He'd first noticed there was something wrong the moment she was born, when an open, angry mouth released no more sound than a muted squeak, something so soft and pitiful in nature it stabbed him with the strength of a blade. He'd remembered the force of Roland's first cry, a wail so loud they feared it might send Nottingham in their direction as even the trees seemed to shake from the sheer volume of it.
But his daughter-she was silent. Too silent.
Zelena had watched from the bed, her face screwing into a distaste he'd never forget, one that churned his stomach and made him feel hollow inside.
"What's wrong with her?"
Whale had said nothing, had just stared at the flailing arms and legs with barely more than a cursory glance.
"She just hasn't found her voice yet, I guess. Lucky for you. Enjoy it while you can."
Hot rage had filled him-he'd been ready to nearly throttle the man, but then a pink bundle was placed into his arms, and the world had stopped, just as it had years ago when jet black curls had first brushed against his cheek, and he'd looked down into a face that arrested him on the spot.
He was holding his daughter. And she was beautiful.
She was calm and so tiny, so perfect in every way that mattered. Her nose, her little lips, the tiny dimple in her cheek that made him happier than it should-a marker of some sorts that yes, she was his, not just Zelena's, not just a means to an end but a beautiful living, breathing little girl now entrusted to his care. He would love and protect this daughter of his for the rest of his life with the same ferocity as he did the rest of his family. For she was his family-a child taken from his body without his consent yet now resting in his arms, next to his heart, her soul mingling with his in that way that children have until their very existence is so tied to your own that you don't know where you end and they begin. .
Then there was the way Regina had smiled at her.
He'd seen her pain, he was neither blind nor stupid, but there was a joy that surprised him there, too, mingled into tears and quivering lips, hovering between them in the way she touched his arm, assuring him with every step in his direction, every tear that dripped onto his daughter's cheek that yes-they could do this, yes-she was with him, yes-this little girl would be a treasured part of her life.
She'd called the baby wonderful. His soul had taken flight at her words.
You should be her mother, he thought, knowing better than to speak such thoughts out loud. They would do nothing but anger Zelena and hurt Regina, and by God, he didn't want to do either, not now, not when his family was still held together by bonds more fragile than a hummingbird's wings.
They'd later taken the baby from the hospital, and he'd worried that she might scream and alert the wrong people as to what they were doing, but she didn't. She hadn't made a bloody sound. He'd pushed nagging fears back as far as they would go knowing that danger was imminent and that they'd no time to worry about anything but protecting her from both Zelena and Emma. But his unrest never truly went away, just as her unnatural muteness lingered.
Her silence had actually been a blessing in the hours that followed-that is, until Regina realized that the baby couldn't cry. She'd grown unnaturally silent, had been unable to look at the child, and he began to fear that she found his daughter lacking, that her condition was yet another disappointment in a life littered with them. His head had pounded as fears for his baby and his relationship with Regina began to devour him from the inside out, and he wondered just how he would do this without her. He couldn't-god, he wasn't strong enough-he needed Regina just as badly as his lungs needed air.
Then brown eyes had finally looked at him filled with tears that sliced him open.
"This is my fault," she'd whispered, her lips trembling as violently as his hands. "The muting spell."
He'd grabbed her with one arm while holding his child in the other, breathing impassioned no's into her hair.
"Emma did this," he'd insisted. "Perhaps even Zelena. But not you, Regina. Not you. This is not your fault."
He'd known then that she hadn't believed him.
The crib had been moved into their bedroom so they could hear her movement and squeaks, knowing that a monitor would do them little good when their baby couldn't cry. She could flail, however, and kick with a fury that shouldn't have taken him by surprise but somehow had. Every day he wondered if by some miracle his Elena would regain her voice, if he'd hear her scream or babble or coo. And every day when that failed to happen, he watched Regina retreat further into a brittle shell of self-blame.
It had been Regina's tears that had first alerted him to other problems as she'd slid back into bed one night sometime between three and four a.m., her face damp and her body shaking.
"I don't think she can hear me, Robin," she'd murmured, the words tumbling out of her in a panic. "I really don't think she can."
Speech deserted her as sobs took over, and he'd held her, had pulled her impossibly close as her words began to take root and his own tears fell. No-not this, too-not her hearing. It's not fair. It's too much.
"She responds to touch," Regina had continued as she'd clung to his damp tank top, her grip tight and unrelenting. "To things she can see and feel, but not to voices-not to sounds."
His hands and feet had grown impossibly cold.
He'd slipped out of bed once she'd finally fallen back into an uneasy sleep, padding softly to the crib on the other side of their bedroom to stare down at the little girl who'd been denied what should have been her birthright. He'd picked her up, he couldn't help it, even though she slept soundly and he knew it was unwise to disturb her. But he needed the soft weight of her in his arms, and he moved to sit in the oversized chair in the corner, cradling her to his heart, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing as he gazed through the crack left by the drapes covering the windows.
"My baby," he'd breathed, cupping her nearly bald head that smelled of lotion and new life. "My precious little girl."
Ten fingers, ten toes, brilliant blue eyes that took in everything around her. But no voice, no means of hearing. Was his daughter to be entombed in a world of silence for the rest of her life? He'd remained awake until the first rays of dawn began to make themselves known, and Regina had later found him snoring in the chair, Elena curled up contentedly against him, the pink quilt Granny had made for her draped over them both.
They'd taken her to a specialist in Boston where their fears had been confirmed but no cause for her hearing and speech losses could be established.
"We can't exactly tell them about muting spells and enchanted onion rings, can we," Regina had stated as she'd buckled Ellie into her car seat for the drive home.
"The muting spell had nothing to do with this," he assured her once more, hating the doubt that lingered over her like a phantom. "Trust me, Regina."
But she'd said nothing in response.
In fact, they'd ridden in silence the entire way home, acting as if listening to music or the news was somehow distasteful with Elena resting in the seat behind them. It stung, being this close to each other but hurting alone, yet he allowed Regina to process just as he tried to sort through feelings so sharp he was certain they drew blood.
When they'd arrived back in Storybrooke, he'd reached for her across the seat, and their hands had joined in a grip that steadied both of them, her fingers as icy as his own.
"She's going to be alright, isn't she?"
The question rushed out of him just after she'd parked the car, the words burning his throat as they tumbled out of his body. He felt her stiffen and then relax as a surge of strength passed between them.
"Of course she is. We'll make certain of it."
It was the most determined he'd heard Regina's voice since Ellie's birth. And he couldn't help but believe her.
Life began to take on a new sort of normalcy that day, one he cherishes every moment of every day as he breathes in the patchwork quilt that is his family.
Bedtime stories are now drawn onto a ticklish belly, lullabies traced onto a soft forehead, driven by the gentle pulse of a rocking chair. Signs are practiced, small fingers manipulated into one word communications, and her first belly laugh is recorded even though no sound accompanies a face completely alight with joy.
For she is happy, his Elena-their Elena. She truly belongs to them all.
She is learning, growing, and experiencing her world, making sense of the life she's been given even without what she's been denied. He continually marvels at how quickly Roland has mastered sign language, at the dexterity and grace that flies from Regina's fingers, at Henry's animated games he crafts simply for the enjoyment of his little sister. Robin laughs when Regina curses under her breath as a certain sign slips her memory, and he privately rejoices as shards of unwarranted guilt are replaced daily by the tenacious blossoms of motherhood.
His family isn't fragile anymore.
They now take turns rocking her to sleep each night, he and Regina, and he can't help but smile whenever Ellie's hands reach for his lips, touching them as they move, marvelling at her daddy just as he marvels at her. He still wishes she could hear and speak, but she is perfect just as she is, a wonder of life and resilience, a reminder that something beautiful can emerge from great pain.
Ellie defines their life, he realizes, stubbornly prospering in the midst of difficulties, thriving when the odds are stacked against her, refusing to give up even if she has to work harder to succeed. She is truly a Mills woman, a Locksley child, an unplanned blending of genetics now thriving under the guidance of a mother who chose her and a father who knows she owns his heart.
"My baby,", he utters, drawing a small heart onto her chest through her lavender sleeper as the moon punctuates the darkness that defines four a.m.. He smiles tonight as blue eyes finally close and her body molds itself to his chest in a move so familiar he cannot imagine life without it. "My precious little girl."