I do not own Once Upon a Time.
And I love my husband but trust me, he doesn't want me shaving his face either. Clumsy, me.
Servitude with a Touch of Power
Zelena had watched her mother shave her father's face many a time. She was so very careful and skilled that she had never required a moistening agent, never a protection guard. Zelena never knew men even used them. She would sit and watch, fascinated, while her mother would take straight razor and deftly slide it across the exposed flesh. She never missed her mark, never missed a hair, and never nicked the tender skin. Not once.
It took less than five minutes. But what a wonderful, special five minutes those were.
And Zelena would sit and watch. Her chin cupped in her hand, head tilted. Just watching.
And her father would sit, still as a statue, with one hand lightly at her mother's elbow. His eyes never left her mother's face. And though his facial muscles remained expressionless and smooth throughout the process, the smile revealed itself in his eyes as he looked upon his beloved wife at her work.
And oh, oh how she had wished he would look upon her with love and acceptance. Just once.
And so when she was still very young, she had shyly asked to learn to the art of shaving a face. Her mother had let her start with a knife and a potato. When she could peel it smoothly, she had progressed to apples. And when she had mastered that, she had secretly procured an old straight razor and begun practicing on more, well, bloodiable objects.
Since the cat had scratched her silly when she had attempted to shave him and the dog wouldn't stop licking her hands as if pleading for mercy, she had practiced on herself.
She hid the raw patches of skin above her knees from her mother, insisting she could bathe herself. Once or twice, she had cut herself quite badly and in fear of the blood dripping down her leg, had used magic to stop the bleeding.
But the scars had remained.
She did not enjoy the pain. It did not give her secret pleasure. She just wanted her father to look upon her with love instead of veiled disdain.
Just once.
When her mother died, she had grieved quite strongly. Her mother loved her. Every day of Zelena's life, her mother had loved her. When she was good. When she was bad. When she was odd. Her mother had always loved her. Swept away all her little peculiarities under the carpet and loved her.
And now that love was gone.
And her father remained. He wasn't cruel. He did not hit her. He did not starve her. He did not send her to sleep outside like a beast of burden. On the contrary, since the cooking fell to her, she even gained just a few light pounds from tasting the food. And she was given her mother's possessions as her mother no longer had use for them.
But he did not love her. No hugs. No kisses upon the cheek. No bedtimes stories. No praise. No unnecessary verbal exchanges. No contact more than what was required.
Of course, appearances must be maintained. One must always put on a good face, he said. And so he never revealed any hate, any cruelty, any malice. Neither inside the cottage nor outside in the world. He simply worked around whatever space she occupied as much as possible.
Except for shaving.
When she shaved his face, that was a time when he was forced to make contact. Forced to allow her to touch him. And she was so excited.
The first time.
She had sat ever so lightly, excited and hopeful. He rarely let her get so close to him as this. And she had carefully shaved her father's face. No moistener, just as her mother had done. Carefully shaving each section, just as her mother had done. It had taken a bit longer than five minutes, to be honest. She was so nervous to get it just right. But she had. She had not missed a hair. She had not nicked him once. She had done it just right.
And he had never looked at her.
He had never touched her arm.
When she was done, he had stood, turned, and walked away without so much as a by your leave.
When he was gone, she had carefully put up the straight razor in its appointed place.
And sat down at the table once more.
Laid her head on her arms.
And cried.
After that, she had continued shaving her father's face every time it was required.
And every time, a little part of her had prayed, hoped, that this time, her diligence, her care, her love, would break through his barrier and make him see her.
His daughter.
And he then he would love her. As a father should love his daughter.
But he never had.
Sometimes when she shaved him, he was clear and clean. Sometimes, it was much worse. The stench of the alcohol permeating his pores would nearly choke her with its fumes pouring into her nostrils and down her throat.
Filling her with regret and sorrow. For she knew when he drank, though he never told her, that it was all her fault. Because she was not good enough, because she was odd, different. And that was bad. Evil. Wicked.
And each time she shaved his face, a little inside piece of her had cried and died.
So it became a routine, a practice in servitude and drudgery. Anxiety and heartbreak.
She did not complain. Did not question. Did not beg.
One must always put on a good face.
Every so often, a tiny secret part of her whispered that he should, he must pay attention to her. After all, the razor's edge was sharp. She could, accidently, cut him. Scar his face, mar his appearance.
Spill his blood.
But she never had.
The last time, she had shaved her father's face, he had broken her heart with his words. With his animosity.
And, with bloodied heart sliced to ribbons upon the straight razor of his hate, she had left.
She had never shaved another face again.
Years later, after many adventures and misdeeds, she sat again and shaved a different man.
No moistener. No protection guard. Just her. A dagger's sharp edge.
And the Dark One.
Now under her power.
Power.
That was a delicious word in her mouth. Power. So much better than that dusty word servitude. Or the sour, bitter word rejection.
Power.
She shaved him, ever so carefully, every so closely. And looked into his eyes as she did it.
And he had looked into hers.
With fear. With dread.
The tables were now turned. And she, she loved it.
She shaved, slowly, carefully. She talked. And he looked at her.
He looked at her.
It took less than five minutes.
She never missed a hair, never nicked the skin. Well, maybe just a little.
And when she was done, it was her that stood, turned, and left.
And it was he who remained there alone, unloved, uncared for. In his small cage. In the dark. With no company but his own disquiet and madness.
And she, Zelena, the unloved girl, the Wicked Witch of the West, walked free under the storm cloud sky.
A little dark, yes. But it is dark outside here and Zelena's tale is not a happy one.
To quote Rumplestiltskin: "Evil isn't born, dearie. It's made."
Wow, thanks to OnceUponAMadameMayor, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, Jokermask18, and Robin4 for fantastic reviews!
Thanks to Strummer Pink and amberrae. paris .9 for adding your support to this tale. :)
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