good morning* readers,
truth be told, I was somewhat surprised by the enthusiastic reception the first chapter got. thank you.
the disclaimer still applies.
without any further delay, here it is the next instalment:
Chapter two: Leaves, Mirror and Cracks
When Regina finally regains her consciousness, the first thing she notices is an immense blurry whiteness cruelly interrupted by darker spots... Reality seems to be somehow crystallised. Soft sunlight either glides over white edges, falls into its elements, birthing thousands of other colours; or gives into the alluring darker splinters, stumbling upon their harsh surface and losing itself in them.
Regina blinks slowly, forcing her lazy, lingering tears to fall down her cheeks, willing the world to finally come into focus.
She sees... fallen leaves? ... their rather rounded form and slightly pointy end do seem familiar... Apple leaves, her hazy mind supplies. However this just confuses her more... they are somehow impossibly near to her face. She stares more intensely at them most of them is covered in hoar frost? ... not dissimilarly to the few blades of grass that poke out here and there among the heaps of fallen apple leaves... That explains the colours at least.
She glides her tired gaze once more over the small scene in front of her, noticing more and more details, which hopefully means that her mind is finally beginning to fight off this strange foggy state it is in. For a long moment she cherishes the soft sunlight, until a sudden, suffocating dread engulfs her.
Sunlight?! But her last memories are... Yes, what are her last memories? She closes her eyes, grinds her teeth and forces herself to leave this haze, this state of mind somehow behind.
Henry...
Henry calling Emma Swan "mom"...
They are back...
The portal...
Her son pleading her...
They are back...
A door closing... and she is alone... left behind once again...
Not enough...
Never enough...
Her son abandoned her...
Alone, alone, alone...
Henry...
Loneliness, longing, despair, love, desire to prove herself... an ocean trying to swallow her...
Her apple tree...
The well...
Henry...
The well...
The colour green...
It hurts, burns...
The well...
The well.
The well.
'What have I done?'
Her last thought is still echoing in her mind, as she frantically wrenches her eyes wide open, she feels as cold panic begins to cruelly lick on her consciousness. Only now she manages to piece together that the soft sunlight means, it's after sunrise. But her last memories... when it happened she was sitting at her tree, it was dark around her, by that time the sun had already set. She is lying on her side, by her apple tree... where she has apparently spent the night... Outside. In Maine. In late autumn. She groans.
Slowly, she turns to lie on her back, everything aches and she is incredibly stiff. Finally she manages. For a long moment she just stares at the sky, despite everything marvelling at the sunlight. And now that she thinks of it... there is something different about her sight...
'Get up.'
Gradually all her sensations come back, the numbness caused by the cold slowly lifting. She groans.
'Get up.'
Shivers run up and down her tired and battered body. Only now she notices just how cold she is. She tries to push this thought in the back of her mind this or a possible pneumonia is really the last of her concerns now.
'Get up.'
She knows a "mere" electrocution wouldn't have caused this... whatever seizure she has had last night. As a result her biggest problem now is of magical origin...
'Get up. Cold...'
Systematically, she begins to gather everything her body is ready to tell her. So cold... Her eyes ... what is wrong with her sight? The colours, the world seems to be different... She can't quite grasp it, so she moves on, for now. Her limbs are still cramped, but she isn't sure if it is because of her... unintended night spent under the late November sky, or because of her seizure. All her muscles seem to hurt.
'Get up.'
At least it isn't the searing pain from yesterday... This one she can manage, last night's episode on the other hand... Shivers run down her spine just at the mere thought of it happening once more.
'Get up. So cold...'
Similar is the situation with the burning skin on her arms, she still feels it, but right now it's a dull throbbing, nothing more.
'Get. Up!'
Finally, giving in, she gingerly begins to move. Extremely slowly she sits up, waits for a long moment for the sudden dizziness to pass then she moves her legs, gritting her teeth as not to cry out because of the increased pain. She takes a few deep breaths, preparing her battered body. With a last, slightly fearful intake of air she stands up. And immediately stumbles, losing her balance, catching the trunk of her beloved apple tree in the last moment, so she doesn't fall right back. For now.
She tries to concentrate on her body, because she wants to ignore the lingering dread in the back of her mind. This time, she has no idea what she has gotten herself into. What this could mean or even what this is, what is happening to her. And frankly, this frightens her even more than she is ready to admit. Desperately, she fights off the increasing feeling of dread. Regina Mills has never known the fear of the unknown into this depth before in all her life.
'Just what was I thinking? Even if it would have been a 'simple' electrocution, even then I could have died. But no, I had to magically electrocute myself, I had to absorb all that magic into my own body. I have no idea what I have unleashed upon myself.'
When her stubbornness deems that she is able to get back in her house, she slowly begins to drag herself, yes, for once in her life she is incapable of moving gracefully. It is difficult, she stumbles and almost falls several times even in this short distance, but at the end she finally reaches the backdoor.
After several tries she unlocks it, and "rushes" as fast as her battered body allows her in the nearest bathroom with a body length mirror.
For a long moment she just stares at her own reflection, absolutely horrified...
Then she frantically begins to remove her clothing, not caring at all if she ruins the expensive fabric. When she is finally naked, she stares at the tiles, trying to gather herself, trying to scrap together all her strength, however how small amount that might be, because she knows, now, to face this, she is going to need everything she has got... Only ... she can't find anything left in herself. Not anymore.
So she lifts her eyes slowly.
Taking everything in...
Then she begins to laugh, loud and shrill, the sound cutting the deafening silence around her like the sharpest blade. She laughs, because she can't do anything else. She laughs and it would turn into sobs if she had any tears left.
She meets her own eyes in the mirror... and faints.
This time because of shock, fear and no small amount of despair.
Regina's naked form is lying on the light coloured tiles, she is unconscious and seems so small like never before.
And the world, as always, goes on, without her, leaving her alone, behind, once again.
Emma Swan stares up at the ceiling of the living room in Mary Ma-... no, Snow's flat. She is lying on the couch, because her son is sleeping in her room. She is motionless apart from the occasional movements of her eyes.
For several hours she has been observing the ceiling, paying attention to the last smallest detail, never even noticing the changing colours, the new beginning of a day.
She is absolutely overwhelmed and frankly slightly terrified too with the new developments in her life. Emma has no idea how to even begin to deal with... well, apparently everything.
The cracks on the ceiling give her the illusion of some kind of normalcy, so she stares at them.
Among the pieces of her shattered reality - that she is still trying to somehow glue together - she feels extremely small. She can't seem to get enough air into her lungs, ever since this... madness at Henry's hospital bed has begun. Only, she can't seem to grasp not even one piece of her old reality to hold onto, let alone two, she has no idea of who she is anymore... Everything she knew was gradually stripped from her, leaving behind a desperate shell of a woman, who is trying to do the right thing, even if the world crumbles around her. Reality seemingly ceases to exist, and as such, the meaning of right blurs too. Since the break of the curse she learned to fear the unknown that may await her at the next corner... She despises herself for this, but she can't help it.
'No, don't go there. Cracks, simple, normal everyday cracks.'
She is terrified, somehow feels six years old again once again at a new-faceless-nameless place, people-never-seen-before, always-so-much-taller-than-her surround her. Everything is changed, new, nothing she could recognise and find some solace in its familiarity. She is trembling in a dark room, afraid of what might lurk in the shadows. She wants to crawl in the wardrobe, to hide from the eyes, from this new-place. There, in the wardrobe she at least could get to know the space with her hands running on the wooden walls, her breathing breaking the silence, shooting her, no surprises, nothing new, no unknown.
But, she isn't six anymore, nor an angry teenage girl breaking rules, and she certainly isn't the restless young woman who would run, leaving everything behind. No, if she is honest with herself, she still feels the need to run, and she would do it, but now, for the first time in her adult life she can't... And in the same time, she has absolutely no idea what to do, how to act instead of running.
After her time in jail, she owned up her wrongs, months spent in self-searching and after Henry... in self-loathing and regret, she vowed that she would get a grip on her life, stand on her own two feet, never relying on anybody, find her strength in her independence and still try to be a halfway decent adult. Someone, whom a hopefully happy little boy somewhere would never be ashamed of.
But now, she has no idea who she is, everyone wants something from her.
Tall figures lurking around her, wanting her to accept everything, even her role that is forced upon her. Wanting her to learn to suddenly accept and cherish concepts like family, responsibility that comes with heritage...
'Fuck, cracks, cracks on the ceiling.'
She feels like she is thrown into deep water, certainly not a new development in her life, but now the difference lies in the people around her. They are not shouting or threatening her anymore. No, with this familiar pressure she could deal with. But she has no idea what to do with the velvet force of smiles, expectant – dare she say sometimes admiring? - looks, implied responsibility that comes with something as fragile as blood. And not to mention the nauseating fact that all in all this is wrapped up in a suffocating false-understanding, false-patience. Because at the end, they have no idea what is it like to be in her situation now. Far too often their caring comes off as patronising. Atop of everything, Henry began to call her mom... Which is not only terrifying but wrong too, feels every time like a slap.
She is confused, angry, frightened, angry, desperate, angry... and sometimes she wishes, she has never found this town, or anybody else in it.
'Cracks, cracks, cracks, ceiling, ceiling...'
Cracks are safe. From cracks can't crawl people out who are smiling at her accusingly, silently shouting at her, throwing words like family in her face. Cracks in the ceiling don't turn best friends into one's own mother, or a man that she had no respect for to suddenly one's own father. Behind cracks on the ceiling can't hide another world, another realm trying to swallow her up. Cracks on the ceiling can't spew out women who are capable of groping one's lungs searching for one's frigging heart! Cracks on the ceiling don't whisper "mom"...
So cracks on the ceiling are safe.
On Mary Margaret' ceiling, also known as Snow, who also is...
'Fuck!'
She has to get out of here. Now.
She hastily pulls up her only pair of loose fitting jeans, her thank top, forgoes her boots and jacket, because she doesn't want to be reminded about her time... there... she doesn't need that too right now, so she grabs a pair of sneakers and a jumper.
A hurriedly written note later Emma Swan is gone.
The sound of the closing door still echoing behind her while everyone else in the flat sleeps on.
For the second time that day Regina regains her consciousness. But this time around her mind is clear, and she can instantly recall everything to a point of almost painful manner.
Her situation is... well, best deal with things first that she knows, she can help. As a result her logical mind practically launches itself of attending her smaller problems. Of course, by doing so she ignores the bigger picture that she can't even grasp how to address, not to mention how to solve.
'Well, if there is anything salvageable at all...' She bitterly thinks.
The tile under her face is still cold, her body didn't have the time to warm it up, so she mustn't have been out for that long. She slowly gets up, mindful of her still cramped up body, carefully avoiding any looks at the mirror. She opens the taps, drawing herself a scalding hot bath. She goes in the kitchen, preparing a big mug of wild thyme tea, sweetening it with honey. She gingerly drags herself back to the bathroom, ignoring the pain and concentrating on the light brown liquid in her hands. She shudders as she notices the difference between her vision now and before... The almost golden brown colour seems to be somewhat... sharper? ...the light dancing in the surface somewhat more... colourful? She shuts her eyes for a moment, trying to ignore everything that this could mean.
She slowly sinks in the water and sighs gratefully. At least she can do something against the possible cold or pneumonia, and as it turns out the warm water helps ease her cramped up muscles too.
Regina is extremely careful not to think of the... situation or dare she say condition she is in. But her mind keeps turning to Henry, and what this could mean for him... Gradually, without her notice silent tears begin to fall down her face, dropping in the water as she nearly robotically sips her tea.
'Maybe it's for the best that this happened...' She chuckles bitterly. 'It doesn't matter. Nothing really matters anymore... It's already done, and I have to make the best of it. Because despite everything, I am still the Queen... and a mother...'
After she feels she is warm enough, she drowns the water, steps out of the tube and with still weak, small steps but with an immense determination she walks up to the mirror, once again.
Pressing her palm against the cold damp surface, she clears it, so she can see herself from the waist above.
Her reflection is just like it was the first time she looked at herself this morning. But it reveals two significant differences from what it has been like before.
'Well, at least the burning sensation on my arms and my changed vision is somewhat explained...' She allows herself an ungraceful snort in the solitude of her bathroom.
Her underarms, where the most intense exposure to the curse was, are covered in light red marks from obviously magical origin in a particular shape. The resemble tendrils bearing several runes and leaves, they run in a seemingly aimless manner around her arms, slicing through the olive tone of her skin. Almost like a tattoo. The thought alone to somehow mar her own perfect skin would be revolting to the former queen any other day, but this, this means something entirely different. And unwillingly she has to admit that the motifs were rather nice to look at, if she wouldn't suspect what exactly is behind them. She supposes that the patterns will spread if she is going to get more of these... seizures, their colour slowly turning darker, gradually covering her whole body... And then... she doesn't want to think about that... She can't think about that.
She lifts her head to stare into her own eyes. Small bright green spots cruelly tear the familiar brownness apart, their colours reflecting the exact shade of green like the on the well put upon curse's has been. It's almost similar to the situation when she used her mother's book. Her eyes are telling her that there is strange magic in her, that she isn't using her own, the one that she was born with. Like she hadn't already known that. However the emphasis is on almost similar. Now, the green is smaller, not ever-encompassing like the purple was, but she supposes this too, similarly to the marks on her arms, will spread if she is going to get more seizures. She doubts that this change in colour is constant though, she can already see a few of them fade back to brown. What concerns her more than she cares to admit is the change that this switching back to the original colour could cause. She already knows that while the green is there, her vision, how she perceives colours and light, is more vivid, almost disturbingly so, and she dreads what kind of repercussion this is going to have...
She tiredly turns her head to look out of the window.
Right now, she can't do anything but wait and see what permanent damage has been done, apart from the already obvious marks on her arms. Right now, she can't do anything but gather her strength for later, so she slowly walks upstairs into her bedroom, crawls under her covers and closes her eyes to succumb to sleep.
Her last thought somewhat calming her:
'At least I can hide these changes easily. For a while.'