Note: Anon asked "I was just wondering why Emma and Graham feel they can't reveal their relationship knowing that they're True Love." Check for accompanying picspam on my tumblr.
The dining room is bright in the early morning sun, slanted light creeping in through the stained glass over the filled table. Her parents sit at the head with her just beside, a few others scattered on the far end. It had been a busy day previously, helping to send the regiment off fully supplied followed shortly by the neighboring royals. Now is the time to collect themselves before the winter silos are re-inventoried, before the day's lessons begin.
She is quite sure she will need this extra time before she can focus on the routines of her life again.
She folds her hands on top of the table, staring down at her breakfast as her eyes glaze over. It is a quiet morning, allowing her mind to wander. It is a small assembly today, only her parents' inner circle set at the huge wooden table. She and her parents are more closely seated at the head, the scattered others several seats down. Everyone seems pensive, lost in their own world. A hushed conversation or two will peak along the far side, but they are perfunctory at best.
Her own thoughts are not centered on what is happening in front of her, for certain. Instead they are leagues away with the battalion.
Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the tea being set for herself, her mother, and a few of the women of her parents' council. Emma scoops the cup up and rests her teeth along the edge, trying not to let the worry build in her stomach.
He'd left yesterday, with his promised goodbye. Her mind is already flying with imagined scenarios, even if he won't reach the rebellion for at least another fortnight. She supposes that she will be trapped in this anticipation until she sees him again, and has resigned herself to it.
It isn't new. This isn't the first time. But this is shaping up to be the longest absence since he came to the castle two years ago.
"This was the right way, wasn't it?" she hears her mother ask under her breath.
Her father reaches out, squeezing his Queen's hand. "Our best are defending our people. I am certain they will be successful."
She smiles hesitantly. "What makes you so sure?"
"We have a stream of luck. It has begun to snow," he replies, eyes twinkling. Emma studies her mother as she tilts back her head to laugh.
"Charming, that is as good as any omen," she agrees.
Her thoughts turn as she searches her mother's gentle features. She loves her parents both so much. She cannot ask for better family. But ever since his words a week ago, she looks at them with a new eye.
When their relationship grew, she became careful to rotate her guards. Her parents, especially her mother, have always been the worrying type when it comes to their only child. They have shown caution to who they allow in their inner circle, and are vocal and upfront about who they will approve of for her detail.
For this reason, she always thought they trusted him completely. Her mother always had that look of relief when she'd wander off but be found with him at her side. It isn't the same relief that she saw when she is found with the other knights. Even when she is found with Pino, whose family is so close to them, Snow still doesn't have that same serenity on her pale features.
The idea that there is something there that makes him believe … it is new and disorienting. Graham had been so adamant, so sure. And it makes her question everything.
She tries hard not to show much preference, and they quickly became attuned to keeping their distance around prying eyes. There is no doubt in her mind that her parents are ignorant of their relationship. Thus, what he sees cannot be for that. It must instead be for his past.
She watches her mother now, and wonders if she looks long enough if she'll see what he sees. Will she see the mistrust? Will she see the fear?
She blushes slightly, knowing that her thoughts are silly. Without him here, there is no scale to measure how they react to him.
In the beginning, she was at least marginally aware that their relationship wouldn't be approved of. He is older, his past checkered, and her parents are far too protective to be anything but judging should it come out. She'd always believed … hoped … that they'd see past that eventually. They knew true love, and she knows in her heart that this is what they have. How could they ever deny it?
She shivers slightly at the idea of her own naivety.
They need proof, is what they need. She needs something tangible to show the love so deeply imprinted in her. Her parents already believe her naïve and in need of sheltering; coming to them with no proof would only make them pitying and condescending. And that would just be to her. For him, she dares not guess what kind of punishment would lay.
Her Graham isn't just one with a checkered past, as she had once believed. He is one that people were actively afraid of during the Usurper's rule. He had been forced to carry out the Usurper's wishes, promoting the fear she had reveled in. He had killed people, she knows, and this isn't a small thing for people to forget. People may know logically that it hadn't been his choice, but emotionally people are not as forgiving. He was still the face people pictured completing the witch's actions. And she has seen these people's vitriol with her own eyes over these past two years.
His work as knight is his slow process to help change that image, coming late enough in the narrative for people to be grudgingly accepting of his position. And yet they still look down upon him, challenge his authority and his nature at any chance.
Emma is heir and only child to the King and Queen of their still-recovering kingdom. She is a symbol and an icon for their people, as much as she hates the notion. She knows some part of the sheltering and care her parents cover her in is to preserve that purity and innocence she represents. Any suitor has to be carefully introduced and integrated before he can be made her partner. There are laws to that end already.
She wants to scoff at the law, at the mere idea of love being forbidden to anyone. Even if it had been a frivolous rendezvous with a boy her own age, it would have been her choice to make. At least, it would have been had she been anyone else.
To announce anything too soon would be … damaging. With such a dark past contrasted to her pure image, she would seem corruptible. Any progress she has made in forming her own platform for rule would receded, perhaps irreversibly. They might think he took advantage of her, preyed on her good nature. And they might demand his punishment for merely touching her.
That they've already known each other as lovers? It isn't just scandalous: it's treason.
She feels her stomach churn and she pushes away her toast. She has been losing her appetite recently with all these emotions building in her. She wonders why she is suddenly worrying so much more than usual. She wonders if part of it is the gnawing impatience inside her, the want to emerge from stolen moments into a commitment for all to see.
She wants him to be ready, though. Wants to prepare the people around her, too, but mostly she just wants to see any level of hope rather than wistfulness in his eyes. She needs to find a push for him, for them, and then they can reveal to her parents what is known in her heart.
"It's our best that have gone, Charming."
She looks up, turning her attention back onto her mother's hushed and worried voice.
Snow looks concerned, her wide green eyes set on her father's face. "Do you believe he trained the others well enough if there is something that happens closer?" her mother asks softly.
She presses her lips together, stifling the ire at the mention of the newer recruits. The younger ones are those that undermine his authority more plainly. They are often hotheaded and think themselves superior, being from families of noble background. The elders may be more insidious to him, but the youths often tend to be less restrained. And she knows the raven haired man with the permanent scowl is the reason for Graham's bruised knuckles and cut forehead in the past week.
Her father glances up from his papers, giving her mother a soft look. "Snow, we are well protected. They are going after the real threat, but we are not exposed."
The Queen gives a strained smile, reaching over to grip his hand. They share a look, one filled with words unsaid. It makes something in her ache to recognize the gesture, not just from a lifetime of watching them, but from two years of loving someone who understands her just as well as these two do. "The weather will slow them," she murmurs. "Perhaps it is for the best."
Stormy weather indeed means a natural protection to their castle. He taught her about their defenses, and the cold and snow will make anyone that tries to move on the area much more visible. But the weather also means he will be gone longer.
She searches that part inside her that is entwined with him, feeling his safety deep in her bones.
She sighs to herself and takes a small sip of the tea. Immediately, her face puckers; she finds it bitter again. Pity, she thought she was getting used to the medicinal taste of the root. She has been taking the teas for the last decade to help her with her cycles, and they've been an added benefit since she acted on her feelings for her huntsman. She sets it down and pushes it away. There is no worry to drink it down quickly for the next months.
Her mother puzzles at her then takes a sip of her own drink. She shivers. "Oh. Are we all out of the asant teas?" Snow asks around her own cup to the girl serving them.
Penny bows slightly, her eyes shaded. "Yes, Your Majesty. We used the last of it yesterday, and the next shipment won't come for a few months at least."
Snow frowns, disappointed. "Oh, what a shame. It was such a nice change. Is it a bad harvest?"
Emma's brow furrows in confusion, and she interrupts Penny's answer. "This is the lasar tea, is it not?"
Penny's eyes widen worriedly and she nods. "Yes, Highness."
Snow sighs. "Yes, we are back to this. I am sorry, sweetheart. I had hoped we would be able to use the asant for longer."
Emma sets the teacup down, studying the amber liquid with a frown. "I've been taking lasar teas since I was fifteen," she says, and then raises her eye to her mother's. "You switched it?"
She laughs musically. "Oh, Emma, don't look so worried! Your cycles have still been lighter, yes? It is its intended use," she says with a smile.
She frowns. Yes, she hasn't noticed a change. However, the idea that her mother switched something medicinal that she takes daily … well, it's disconcerting. "Why did you change it?"
Snow takes a small sip from her cup. "Lasar is much stronger and very bitter since it has more uses, ones you needn't worry about. I had thought I told you about all this?"
"No, you hadn't." More uses? Her brow furrows. "What's the difference between them, then?" she asks.
Her mother shrugs, and then glances to her father who is distracted looking through the inventory lists. "The asant is milder, of course. They grow in smaller patches, which allows them to be better tasting. It was found late this fall, for the first time in ages. I made sure we both got it instead."
"Oh," Emma says simply. She shakes her head slightly and laughs under her breath, wondering at why she had gotten so worked up. Better tasting, of course. Her mother and she share a sweet tooth, so it only makes sense that the Queen would seek out something more agreeable. They taste about the same, but there is certainly something more pungent even in the smell of the lasar, she decides. It's no wonder she didn't notice. She takes a bite of her toast around a smile, and looks up. "Is that all?"
Snow smiles back. "I could have sworn I told you all this. I am so sorry, Emma." She takes a scone from the platter.
"No, it makes sense that you wouldn't be too worried in mentioning it, If that's the only change," Emma replies.
"It helps regulate just as the lasar teas do," she agrees with a nod, then laughs a little. "In fact, I think they are basically the same plant! It's just that the asant doesn't prevent pregnancy. Not that we need to worry about that."
Her spoon clatters against the plate. "What?" She can practically feel her face drain of color.
Confusion twists her mother's features. She hesitates a moment before replying. "It doesn't prevent pregnancy," she repeats, then blinks. "And that's not something you need to be concerned with … right?"
Her stomach knots in itself, threatening to upend. Her muscles jelly as her mind zeros on to the new possibility. … Since late fall? The rains prevented their meetings for some time, but once the snow began they made up for it threefold. She stares at her tea until her vision blurs.
"Emma?"
She barely hears her. She is too busy trying to remind herself that it's not certain. Her mind quietly argues that, reminding her of every encounter, of every turn of her stomach and episode of lightheadedness in the last weeks. Since late fall ….
"Emma?"
She glances up, but she can't really see her mother through the haze of this shock. "I—excuse me."
Her father half stands, his face pinched in concern. "Emma, are you all right?"
"Fine," she chokes out. "Just – fine."
She feels rickety, grasping her chair to steady herself. She can feel eyes on her as she turns, people rising to acknowledge her exit as they always do. But it feels like judgement. It feels like they know.
She makes it all the way down the hall with her head high. When the door closes behind her, though, she absolutely collapses. She buries her face in her hands and shrinks into herself, letting out a sharp yet muffled sob.
She jumps when she feels a hand on her shoulder. When she looks up, Granny Lucas' face is twisted in sympathy. "Come, Princess."
She wordlessly agrees, standing on shaking legs. Granny hobbles with her cane and holds half her weight on her shoulder to lead her to her bedroom. Once there, she guides her to sit on the bed.
Emma doesn't feel … real. It feels like a dream, a nightmare, one of her cooked up imaginings that is both beautiful and terrifying all in one. And yet she can't bring the words together in her mind, not at all.
Granny is watching her closely, and finally sighs. "You know?" she asks.
Emma raises her gaze, her stomach twisting and her chin wobbling. "Know?" she finally chokes out.
The old woman always has that no-nonsense look about her, but it is even greater at this point. But as she watches, her face softens as she takes pity on her.
She doesn't like this. She doesn't like what the old woman with wolf senses is implying just in expression.
Granny reaches out to pet back her hair from her face. "I told him to keep you out of trouble," she sighs.
Emma swallows back a whimper. She remembers the odd look on the older woman's face, the sternness directed at her love. She remembers the weighty warning, how strange it had felt. And now its double meaning sinks into the spaces of her brain that do not want to process what is happening.
She can't be. She can't be.
"He should know better," Granny grumbles out, and tsks. "You two are more like dumb teenagers when you're together. You are certainly lucky that I was the only one that caught on."
"You … you've known?" she asks, and then turns cold. "Have you told anyone?"
Granny scoffs. "I've known a good long time now. But it is you're business, and I don't care about gossip. Too old for that."
She breathes a quick sigh of relief, and but still finds herself shaking. "How?"
Granny shakes her head and fusses over her a bit, brushing her hair back from her face and back behind her tiara. "I've been around a long time, and I have good senses. And these past few weeks you two have been so obvious I'm surprised no one else caught on."
She blushes slightly. She thinks of the times she snuck back into the passageway after long nights, the stolen kisses, the time she snuck him into her rooms. They haven't exactly been restrained. And now, the tea …. She turns her eyes up to her and swallows. "The lasar?"
She gives a look over the wire rim of her glasses. "The teas aren't foolproof, even the stronger one. Honestly, it is a miracle it's taken this long for it to happen."
Her tongue feels heavy, numbness tingling through her extremities and swallowing her in coldness. "Then … I am?" she asks, still not managing the words, and yet she feels woozy with the question.
Granny hesitates before she steels. "Princess, you've been carrying that new life inside you since you walked back from the woods that day five weeks ago."
Granny's face blurs in front of her before black tinges her vision. Cold takes over. She's not exactly sure what happens next.
All she knows is that it is later, and she is blinking up at her father. He is standing by her window box, figure silhouetted in the dusk.
"Daddy?" she calls.
He bows his head, and it is a long moment before he turns to her. His eyes are glassy, but he offers a small smile.
She takes a breath in, wondering what's happening before she recognizes the silk sheets and furs covering her pale yellow gown. She frowns at the fabric and the fact that she is in bed. Her brain feels looped with cotton. "What time is it?"
"It's nearly sundown," he replies, his voice thick. "You've been out for some time."
Her brows knit in confusion before it all slams back. That new life. She sits up and flattens a hand over her abdomen, hoping for a moment that she dreamt it all. Her throat tightens, and she doesn't even try to fumble for an explanation.
Her father sits at her bed. His brow is wrinkled and his face is pale; he looks as if he has aged another decade since she saw him at the dining table. After a moment, he leans to brush a hand through her hair. "Do you need some water?"
She shakes her head. She doesn't think she could manage anything right now, even though her mouth is dry.
He nods once and his face grows grim. "It isn't hard to guess why you left at breakfast," he says hesitantly.
Tears sting, and she looks away sharply. All her doubts are mixing, exponentially increasing with this new information. If she is … if it's real … her fears from this morning are worsening.
He leans back, out of her space to give her room. He's always been good about that, knowing when she needs his support versus needing distance. "I'll need to hear it from you," he says softly.
She shudders out a breath. The dizziness is returning. She can't say the words, can she? "I might –I might be with child," she finally utters.
His head hangs in disappointment before he nods gently. "Granny seems certain of it. Her senses are attuned to these changes, so I trust her," he says. He reaches a hand to her shoulder. "But we didn't even know you'd found someone."
She gulps, and brings a fist to her mouth to prevent a sob. She struggles against it in earnest before she nods compulsively.
"Emma," he says cautiously. "You … it was your choice, wasn't it?"
She pops her head up, eyes flashing and heat itching through her a moment. The instinct to snap back is sharp; visions of her knowledge of Graham's past are high in her mind at her father's implication. She lets herself temper when she recognizes the expression on his face, so concerned. She slowly lets her ire stifle, remembering that such a question would only make sense to her parents. "Yes," she says with direct eye contact, trying to convey her seriousness.
"Okay," he says softly, coaxingly. "Is there a reason you haven't told us you found someone?"
She turns her head away sharply. Carefully, she pieces through her worries, finding nothing to remedy them. She cannot lie, but she cannot tell them. Not without his side to knit her fears into a sail to guide her. "Yes. Yes, there is a reason."
David blows out an audible breath. "Will you tell me now?"
It slices through her again. "No."
"Emma," he tries, then sighs. He switches tactics. "Are you in love?"
This should be a simple question, with a simple answer. She knows she loves him, that he loves her. But it feels strange to say it in front of her father after hiding it from him so long. "Truly," she says hoarsely.
He smiles sadly. "Of course you are," he says to himself with a shake of his head. The worry whispers through her again. Does he believe her? It is hard to tell. "Do you want the child?" he asks next.
Her lips tweak into a frown as she considers it. In another world, one where she loves him freely and openly, then absolutely and without question does she want their child. Even now the want is within her, niggling within her heart. The idea of a tiny being that they created together in love … she's had dreams of such things. So, despite her fear, she does. But another part is so afraid. "I'm scared," she says honestly.
He hesitates. "Do you want to talk it out?"
She shudders. Her hand presses harder against her stomach, tears swelling. "I love him. But we aren't supposed to fit," she says, and her breath hitches and stutters through her emotion. "We wouldn't make sense, not to you two. But I love him so much, and I want to be able to love our baby so much. But I'm … I'm terrified," she admits.
David scoops her close, unwilling to let them be separate at this moment. He strokes her hair, and oh, she feels so like a child. She sobs achingly, curling her hands into his shirt and pressing her face into his shoulder. He shushes her under his breath, rocking them back and forth.
Her heart is not helped by the action, and instead when she finally runs out of tears, her head aches in anguish.
He pulls back, brushing her hair back from stained cheeks. "Emma, we love you. Nothing will change that."
She ducks her head. She knows. But that isn't her fear.
"I cannot promise anything about this man; how he'll react, how we will feel about him. But your mother and I … Emma, we will always be here," he says softly.
She closes her eyes, feeling more tears escape to track down her face. "But it's treason," she whispers. They have both avoided saying that thus far.
His mouth forms a firm line, and he says nothing for a long moment. "And that will be have to be considered and passed down," he says finally.
A chill shudders through her.
"But this is a miracle, Emma, and we will treat it as such," he finishes.
She turns scratchy eyes to him. "You will … you will accept the child?" she asks hoarsely.
His mouth parts, eyes widening. "Emma, of course. No matter what, this will be our grandchild, your baby, Emma. That is our family, Emma."
She swipes her cheeks and then cups her stomach. My baby. She considers for the first time that, despite everything, her baby—his—their baby—will be loved by her parents. A flicker of hope ignites in her, warming her. "And Granny … she's certain? It's real?" she asks in a low whisper.
He brushes back her hair, a small smile. "She is certain. But we can have Blue check as well, if you are concerned."
She weighs that in her mind. Blue is a close friend, but one that she never felt as comfortable around. Magic is still unpredictable for her, and she wonders if the fairy would be able to pull secrets from her as she determines if she is carrying life.
Five weeks ago, Granny said. The first snows. She twists her hands, considering the dizziness and nausea that has struck her in the last couple weeks, things she brushed aside as the emotion of him leaving. She thinks about her own magic, the swell that has gotten stronger even if she is ignorant in how to wield it. "I believe she only made me recognize what I am feeling," she says slowly, the truth of it heavy on her. "But perhaps we can have someone be sure everything is okay."
He takes her hand and nods. "We want to be sure you are healthy through this, of course."
"That the child is healthy, too," she murmurs.
"Of course," he replies. His face strains, and he looks away. "There are other dangers, too."
The Usurper's followers. Then, suddenly, a small piece of memory comes slamming into her: the prophecy leveled decades ago by the damn imp. When they find that Snow White's progeny is growing, they will not be particularly quiet. "I know."
He furrows his brow, perplexed a moment. She isn't supposed to know, she remembers, but this secret is one she is too exhausted to care about being revealed. He says nothing to it, anyway. There is a timid knock on the door, and her father rises. "She needed a moment before she could come in," he explains.
She feels a strong wave of irritation, and her face heats.
She can tell he notices, and gives her a pointed look. "Your mother is in straits. She thinks it is all her fault," he notes.
She sucks in a breath, and nods. "She should have told me," she says flatly.
He nods solemnly. "Yes. And you should have told us." Then he opens the chamber door.
Her mother looks ashen, a feat for someone named after snow. She offers a strained smile to them both, forehead creased, before she cautiously enters the room. Her eyes well with tears before she offers, "I am so sorry, Emma."
She ducks her head. "Granny thinks it was bound to happen," she numbly replies instead of the accusation she half wants to hurl. Emma doesn't miss the shared look between her parents. She pushes back the sheets and stands instead, lifting her chin until her false confidence becomes real.
Snow moves around the posts of the bedframe and sits in front of her. Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she reaches out, grasping her hand. "Are you happy, Emma?"
It feels a loaded question. She considers how to answer a moment, before finally settling. "With him, yes."
Her mother forces another smile, and she brushes back a loose strand of salt and peppered hair back into the weave of her crown. "I am glad for that," she says. Emma worries that it is not fully the truth.
She feels her father flank her, and she looks up to see him reach for her mother's hand. He slides his arm around her shoulder next, linking all three. Emma feels her steel resolve crack, and she releases the straightness of her spine a bit.
"And are you happy with the news?"
It occurs to Emma that her mother can't say the words just yet, just as it took time for her father and herself. She swallows. "I am worried. How could I not be?" she begins, then brushes against her stomach once more.
She glances to the mirror at the corner, seeing how the loose dress she chose for indoors skims her figure in a way that allows her to picture the future swell. She conjures an image of him in her mind and imagines a boy with his curls and a girl with his eyes. She finally finds it in herself to truly smile, the realization that it will be true. This is reality.
She meets her mother's matching eyes in the mirror and finds the strength within herself. "I have dreamed of our child before," she admits in a rough whisper, something she hasn't admitted to even him. She wasn't supposed to wish for this. She turns her gaze back to her mother. "I can't regret having it come true."
"Oh, baby," she says, and grabs her close. Emma rests her head on her shoulder, letting herself be comforted and knows it is more for the Queen than for herself now. Snow brushes through her hair soothingly as she hugs her, a low hum murmured over her head before the words tumble out. "Emma … my Emma. I am so sorry."
"I'm not," she mumbles into her shoulder, and finally realizes the truth in it. All the waiting that led to those presses against the boundaries of secrecy … she is perhaps grateful for this push. She was not expecting it, had never dared to stop her daily regimen. But she cannot be sorry for the baby inside her.
She feels the moment that her worry transforms, becomes hope. That's what their child is.
Hope.