She dreams of black ink - a fierce lion - breathing into the shadows, misshapen lines falling to the damp earth beneath her feet - why is it damp? - until finally there's an amalgamation, and the lines become a man - she's crying, crying so hard the earth can't contain it - and he reaches for her.
His smile feels like sunlight, wrapping around her, and instead of feeling apprehensive or fearful, she finally relaxes.
When she asks him if he's going to leave her again - her heart is so heavy now, too heavy to be held even by the stars - his lips are a ghost against hers as he promises, "I wouldn't dream of it."
Jerking upright, Regina wakes from the dream, the same one she's had every night for the last week, feeling a chill and stiffness down to her bones that's impossible to dispel. The memory of him - Robin Hood - pins itself to her consciousness, making it feel like her heart has kissed him on the last breath of a perfect day for so many years, and there's an imprint there that won't ever go away.
Though the warmth of his touch is fleeting and illusory, it manages to linger against her skin even now, his calloused fingers a strangely comforting contrast to the softness of her inner wrist.
Why is this happening?
There's a longing inside for him, and it's maddening. It's not real.
Standing, Regina tugs her grey, silken robe on, not bothering to tie it, and forces herself away from the bed. Her body is vehemently protesting the movement, insisting that it's the middle of the night and she ought to be sleeping, but her heart just needs a moment to catch its breath. The bedroom window gets lifted, and she leans, perching against the frame on her forearms. New York City, even at this late hour, is still singing, and dancing with light, and in a strange way, it makes her feel less alone. Snagging a deep breath for her lungs, she closes her eyes for a moment, letting the peaceful air do its job and placate the bruised and burning tendrils of want and hope which have stubbornly taken up residence in the labyrinthine corridors of her soul.
She wants two people, more than she's ever wanted anyone, but they both exist now only in her dreams.
Tomorrow, she'll dream of the child, and she's already looking forward to the way she'll still feel the ghost of her hugs against her bones for days and days afterwards.
Robin and Annabelle.
It was raining the night she gave birth to her daughter, and her mournful screams pierced the sky with a blaze of brilliant, terrible light, tumbling back to the earth as a violent tremble, a plea for someone, anyway, to save her and her child from this fate.
Her last remnant of Daniel, that beautiful baby girl, was placed in her arms for just a moment, then wrenched from her grasp with violent and unapologetic swiftness. It felt as though hot coals had been thrown at her, the burn of her love being torn from her arms enough to make it impossible to breathe. It was unnatural not to have that slight weight cradled in her arms, and she sobbed as she begged:
"Please, mama, don't take her from me!"
Perhaps out of some small act of mercy, her mother didn't even say a word, just wrapped her baby up in a yellow blanket stitched with purple flowers, and took her away, never to be seen again. She wasn't assured that the child went to an orphanage, or another family. She had no idea if her daughter was even alive; wouldn't she feel it if she wasn't?
She was just gone.
So the young Queen was bereft of the last hope of any light in her life, and she was but a shell of her former self, shuffling through the dark, aimless corridors of life because it was her duty, but she had nothing at all she cared about. She could stay in bed, never get up, and let fate take her from this miserable existence, or she could fight back and win.
Her daughter's face inspired a scintilla of happiness whenever it sparked in her memory; though brief, she had memorized that sweet face, the curve of her tiny jaw, the broad slope of her forehead, the beautiful flash of brown eyes, and the soft grunt she would tuck into bed with her as she pushed herself into dreams at night. It was the only way she could sleep, dreaming of her daughter, imagining what she might have grown up to be, how it would have felt to name her, guide her, love her, watch her grow.
But the longing was all for naught, and her heart darkened, until her life was irreparably and wonderful ruined when the thief unraveled her.
She's returning from a neighboring kingdom, longing for a warm, lavender bath, and hot cider by the fire while she indulges with a book. The king is dead now, and Snow White is a nuisance, but she's not at all worried about eventually finding the girl and ridding herself of that unfortunate, horrid problem.
When the carriage comes to an abrupt halt - enough to bring the Queen lurching forward roughly - Regina's temper blazes hot.
"Why have we stopped?" She demands, thrusting open the carriage door roughly.
One of the guards tries to hold her back. "Your Majesty, we've caught someone trespassing on the castle grounds."
An icy, hollow and mirthless smile spreads on her lips as she tilts her chin up, carrying herself as though nothing at all is amiss. She's dealt with trespassers before, they're an annoyance, like an itch too far away to reach. She could have him brought here right now, wave her hand, and break his neck. But it's been a fairly brief and uneventful day, and she could use a bit of fun.
"Bring him to the dungeon, I'll pay him a visit after dinner."
She will kill him, but she'd prefer to make him wait and wonder what's going to happen to him, make him tremble.
As she's stepping through her castle doors, one of the guards shouts for her from the gardens. "Your Majesty, a child!"
"What?!"
It can't be a coincidence, since they've both appeared within hours of one another. She could kill the man with no compunction, but she doesn't have the stomach for harming the child. As always happens, her thoughts drift for a moment to the baby she lost, the dust and ash that remain of her heart seizing up at the remembrance of those wailing screams. At night, even now, she can hear those screams echoing in the darkness of her lonely bedchambers.
She died the night her daughter was taken, she's a ghost now, and nothing matters; how can it when her heart is immutably buried in the screams of her lost child?
Moving with purpose, Regina makes her way to the gardens, stopping abruptly at the sight of a little girl staring up at her with wide, glistening eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Her hair cascades in soft waves down past her shoulders, her eyes are a haunting brown, and there's something so familiar about her that it takes Regina's breath away. Surprising herself, she kneels down in the dirt, clutching the little girl's shoulders more roughly than she intends, but she's urgently searching for something.
Daniel.
She's searching for Daniel in the sunlight of this child's eyes.
"Tell me your name," Regina demands.
Sniffling, the little girl quietly responds, "Annabelle. Can I see my papa?"
The question is asked so innocently, and as the little girl's lower lip trembles, the slight action cracks at Regina's nearly impenetrable facade, constructed precisely to guard herself against the havoc wrought by love.
"Your papa was foolish to wander onto the Queen's land, and he'll be punished for it."
He'll be killed, but mercifully, she refrains from elaborating and revealing that important detail. Annabelle should have some understanding of how serious the situation is, but it doesn't feel necessary to be deliberately cruel to her, especially when she's trying (and failing) to tell herself this little girl looks nothing like Daniel.
It's not possible, it's not.
But there's an ineffable connection between them, something she can feel, yet can't begin to explain out loud, even to herself.
"Are you gonna hurt him?" Annabelle questions further, eliciting a sigh from the Queen.
"I'm keeping him locked up. I've had a long day and I want to rest. You'll be coming with me, and you'll tell me why your father let you accompany him on such a dangerous journey."
Regina stands up, brushing the dirt away from her dress, and begins to walk, pleased when the little girl matches her steps obediently.
"Papa didn't come back and I got scared," Annabelle explains. "I find him."
"There's no one else to watch you?"
How irresponsible.
She loathes parents who can take their child's life for granted, and display such little regard for their safety. Having not even met her prisoner yet, Regina has determined he's an unfit parent who doesn't deserve this little girl.
"Papa's men. But I sneaked away," she looks down, as though ashamed of her actions.
"That's not your fault," Regina remarks firmly. "Your father sets a poor example, and you clearly have nothing better to learn from, but you will. You'll stay here in my castle with me."
Perhaps tomorrow, she'll regret the decision, and if she does, there are orphanages that will take her in. She surely won't be given back to her father, or his men, since none of them have any business raising a child.
"But my papa…" Annabelle tries to protest, to no avail.
"You'll do as I say," Regina speaks harshly, leaving no room for protest.
The child, though, begins to cry, stopping before they've stepped into the castle, and at first, Regina sighs with exasperation before finally kneeling down in front of her again, forcing herself to be overly gentle. It's not something she desires, to make this little girl cry, and so with her right hand, she tilts Annabelle's chin up gently, looking her right in the eyes.
"You deserve to be safe, well fed, and cared for, and I promise you'll have that here. When I've decided what to do with your father, I'll speak with you. Don't ask me about him again."
The child is so young - maybe five years old, at the most - and Regina isn't sure how much she really understands, but she nods in acknowledgment nonetheless, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"Good girl. Now, the handmaidens will take you for a bath, and you'll receive a change of clothing. I'll see you for dinner in an hour."
There's a mystery to be uncovered here, surrounding this little girl, and until Regina knows for sure, she's not letting her out of her sight.
As much as she wants her own bath, and some time to simply relax with a good book, her more pressing concern is with this man now locked in her dungeon, so she makes her way down there, a tight smile on her face, conveying no warmth or mercy.
"Before I kill you," she begins, deciding there's no point in pretending otherwise, "tell me about the child, Annabelle."
The man moves swiftly, hands wrapping around the bars of his jail cell, and he's gripping so tightly his knuckles turn white.
"If you harm her, I swear I'll —"
"You'll what?" The humorless smile immediately falls away from her face, giving way to a look of utter contempt. Lest he forget who holds all the power here, Regina holds out a hand, choking his neck just a little, satisfied when he begins to cough.
"Please…"
"You'll do well to remember your place and tell me what I want to know."
He nods, gasping for breath now, and then coughs harshly when she releases her grip.
"She's my daughter…"
Regina rolls her eyes, gripping the bars of the cell now, too, and leaning her face close to his. "I'm well aware. Where's her mother?"
He coughs again, voice slightly strained as he replies, "I found her…in the woods…she couldn't have been more than a day old. Thank God I found her when I did…"
"Spare me your adulation, it's not flattering. Do you know anything about her, whose child she was? Who put her there?" She demands, though the incessant questioning yields no answers as Robin simply shakes his head.
"I've long wondered myself, but it's in the past. All that matters to me is giving her a good life."
"And you've failed," Regina says curtly. She thinks back to that terrible day, to anything that might possibly bring about the answer she's searching for. Her baby was wrapped in a blanket; nothing at all fancy, but it stands out in her mind nonetheless, its bright yellow fabric with purple flowers.
"What was she wrapped in?" Regina demands of him now. "Tell me."
"I don't —"
She holds her hand up, as if to choke him again, and he says, "Wait. Wait. Allow me a moment, please."
Acquiescing, Regina's hand falls to her side again as she watches him close his eyes, his eyes narrowed in deep thought, and a few minutes pass before he speaks: "It was a yellow blanket, with…purple flowers, I think. It's been quite some time, but…"
It's her child. Daniel's child.
Stepping back from the jail cell, Regina's outward appearance is perfectly calm, but internally, what's left of her heart shatters, and she wants to just run to her daughter immediately.
For now, though, this man has to be dealt with, so she calmly states: "You'll be executed in the morning."