But he thinks about her all the same, oh does he ever-pictures her soft, happy, and radiant; bold, sassy, and temperamental; visualises every feature and every curve, holding on to every little detail catalogued by awestruck eyes and questing fingers while he anxiously awaits her arrival.
To what end, he doesn't know.
Just seeing her, just holding her one more time, scattering the dark clouds his death has brought upon her brow, would be enough. (It won't be, but he can pretend for a while it might.) He's been aching to chase away that guilt he knows she's feeling, the blame she puts on herself, the firm belief she's doomed to both lose love herself and bring doom upon those she loves. And he longs also to scatter demons of his own, to soothe his own pain in her embrace, to quell his regret that their story had to take yet another dreadful turn.
Days. Weeks. A decade.
Until his ceaseless, mechanical wanderings across the vast grey fields have him turn and face the never-changing horizon-and spot a figure moving towards him, for the first time since his arrival here, with purpose. Not wandering. Seeking.
She's too far away to make out, but his heart knows.
"Regina!"
They break into a run in the same heartbeat, arms whipping and feet trampling the long stalks of vegetation with no care in the world other than to finally get close enough to recognise one another's features (her smile, gods, the sheer brightness of it must make her jaw hurt just like his own is doing); close enough to hear them call their name (their voices even hitch in perfect unison); and finally, finally close enough to launch themselves into waiting arms.
She's crying, gripping and clutching at him so tight it almost hurts-and Robin will gladly bear it for the rest of his life if it means no more forced goodbyes. He pulls her impossibly close, cradling her head against his shoulder with fierce tenderness before she raises her tear-stained face in a blur of motion and begins to dot kisses all over his mouth, cheeks, nose-wherever she can reach. She's frantic. Frantic and disbelieving-and he can barely believe it himself.
"Regina," he says thickly, struggling to soothe her erratic fumbling with soft touches of his own. "Darling, it's okay, I'm here-you're here."
She sobs at that, repeats his name over and over again, kissing and stroking feverishly.
"I'm s-so sorry," she says brokenly, and her voice splinters into a thousand fragmented pieces as she mutters apology after apology into his neck.
"Oh, my love," Robin whispers, rocking them gently, pressing heated kisses into her hair. She's covered in soot, smells of sulphur and smoke, and she's still about the most beautiful sight he's ever beheld. "None of that, now."
"Are you okay?" she sniffs, palming his face, searching for physical traces of his malady. "Are you hurt?"
"No, no." Dying hurt, missing them hurt, but all of that hardly matters anymore. He's no less eager to check her for injuries, brushing hair from across her forehead and dropping a kiss over a bruise on her brow (it even tastes of ash). "Are you okay? I was so worried-it felt like bloody ages for you to reach me, I thought something might have happened to you."
That ashy brow of hers furrows at that, and before he could attempt to kiss away the creases, she's pulling back-though only just enough to hold his eyes without having to squint.
"You knew I was coming? How?"
"From you."
And he tells her all about his peculiar experiences in this strange land, tells her above all of how the dead can hear your thoughts, and what bittersweet consolation that's been to him, and thank you for remembering-for loving me so fiercely. Beyond that, he finds he cannot speak, all choked up and wary of her frame tensing infinitesimally in his embrace.
"You shouldn't have done this," she says at long last.
It hardly surprises him-they'd had these conversations before, when consequences of their mutual willingness to throw themselves into harm's way for the other had merely approached fatal.
"You'd have done the same," he tells her, soft but firm. "Don't even try to deny it."
She doesn't; instead she extricates herself from his arms, pushing at him until she's holding both his hands in hers, still toe to toe but touching nowhere but the fingers she's toying with, eyes averted.
"But I didn't," she says bitterly, her words dripping pure self-loathing. "I could have magicked us out of there, or at least tried to. Instead I froze-and then it was too late."
"And yet you never froze when it was Henry, or Snow, or Roland, or me." And that, they both know, speaks volumes about her priorities, about how she loves others but not yet herself, about the long way to self-acceptance still ahead. This isn't the time to delve into that though-there'll be plenty of time later if he's lucky enough to witness that journey. "I suppose we've a penchant for saving one another."
She's relentless though-inconsolable.
"Robin, you died. This can't happen again."
"I take it that means we're leaving here together, yeah?" In hopes of coaxing a smile out of her, of lightening the conversation, he adds: "Because I never want to see a pale flower ever again."
But all his attempt earns him is a frustrated sigh.
"Robin, I mean it. I won't have you putting your life on the line for me."
"I'll promise to stop if you do the same."
"That's not-"
"Fair?" he suggests, raising an eyebrow at her.
"It's not the same."
"How is it not the same? And don't tell me you're not worth it, Regina, because that's simply not true."
Except she firmly believes just that-and he categorically rejects the very notion. Even as she grasps for some other justification (they'd exhausted the topic of their children, their friends, the good they can and do bring to the world many times over) he can tell she knows it's a losing battle as ever before.
The silence stretches on, and Regina's squared shoulders slump. Slowly, hesitantly, her arms wind around his torso once more, and he exhales in relief and anticipation as her lips hover inches from his.
She pours her everything into the kiss, tender at first then building in toe-curling increments, and all thought flies out of his head except for the single fleeting one that tells him perhaps this is how she brings him back to life.
Gasping for breath, they stand unmoving. They simply are-for a moment, or two, or a thousand.
"Wanna go home?" she breathes.
"With you? There's nothing I'd love more."
The first feat-leaving the Asphodel Meadows confining undistinguished souls-turns out a startlingly easy one. Much like they've both come to hope after Regina'd filled him in on the current state of the Underworld, there's not an obstacle barring their path-nothing seems to be keeping the souls from leaving this corner of the land other than the sad, immovable listlessness of those trapped here by their own limits even with the realm's magical borders down.
Robin counts his blessings for resisting that pull of lethargy, and squeezing Regina's hand, tugs her gently into his side, dropping a kiss on her forehead.
"Which way to the Judges?" he asks, and follows her lead as they set off at a brisk pace.
Even with directions, the landscape is near impossible to navigate. They're thrown off course by treacherous trails leading to nothing but dead ends; betrayed by patches of quicksand masquerading as solid ground; blinded by gusts of wind throwing specks of ash in their faces, stinging in the eyes and singing their skin.
When they finally find their previous location, the threesome they were counting on for counsel is nowhere in sight.
Well, fuck.
There goes their hottest trail to a rescue.
Robin runs a hand through his hair, tightening his arm around Regina's shoulders. Her solid form is soothing as she leans in-until it occurs to him that she's resting somewhat heavily against his side.
"We should stop," Robin suggests. "Take a break."
"No," she protests croakily, refusing to meet his eyes. "We need to keep going. They could be close, they might know someone willing to-"
"Perhaps, but you're dead on your feet. How long since you last allowed yourself some rest?"
Not since she set foot in here, if he were to guess.
It takes a while to convince her, despite the way she sways on her feet from exhaustion, and in the end he simply stands his ground and declares he's not moving from the spot unless she agrees to take at least a short nap.
There's an elm not far away, she tells him groggily, and everyone seems to give it a wide berth for some, presumably perfectly unpleasant, reason. So that's where they head, for lack of a better idea, and settle down at its foot, Robin's back to the trunk and Regina gathered in his arms. She's tense, a bowstring drawn tight enough to snap, her fingers digging into his bicep rather desperately.
"Sleep, love," he whispers, ghosting a kiss over the shell of her ear. "I'll be here when you wake."
Her head barely finds the cushion of his shoulder before her eyes close, and her deepening breaths resonate against his chest.
She dreams of home.
Knows she's dreaming, because of how real, and peaceful, and happy it feels. Her kitchen is bathed in warm orange hues, friendly and welcoming, so very unlike the hellish lighting of the Underworld-and there's Robin now, tossing a laughing Roland up in the air as she and Henry warm up a bottle for the baby girl (gurgling happily in her bassinet) whose name most definitely isn't Robyn.
A possibility, just out of reach.
Always out of reach, so close yet never quite theirs to keep.
How will she get him out of here? Without a new ruler, there's no one to petition for Robin's life. More than that-thousands of souls suffer oppression under the wicked. Sure, they could try to break Robin out, and possibly succeed…
But could either of them live with the knowledge that countless innocents are paying the price of their happiness?
A heartbeat-and she's transported to her vault, dark, cold, and empty. Empty except for a sceptre and a stack of keys placed atop her parents' tomb, circled by a diadem entwined in wildflowers. The odd arrangement rustles with a distant echo that sends chills down her spine.
You set your sights too far, dear child,
While the answer you seek
Lies inside.
Robin doesn't sleep-neither needs nor wants to. He takes watch instead, glaring at every passerby, the timid and the rowdy, ready to ward them off should they choose to exploit their vulnerable position. Nobody approaches them.
So he redirects his full attention to the woman sleeping fitfully in his arms. Her eyelashes flutter now and again, and her features aren't quite relaxed, but a smile is playing on her lips as he brushes stray strands of hair from her face.
Oh to wake up to this sight for many years to come.
He hates this place so bloody much for all it's done to them, and for all the obstacles it's yet to put in their way. Yet he supposes some modicum of gratitude is due as well, for his fate has actually been much kinder than the version Hades had threatened with. And for all its current turmoil, Regina and he have both managed to stay out of harm's way so far.
He just wants to go home with his soul mate, back to their children, back to all the trials and tribulations of their messy (an understatement if there ever has been one) but oh so precious second (third? fifth? dozenth?) chance.
Which isn't going to happen until order is restored beneath the surface. Not at the expense of all the righteous ousted from their rightful place in the afterlife. Someone must be willing to take the helm.
And hopefully that someone will grant them a wish in exchange for the favour.
And if they don't, well...
His thumb, stroking softly across the apple of Regina's cheeks, wanders to her forehead, and Robin sighs at the wrinkles of worry etched into her brow. Her jaw tightens, and she whimpers softly. He rocks them almost imperceptibly, enclosing her in his warmth. She shivers nonetheless.
"Regina," he whispers, loath to wake her but unwilling to let her suffer even in slumber, knowing how vicious her nightmares tend to get. "Shhh, you're all right…"
She blinks her eyes open, staring up at him with a softening expression as she reaches a trembling hand to stroke his face. It's but a moment though before she's sitting up, her features rearranging once more to look more determined than ever, and scrambles to her feet.
With a sigh he follows, lacing his fingers with hers as they resume their endless quest.
"Regina, can we please stop for a moment?"
They've spent a veritable eternity combing the blasted land, looking for someone worthy and willing to take the throne, but their search has turned up nothing. Minute by minute, the realm sinks into an ever deeper state of disarray. Anarchy feeds violence, and danger is omnipresent.
"I'm fine, Robin," she dismisses impatiently, her fuse ever shorter the more her frustration grows. "I don't need rest. What I need is to find someone-anyone-with at least a semblance of leadership skill and a speck of integrity, to just-"
"It's not that," he sighs, perfectly aware just how badly received his words are going to be. "We need to talk."
"Now? About what?"
She's wary-and rightfully so. Those words seem to be universally ominous in themselves, no matter the circumstance, and perhaps he should've chosen them more carefully, but in this particular case his word choice isn't going to matter. No sugar-coating is going to mitigate the impact, so he cuts right to the chase.
"About the possibility that I might have to stay here after all." She shudders at that, a dozen emotions ranging from disbelief through betrayal to defiance flitting through her eyes in a mere second. Robin understands, truly he does, but she must hear him out-she must. "No, Regina, please listen to me. If this new monarch agrees to let me go, you know I won't hesitate a second. But if they don't-"
"Then we leave anyway," she snaps, immovable. "I don't give a damn about their approval."
"But I do." He takes her hands in his with a pang of guilt at finding them cold and trembling. "Regina, if we reinstate order and our next step is to break it just to get me out of where I, by the laws of nature, now belong… They'll be out to get us. And maybe I'll survive this time, but someone else may not. And that's not something I want hanging over me, or our children, or-"
Her eyes, welled up at first, now grow distant.
"Regina?" he questions, squeezing her hands.
Next thing he knows she's slipping from his grasp, her voice measured and her face closed off.
"I think we should split up."
This way they can cover more ground, she says.
Yet five thousand paces and not a single candidate later, Robin is half-resigned to having to remain after all. With a heavy heart he turns, as agreed, to take the same way back. Five thousand paces he spends rearing up for another fight to convince Regina, even though he detests the very idea himself, that this is how it must end. Not enough time in the world to prepare for the ultimate (and gods, there's been too many already) gut-wrenching goodbye.
Regina, however, approaches with a crooked smile, eyes shining with something more than imminent tears. Hope blooms, and the stirrings of a tentative grin tickle his cheeks before she closes the distance between them and pulls him into a passionate kiss.
It's all tangling tongues and nipping teeth as her fingers tug at his hair and his hands slide to her waist and lower still, grasping and taking, gasping and giving, like a silent promise of forever. When she tears her lips away from his after long moments of utter bliss, he chases them with another kiss, soft and gentle like a sweet confession, and another small peck to seal the deal.
She chuckles wetly at that-music to his ears-and presses her forehead to his with her arms around his neck and wrists locking at his nape as she draws heavy, ragged breaths.
"You're going home," she tells him. "I've found just the person."
Old man Charon practically falls over himself welcoming them aboard, ushering Robin to the bow of his boat and attempting-in vain-clumsy small talk with Regina.
Even though their hands remain joined, Robin can't stop glancing at her for proof that this is indeed real. She looks...well, gorgeous as ever, though not quite as aglow with triumph as she might. Her eyes are a tad glassy, her smile a touch wobbly, but her relief is tangible.
"Are you all right?" he asks, his hand steady on the small of her back.
"Fine," she returns much too quickly. He tilts his head, raising a doubtful eyebrow at her. "Just...tired," she concedes, pressing a kiss to his cheek and lingering there until the boat hits the shore with a plunk.
She disentangles herself then and gives him a gentle nudge.
Robin steps off the ferry, thanking his lucky star-and Regina's resilient heart-for making him the proverbial exception to Charon's rule about never returning souls to the surface.
"You know," he quips with a heart light as a feather as he turns to offer Regina a hand, "you still haven't told me how you found the solution."
"I hear no one else wanted the gig," says Charon with a shrug.
And before the implication fully sinks in, a burst of magic pushes the ferry away from the shore-away from Robin.
What the hell does the blasted man think he's doing?
Except it's not Charon or his sad little pole but Regina's hands emitting hissing sparks of energy.
She's not supposed to have magic down here-not like this anyway.
That's when he understands.
It should have been me, her thoughts would ring, echoing the words to him countless times over his lifeless body-because it had been Regina after all Hades had targeted and not Robin, and it should always have been me.
"Regina-no!"
His desperate scream sets his lungs on fire as he plunges into the icy waters, a myriad pinpricks and then numbness in his limbs before he dives in to swim-but she's faster, conjures up an invisible shield that won't let him any further.
Shivering thigh-deep in the river, Robin watches her standing statuesque on the stern, hands wrapped around her torso, tears rolling down her face as they are his own.
"I'm sorry," she says, as if somehow that made all of this even remotely okay. "There was no other way."
And as the boat slices through the thick white curtain of impenetrable fog, Regina breaks the awful, crushing silence one last time.
"I love you," she sobs.
Darkness swallows her.