A/N: A wee three-part prompt originated over on Tumblr (sgtmac7). Enjoy!
Thanks to almost thirty years of absence from this wretchedly simplistic realm, Regina finds that she'd forgotten just how drafty it tends to get around a castle in the middle of winter. With all the walls made of thick stone and the wide-open spaces without glass to buffer the cold, it can get frigid once the sun set behind the mountains.
Sighing loudly and with her mind spinning rapidly as it always does, the woman once known as the Evil Queen (now, she's simply known around to those willing to accept the name change as the Queen, and she finds that she's still getting used to that even though it's certainly a change for the better) sweeps down the darkened hallway, her darkly feathered cloak pulled tight around her frame.
She finds herself wishing desperately for a nice hot and hopefully relaxing bath to chase away the chill of the night (and the anxiety of the unknown which continues to burn in her gut), but as much as some things have turned to be the same (the royals and nobles have once again assumed control and command of the land) since returning to the Enchanted Forest, some things have not.
Servants, for instance.
There are none.
Apparently, none of the returnees from Storybrooke have much of a desire to once again drop down on bended knee and promise that they will allow themselves to willingly be treated like glorified waiters for the rest of their lives.
Not initially, anyway.
The truth is that these are the early days of the new reign - the new combined rule between she and her former stepdaughter and Prince Charming - and things are still quite unsettled and complicated. They all want to respect that thirty years spent in a relative democracy has left many unwilling to return to a way of life where they'd been little more than chess pieces for spoiled royals.
Even Snow is starting to realize just how well off she'd been – even on the run.
Regina grudgingly supposes that she somewhat kind of understands their reluctance to return to bakers and street peddlers and even handmaidens. But this isn't Storybrooke, and people can't just refuse to be useful simply because they don't want to. Sooner or later, everyone will have to slot into some kind of job. As of right now, the cooking and the cleaning are being handled by one-off volunteers (and some magic), but that's led to confusion and uncertainty about roles. As that inevitably grows, the cries for some kind of order are sure to get louder. In the end, there is always a need for a degree of structure.
She's turning these unnerving thoughts over in her troubled mind (it's always troubled these days, whether by thoughts of the past, of her son or of her half-sister who seems to think that her younger sibling had had such a wonderful life all while being the puppet of Rumple and Cora) - and the bigger issues of how to speak to Snow about all of this (and how to get her to understand that it's come time to push people to actually accept that they're home and they need to adapt) - when the sound of shuffling footsteps behind her gets her attention. What really catches her interest, though, is how incredibly soft the footfalls are.
Softer than any adult should be able to make.
She spins around and peers down the hallway lit only by torches.
And then she smiles when she sees who it is standing there, his dark inquisitive eyes peering curiously back at her out of the shadows. "Roland," she says gently as she gazes at the dimpled four year old. "What are you doing, dear?"
"I'm following you," he tells her, his words garbled in the way reminds her just how young he actually is. She watches in silence as he strides towards her, apparently completely unaware of the threat of approaching a woman of her power so brazenly. His little arms swing back and forth and he moves with the kind of careless confidence that only an innocent child can have.
It reminds her a whole lot of -
She stops herself short, swallows back a hard lump, and focuses on Roland.
Only on Roland.
"Why are you following me?" she asks as she takes a step towards him.
"I'm lost," he allows with the careless shrug of a child, and she notices with some surprise that he doesn't seem overly concerned about this fact. "Too many hallways and they all look the same."
"Indeed there are and they do. I've gotten lost a time or two as well. Where's your father?"
"Probably looking for me," he admits. "With that face he has."
"That face he has?"
Roland makes a face of his own to show her what he means and it's the most absurd and comical thing that she thinks she's ever seen – it rather looks like what Robin might look like if he was badly constipated and trying to sneeze.
She laughs. "I see. Well, I'm sure that he's quite worried about you."
"Probably not."
Her eyebrow lifts. "And why's that?" she asks, her tone sharp and high like she's actually disturbed that anyone could be unworried about their child missing.
She is. Perhaps she's a little bit angry, too.
She takes a deep heaving breath and pushes those feelings back down and away because he's just a little boy and he doesn't understand the demons in her mind any better than Henry –
No. No. No.
"I get lost a lot. In the forest," Roland replies, pulling her back to him.
"Do you now?" she asks, her voice a bit shaky. Thankfully, he doesn't notice.
"I like to explore. And climb trees."
"You're four."
"And three quarters. Which makes me five."
"Yes, well Roland-Who-Is-Almost-Five-But-Not-Quite, there are many places that you can get terribly lost in inside of this castle in, but if you go right back down that hallway over there, you should arrive at your father's room promptly."
"Okay," he says, frowning in a way that is entirely too adorable to be real. The thing is, though, it is real. Because as much as he is too young to understand the darkness in her mind, he's also too innocent to play games with her for sport.
He's almost five and there are no lies within this boy. Which makes him dangerous to her in a way that frightens her more than she cares to admit.
So she smiles at him and then turns away. And takes a step down her own hall.
And hears him do the same.
So she takes another. And then so does he.
She turns back. "Roland?"
He offers her a toothy grin, but she sees something that looks a bit like fear in his eyes. A glance behind him and she notices just how dark the hallway is.
If she were the sort to do so – and she's not – she'd slap herself in the forehead.
How had she missed his likely fear of the shadows, she wonders? Would she have expected four-year-old Henry to walk back down a dark corridor alone?
Not a fair question, she tells herself.
But it is and the answer is still no.
She sighs. "Would you like me to walk back with you?"
He nods his head almost urgently and then before she can change her mind, he reaches out for her hand and clasps it in his much smaller one, and all she can think is that isn't any kind of fair at all. Roland is so very sweet and loving and trusting and he makes her heart hurt and ache with the need to see her own son again, but it's impossible to turn away from the light she sees in this boy's eyes.
"Did you live here growing up?" he asks as they walk. "In this castle?"
"Not this one," she replies as warmly as she can; thinking about her youth is a mixed box and while there were good times spent with her father, much of that has been tainted so badly by the memories of her mother that sometimes it's difficult to enjoy even a few happy recollections. "A different one to the west."
"Was it cold there, too?"
"It was occasionally, yes."
He nods like he understands. "Did you ride horses? Papa won't let me yet."
She bites her tongue at her first immediate response - something sarcastic that he wouldn't understand, anyway, and then replies with, "Yes, I rode horses."
"I like horses."
"Me, too."
"Maybe you can convince my Papa that I'm old enough now."
She laughs at that. "Not yet, but be patient. You will be old enough too soon."
It's just then - as they're making the turn that will lead them to the wing where many of the refugees from Storybrooke (as well as Robin and his men) are being housed until other arrangements can be decided upon - that she sees Robin and Little John come flying down the hallway, both of them looking quite frantic.
"Roland!" Robin calls out. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Hi, Papa."
"I found your son," Regina says unnecessarily.
"So I see. Found the one hallway I hadn't yet checked, did you?"
Roland nods happily, like he's thrilled to have given his father the slip.
"He's four," Regina reminds him, fixing him with a glare.
"Almost five," Roland inserts.
"Yes," Regina allows, unable to stop her expression from melting into a smile.
"John, will you take him in to get ready for bed?" Robin asks as he glances quickly back at the Queen. He's only known this woman for a short time, but he's already learned to recognize a few of the emotions that he's just witnessed.
"Right," the big man says as he sweeps down and picks Roland up. He gives Regina a look meant to remind her how unimpressed with her he is, and she answers it with a smirk and a rubbing of her fingers together. It's a completely asshole move, of course, but she has no patience for his dislike of her right now.
He's hardly unique in it, and besides, she has an infuriating archer to yell at.
Ignorant of the icy glares going back and forth between the Queen and his godfather and the bemused look on his papa's face, Roland says, "Goodnight, Your Majesty." Unable to properly annunciate at his age, he trips mercilessly over the words and making them sound more like an insult than an honorific.
So of course, she chuckles. "Regina is just fine for you, dear. And goodnight."
He smiles at that, and she has to force her heart from wanting to react because that way – opening it up again – can only lead to more pain and hurt and loss.
The moment the door closes behind John and Roland, she turns to Robin. "You let your son just wander around aimlessly without any kind of supervision?"
"He likes to adventure."
"You're his father. It's your job to make sure that he doesn't…adventure."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because he can get lost. This isn't terribly complicated. Or perhaps it is."
He simply smiles at her barb. "You let the free spirits out when they want to be."
"You're his father," she says again, far more insistent.
"I know I am. And we do what's right for our children, Regina."
"I didn't give you permission to call me that," she growls.
He laughs. "Of course not, Your Majesty." He inclines his head in a way meant to be gracious. "Thank you for bringing my boy back to me. He quite likes you."
"You know he shouldn't," she says softly, her voice thick with a kind of bitterly dark emotion and suffocating pain that he can't even really begin to imagine even with him understanding the ache of loss as he well as he unfortunately does. "I'm not who you should be allowing him to be around," she finishes.
"You're no threat to him. To me, perhaps, but not him."
"No, I suppose not." She meets his eyes for a moment, and then brings the walls back up and lifts her chin. "Go. I'm sure your son is expecting you."
"I'm sure he is. Are you all right?"
She snorts derisively at this. "Be with your boy; there's never enough time."
And then, before he can reply with anything that might make it seem like they're actually getting along or he that he doesn't completely annoy her, she turns and sweeps back down the dark hallway, disappearing into the shadows again.
TBC...