Serving up a steaming plateful of linguine, the Mayor calls from the kitchen for her son to come down and help himself to dinner. Frowning when her request goes ignored, she tries once more; raising her voice as she drops her hands onto her hips.
"Henry?"
She sighs, glancing down at the table with a frown, trying to deduce what looks wrong to her, before noting that she has only served up one plate of food for the two of them. Scolding herself mentally for such an idiotic mistake, she stalks over to the cupboards to fetch a second. Opening up dark wood, she frowns.
No more plates.
Checking the other cupboards, her brow furrows deeper as the shelves sit bare- scrupulously clean, but bare- but for a single mug, a single glass, and a single bowl.
Taking a step back and running her hand through her hair with a slick click as she swallows, she calls for the boy again; beginning to feel the first fingers of trepidation playing down her spine.
"Henry?... Sweetheart?"
Nothing.
Pulling off her apron and placing it over the back of her chair, she glances up swiftly as she suddenly notes that it's the only sentinel to her glass kitchen table.
Thinning her lips, she makes her way out of the kitchen and hurries up the stairs.
"Henry?!"
Almost running now, as she makes her way down the corridor towards her son's bedroom.
Fingers trembling as she struggles to control her coordination and pull open the door, she succeeds with a cry and falls across the threshold with wide eyes.
"No..."
Emptiness.
The room sits bare- devoid of any furniture or decoration- the fading blue of the painted walls stark and barren, as heavy curtains billow softly in the breeze that flows through the gaping mouth of the window; panes open and eliciting a terrible scraping sound as they knock freely against the sides of the house.
"What?..."
Breath coming out in panicked bursts, dark coals flicker around the damning emptiness, as cold sweat begins to roll down the Mayor's back.
Faint imprints in the carpet create a blueprint of her son's missing possessions, and the wind carries just the last lingering traces of Johnson's shampoo.
"Henry?!"
But she stills, suddenly aware that she isn't alone in the room after all.
Willing herself to turn around- despite every fibre of her being begging her to desist with such foolishness- she opens her mouth to scream, before the Shadow swallows her whole.
"Ha!"
A short expulsion of air, as the Queen's eyes shoot open and she is met with the rolling murmur of thunder.
Letting out a shaky sigh as she confirms her recent horror to just be a trick of the mind, she gets herself slowly back under control and tries to calm herself down as she looks up at the dark canvas that plays her canopy.
"It was just a dream..."
She whispers, before turning onto her side and adopting a frown.
Pale features loom little more than an inch away from her own; the Sheriff's breath tickling her nose distractingly. Becoming ever more self-aware, her brow furrows deeper as she realises the blonde's knees press warmly against her hip; Emma curled up beneath their shared blanket and nestled up against her in sleep.
She wrinkles her nose in distaste; studying uncharacteristically serene features with a scowl.
Such displeasure is little more than a front however, as secretly she finds a small sense of comfort in having another at her side following the ordeal of her nightmare.
She tells herself to simply ignore the fact that it's Emma.
Rolling over, she faces the back of the tent with a sigh; pursing her lips as the blonde compensates by nuzzling against her and pulling the covers higher up the both of them.
Ignoring the small battle of emotions the Sheriff's change in position threatens to garner, she closes her eyes resolutely, and drifts off into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
Pressed up into welcoming warmth, the younger woman frowns as her lids flicker with the telling signs of REM sleep.
Her fists ball beneath the covers, and she makes a small noise of disquiet.
The waves roll in whitely, leaving large crests of scum over the dark sand.
Emma watches them lick at Storybrooke's sorry excuse of a beach idly; playing with a loose thread at the cuff of her coat.
It's cold, and a purple sky threatens thunder, but she'd said she'd be here, so here she is.
Frowning, she realises with a vague sort of uneasiness that she can't entirely recall the conversation that brought her here when she tries to think upon it.
Henry had been upset.
Crying, she believes.
But over what, she is suddenly finding it hard to remember.
"Probably didn't say... Probably waiting to tell me in person."
Yes, that would seem logical, only, she doesn't quite know what time it is, but she has the feeling that it's getting late.
Nor is she entirely sure how long she's been sat here waiting.
Warped wood creaks beneath her as the wind plays a new assault on the splintered remains of Henry's castle, and she wonders why she'd suggested they meet here... If she suggested it... As, all qualms with the Mayor aside, the rotten planks she perches on don't seem entirely safe.
"Where are you, kid?"
She murmurs, beginning to get a little agitated as a light mist of rain commences to drizzle down and settle frigidly in her hair.
Pulling her knees up in front of her as she balances on the edge of the castle wall, she hunches her shoulders against the cold, toying with the antenna of the walkie in her hand.
Wait, what?
Glancing down at the outdated hunk of plastic in her palm, she muses uncomfortably that she is almost positive she hadn't brought the thing with her.
Shaking such thoughts away as simple forgetfulness, she raises the walkie to her lips and depresses the transmission button.
"...Henry? Are you there, kid?"
Static silence greets her in return, and she frowns, as that's not right.
Not right at all.
The aged device might be stuck in some strange sort of timewarp- much like the rest of the town- but the transmission is always clear if answered.
And if not, there should be an irritating crackling coming from the speakers.
Not silence.
Not when she has her finger pressed down on the receiver.
Swallowing nervously, she shakes the walkie roughly before trying again; scolding herself as her voice wavers a little higher than usual.
"Henry?..."
No answer.
At least, no vocal answer, but she finds her heartbeat steadily increasing as she is sure she can make out an odd sort of bubbling noise coming from the other end of the line.
Don't be ridiculous, you're just psyching yourself out.
Maybe, but it sure doesn't sound like she is.
"Henry!"
Angry now, but her agitation simply serves as a facade for her nervousness, as she fidgets with the antenna with growing trepidation.
Looking up, she finds herself bathed in moonlight as thunder rumbles overhead.
When did it get so late?
"... Henry... Please... If this is a game..."
But she knows it's not. The kid might get up to his fair share of mischief- he is her blood after all- but a little impishness would never lead to him leaving her sat shivering in the dark with a storm brewing.
"Hen-"
But she stills as ominous bubbling gives way to a series of clicks, and a voice greets her from the gadget clutched tightly in her hand.
Henry finally answering her growing pleas for a response, but his tone is both his, and somehow not the kid's at all.
"-The tide's coming in, Little Fawn, and before long you'll be swept under..."
"Stop it!... Henry!"
She yells into the receiver; cold with panic which only works to accentuate an underlying cloak of her fear.
Little Fawn.
No one here would call her that.
They wouldn't know...
No one anywhere calls her that.
Not since she was eight years old and sharing a room with three other girls at St Catherine's orphanage.
Throwing the walkie away with a choked cry to land in the wet sand before her, she licks her lips nervously as she tries to quell her growing terror.
Looking around in panic, her breath catches in her throat as her gaze falls upon something floating in the shallow waves that lick the shore.
"... No."
But shaking her head in childish refusal to believe what she sees will do her no good, as she'd recognise those jeans and that shirt anywhere.
"Henry?!"
Jumping down from the castle with splinters sliding into the vulnerable flesh of her palms, she sprints across the bare strip of sand with an agitated cry as the soft surface tries to slow her down.
Splashing through the white froth that taints the shoreline, she wades anxiously into the water towards the lifeless bundle drifting along with the current.
"Henry!"
The kid's name comes out choked with anguish, as she finally reaches the ocean's terrible gift and clutches out to it with shaking hands.
Turning stiff limbs over with her breath rasping in a way that would be painful if she still cared about such things, she prepares herself for what she already knows with a sob.
What she sees curdles this beaten sound into a scream.
The body has no face.
Henry has no face.
Only shadow.
"Ah! You idiot!"
The brunette snarls as she is pulled swiftly from sleep by her bedmate kicking her violently in the shins.
Turning around incredulously to give the younger woman a piece of her mind, she is met with distressed panting and flickering emotions playing across drawn features as the Sheriff thrashes beside her.
"Miss Swan!"
Shaking the younger woman with unnecessary roughness- payment for the throbbing ache in her shins- she lets out her own cry of surprise as Emma's eyes fly open and the blonde narrowly misses headbutting her as she sits up with dread emanating from her in waves.
"Regina?!"
"Who else?"
The darker woman growls irritably, although she is unwillingly reminded of her own fear not half an hour ago.
"Oh, fuck, it was just a dream... Just a dream."
The blonde reiterates, as she sniffs and pulls a hand through the mess of her curls in a panicked fashion.
"It would seem so, so I would deem it a good idea to calm down."
Regina suggests with a perturbed sniff of her own, but she moves to sit up beside the Sheriff as she finds she is now completely and utterly awake.
And, I don't think I'll be getting back to sleep anytime soon.
"Yeah... Okay..."
Emma agrees, although the wideness of her eyes suggests this isn't going to be happening in the immediate future.
Frowning as the blonde's disturbance to her slumber brings her to the new realisation that it is not just Emma that shivers uncontrollably, the Queen pulls the throw tighter to her slender frame and casts a dubious glance out towards the pounding rain. When they had set up camp, she had selected a spot away from the others, and she now pays the price; the tents downwind sheltered by a jagged wall of rock, while her own sits at the mercy of the elements.
She hopes she is alone in noticing this fact, as she doesn't think smacking the Sheriff across the face for mentioning it will in any way better their situation.
As it is, Emma simply shivers, her breathing once more normal, but her flesh clammy as she joins the brunette in looking out at the charred remains of the campfire.
"Fuck me, it's colder than a witch's tit!"
"Excuse me?"
"Not yours specifically, it's just a saying..."
"...Are you sure?"
"Definitely. Kind of like 'quit using that disdainful tone with me, Your Majesty' is a saying, too. I believe it might be Irish-"
"-Sheriff, much as I enjoy your vapid musings, it's a little late- or perhaps early- so kindly desist and shut your mouth."
The Queen snaps, but not with as much venom as she might usually use. Their bickering might serve as a queer form of comfort, but there is a tension in the air that she doesn't miss.
Sniffing against the frigid chill of the island, she closes her eyes and casts a sound-cloaking spell over the tent; purple glimmers shimmering in the moonlight.
"What did you do?"
"A sound-shield so that we don't wake the others. I'm hoping it will keep some of the wind out too."
"You can't just magic it warmer?"
"I'm rusty on the particulars, but I could possibly cause you to spontaneously combust if I wished."
"Ah, that would be unfair. You would reap all the benefits."
"You'd be warm..."
"Smoking hot."
Emma offers with a weak grin, but her commitment to their back and forth is rather lacking.
Trying to block out visions of empty rooms and dinner plates, the Mayor rolls her eyes with feigned haughtiness and frees her hands from the folds of the throw. Directing her palms towards the dirt in front of them, she ignites a small tongue of flame which flickers in the wind.
Raising a brow and edging a little closer to the fire, the blonde turns to Regina as the darker woman moves to sit beside her and holds out her hands in the search for warmth.
"So, a sound-cloaking spell, huh? I can think of several times that might have been useful before..."
Offering the Sheriff a cold look, the brunette scolds her irritably
"Perhaps. But, perhaps I didn't presume that grown adults would stoop to spying on me for lack of anything better to do..."
"Are you referring to the time you and Cora went digging for the Dark One's dagger, or is this more about several of the fairly suspect conversations you've had with Gold?"
Emma teases, but the pallor of her dream still clings to her in a way she is unable to shake, and the brunette dismisses her sarcastic insinuations without a care.
Looking down into the flames, Regina speaks quietly.
"You had a nightmare..."
"Yeah... It was... It was a pretty bad one."
"I think it might be the island..."
"You had one too?"
"Indeed."
"Was it bad?"
"... No, Emma, I'm just rubbing it in your face. It was a delightful dream about the lollipop guild-"
"-Okay, okay, that was a stupid question, you don't have to be a bitch about it."
"One gets weary of repetition."
"Huh?"
"You have a knack for them."
"What?"
"Stupid questions... Case in point."
"Oh, shut up."
The Sheriff grumbles, before sighing and opening up slightly; an effect Regina seems to have on her that she finds most disconcerting.
"Mine was about Henry..."
"... Mine too."
"It was pretty awful... I... I thought he was dead, but then... It wasn't him... But... It was still bad."
"He wasn't dead in mine... Just... Gone... Like h-he'd never really been there in the first place."
The brunette whispers; hating herself as salt taints her words, but unable to help it.
"You know that's not true though, Regina..."
Emma offers uncomfortably; first in line to admit that she is about as talented at showing sympathy as a cactus.
Still, her mannerisms are characteristic, and the darker woman finds an odd sort of solace in that fact; never one to appreciate the cloying facade of pity shown by others anyway.
"Of course I know that."
She snaps with practiced irritability, before sighing and allowing her shoulders to drop defeatedly.
"I miss him."
"Yeah, me too."
"No."
"No?!"
"You're worried about him... And maybe you're starting to miss him. It's not the same. He's been living with you. He's there when you wake up and when you go to sleep... You took him from me."
Regina croaks spitefully, her lashes wet.
Frowning uncomfortably, the blonde speaks up tentatively.
"I didn't take him from you, Regina... It.. It's..."
"Don't you dare say complicated!"
The brunette warns angrily, and twin droplets fall down her cheeks despite her best efforts to keep them at bay.
Nibbling her lip awkwardly as she stares nervously into the flames, Emma extends her arm shyly and places it around slim shoulders with an uncomfortable clearing of her throat. The Mayor stiffens immediately in response.
"... What are you doing?"
"Regina... We really need to talk."