It would be so easy.
Vengeance. Revenge. Avenge. Retribution.
Everything else has been burned away but these words. They burn white and hot. A mantra pulsing within your breast, forcing that god forsaken muscle to keep beating. It would be so easy. The blade is tight and cold against the pale hollow of her throat. A reversal of positions from earlier that would bring a smirk-or more likely a sneer- to your face if you were capable,
capable of anything but this rage, of giving in to this battle you deluded yourself into fighting.
And yet...you are still.
Her breathing is shallow and ragged, and a thin red line slowly develops. You watch with rapt attention as a single drop of crimson falls along the line of her collarbone, more follow until the the white of her shirt is stained with it.
Yet she remains silent, it aggravates you and you push the blade even more firmly against pale skin, but the resulting whimper is without satisfaction.
And isn't that just... infuriating.
She's pressed painfully between your bookcase and your body-
The daughter of your sworn nemesis the woman who took your son away and ruined your curse, the daughter of the monster who fooled you yet again into trusting her...this time taking your mother instead of your lover
-and she had the stupidity, the gall, to waltz into your house after today, after everything. She deserves it. She deserves to die.
"I'm sorry." It's low and it's hoarse and it makes you want to scream. Drive the blade in and be done with it. One final act. One final victory.
"I'm sorry." Your hand around her wrists grips harder. Pulling higher over her head until the woman's back has to arch slightly to compensate. The air is thick with magic now. Purple and Black and deep Burgundy.
And some part of you wonders why you haven't used it on her yet. Why it's a simple knife at her throat rather than a bolt of lightning through her body or a hand through her chest. But most of you doesn't care. Mostly you are fuming over those words. Mostly... you desperately need to know why you want to hear them again.
"I'm sorry." A flash of silver and now it's just your hand at her throat, red and slick but holding firm. She might be able to break free now, but does not even try. You haven't looked at her yet. At her face. Your eyes follow crimson trails seeking to divine meaning from their path, from the way the white cotton is warm and wet and sticking to her chest. Why you allow that heart to keep beating, pounding so loudly that it drowns out everything else, everything but-
"Regina..." You're shaking now. The way she says your name, desperately, pleading- it's a tone you know quite well, your victims were instruments and you could play their fear, their horror, weave the most beautiful of symphonies with their pain- but her tone is different and it takes you a moment to realize why. She is not afraid. Foolish woman. Idiot.
"I'm-" Your fingers tighten, nails digging in to the break in the skin, cutting off her breath. You release what should have been a growl but sounds dangerously like a sob. It's a few seconds later that your knees are buckling, arms wrapping around you as you sink to the floor...you're almost glad your mother is gone just so she can't see your weakness
The thought makes your vision blur and you shake your head against her chest, burrowing into cotton and the blood, the slightly metallic scent mixing perfectly with the magic in the air, further muddling your thoughts. Now just the pads of your fingers are pressed to her throat. There's a tremor in their touch; a gentleness you understand almost as little as the warm arms still holding you against her, as the lips against your temple ceaselessly moving,
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." A new mantra being tattooed to your skin, burning and unwelcome and...needed. Your own mantra is but a whisper now...drowned out by her words, by the heart beating against your ear, by the sobs that are racking your frame. You are so very tired. You feel it happening before you realize, purple tendrils seeping from your fingertips- sewing together the fabric of her skin until all evidence of your violence is gone but the red that is now sticking to you both.
It's only when you pull back, to look at the healed skin, and then up higher-finally locking eyes with warm green- to eyes that contain none of the emotions they should. Compassion instead of Loathing. Regret instead of Fear. Only then do you realize that perhaps it was never easy at all. Perhaps you have one more thing left in this world. One more thing (besides Henry)...you care about.
This realization only makes you cry harder and grip tighter.
One more thing to lose.
Will Consider writing more if there's interest. My muse loves feedback so please review. :)