Henry was just where Emma had left him, sitting against my wall of hearts in the vault beneath my father's tomb. I give a silent prayer of thanks, though I cannot believe in any deity, that neither he nor Emma could open the chambers, see the gruesome secrets that lay beneath. He looks tired drained by the drama of recent events. I'm sure he imagined being proved right going differently, the curse breaking cleanly, in a shower of pretty sparks. He's only a child, and does not know that nothing is ever finished cleanly, in any world.
Emma, too, looks tired, lines of strain and worry etch her face. I sit next to Henry and pull her down beside me.
"Rest," I say, "until the meeting." She wants to fight, I know, wants to protest, to stay awake and protect Henry. But already sleep is claiming her, pulling at her eyelids, lowering her head and fogging her thoughts. She rests her hand on my shoulder, and Henry moves into my lap. I hold him tight, trying to think of a plan to save him, to save all three of us.
The floor is cold, and I can feel dampness rising through my trousers. At this point, however, I am beyond moving. I, too, am tired, so very tired, exhausted by the breaking of the curse, by the constant search for happiness I will never find. I don't remember when revenge stopped being enough, when my satisfaction at Snow White's fall was outweighed by this empty longing. It's been a long time in the making, I know, only sped up by Henry, and then by Emma's arrival.
I am reminded of Maleficent's warnings, that enacting the curse would leave a void in my soul. I laughed then, uncaring, believing the existing hole in my heart big enough already. And for years, that's all there was. But slowly, although my hate has not declined, although I am still as hurt and angry as I ever was, those feelings have less impact, somehow. Now I see them as if through a veil, darkly, distanced and far removed.
My mind slips to the woman resting beside me. By all accounts, I should hate her too – the daughter of my enemy, the product of true love, my prophesied downfall. Had I sense, I would end her here, take her heart and place it safe in the wall behind us. She would be calm, then, compliant and malleable. I could say to her, as I had to the Huntsman, 'do this' and it would be done. Leave, I could say, and don't come back. Guard my son, come to my bed, kill Snow White. I loosen my hand from about Henry, and for a moment it hovers above her chest, lightly touching the fabric of her shirt.
She shifts slightly, turning closer to me, still asleep, and I think of her face in Gold's shop. I hadn't made her say it out loud, after all, but I understood her message. I move my hand, trailing my fingers just half an inch from her face, and smooth her hair behind her ear. I will not take her heart, for I know, with an uncomfortable glimmer of guilt, that I already have it.
I place my hand back on my son's shoulder, and lean my head against the wall.
The hours slip away until the beeping of an electronic alarm wakes Emma. She sits up sharply, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. I smile at her, and she returns a semblance of the expression, small and afraid. I remove my hand again Henry, take hers in my own, squeeze tightly, reassuring. Her smile solidifies, and she leans to kiss me, drawing strength for the evening to come, Henry trapped between us. She pulls back, touches her hand to his shoulder, waking him.
"Come on, kid," she says, "it's time." Sleep clogs Henry's eyes, and he blinks at her, not understanding. "I love you Henry," she says, "and I need you to promise me something." Her expression is grave, and I know that she does not expect to survive the night. Henry nods, and looks seriously at her.
"If something – if something happens, to me or to your Mom, you go to Miss Blanchard, OK? You stick with her." It's good advice, and I nod my assent. My son – our son – launches himself forward, holding her tight, the motion digging painfully into my legs as his feet find leverage in my thighs.
I move him off my lap, and stand, brushing what dust I can from my clothing, running a hand through my hair. Emma stands too, picks up her father's sword, and holds her hand out to Henry, who takes it, holding onto her with both of his own. I step up to them, place my hand on Henry's shoulder and the other on the join of Emma's shoulder and neck, feeling her heartbeat there, steady and strong.
Smoke surrounds us, and when it clears, we are stood in the back corridor of the Town Hall, not a soul in sight. I drop my hands, bring them back to my sides. From behind the panelled door I can hear the meeting room filling with people, the buzz of their conversations drifting through the walls. I straighten my hair, my shirt, run my hands down the front of my trousers. I concentrate on becoming, on being, the Mayor. Not the Queen, not Regina, not a mother or a lover, but the human personification of the town, of authority, calm, cool and collected. I feel nothing, care for nothing.
"God," says Emma, "it's creepy when you do that." I just smirk at her, and gesture towards the door.
"Do you want to stand here all day, or shall we get on with it?"
As we enter the room, walking onto the stage, the assembled crowd falls quiet, a hush descending on the room. At least, this time, they aren't trying to kill us outright, I think. Snow White stands already at the podium, her voice fumbling to a stop, and she cannot contain the burst of dislike that crosses her countenance. Her constancy reassures me, grounds me, and confidence rises in me.
I move up to the podium, forcing her to step aside, to vacate the position of power, place my hands on either side of the lectern and smile down at my audience.
"Citizens of Storybrooke," I says, feeling firmly myself again, "thank-you for coming so peaceably." Murmurs break out, and I hold up a hand for quiet. "You probably would like nothing better than to tie me again to the stake. I understand the desire for revenge, I do. Perhaps better than anyone." I turn my gaze to stare pointedly at Snow White, stood now beside her daughter and grandson, and she blushes and squirms under my gaze. Interesting, I think – enough of the timid school teacher remains inside the girl to fear me. Some of the crowd are shifting uncomfortably in their seats, uneasy with the comparisons I draw between us. The fact is, that Good and Evil are divided only very finely, and they need to remember that.
"But killing me, or Miss Swan, will serve no purpose. It will not break the spell. It will not send you home." I say this with as much conviction and sincerity as I can, hoping that they will believe their Mayor, even if they cannot trust the Evil Queen. "Magic has returned to Storybrooke, and I am working on a spell to send you all home." Gasps of amazement and relief spread through the corwd like wildfire, and from the corner of my eye I can see Emma look towards me, mouth open, forehead drawn into a half-frown. "Regret the curse, have for a long time, and wish now only to repent, and to atone for my deeds by undoing my spells, and sending you all home. Once there, I will submit to any justice you propose." Henry and Snow White now wear identical looks to Emma's, and my son is shaking his head. Clearly, neither one believe the lie. Silently, I beg them not to give away the lie, the necessary pretence, to expose my real unrepentant and unchanging nature. Later, when the dust settles, everyone will see my deception for themselves. But now, however, it would be death to the one that utters it.
"Lies!" screech Rumplestiltskin and Granny together. The old woman has stood from her seat, fingers pointing straight at me, hand trembling with rage and age. The waitress pulls her down, into her seat, and whispers furiously in her ear. Rumplestiltskin bounces up the steps, making himself visible to all.
"I created the curse," he says, "I wrote it. And I know there's only one way to break it." He turns, and I see something glint in his hand, the light reflecting off a wickedly sharp, curving blade. "Emma Swan must die." As he speaks, he throws the knife, its inscribed blade twisting in the air, flying straight for Emma's unprotected heart.
I am moving, jumping, flying myself, and as I move, I wonder why I did not just magic her away, as I had myself all those years ago. His face twists in rage, and I feel my own features begin to curl into a triumphant smirk. The blade bites deep into my stomach, at first feeling like nothing, a slap at most. As I fall, I turn, the cut stretching and opening, hot blood seeping into my shirt, my trousers, white heat lancing through the wound, and taste of iron fills my mouth. The knife, and the cut, are drawing my magic and life fast, twisting impossibly deeper as I hit the floor.
The impact and loss of blood leave me dazed. In the background I hear screaming, and cannot tell who it is, Emma or Rumplestiltskin, or maybe someone else. I bring my hands to my face, slowly, and they are bright red. Emma is beside me, frantically pressing on the wound, trying to stem the tide of blood.
"I'm sorry," I say, truthfully this time, and my voice is thick, slow, deadened. She shakes her head, unspeaking. I turn my head, see Rumplestiltskin held to the floor by James and other, unrecognizable men. He is screaming, shouting, cursing, writhing under the press of bodies, anxious to be free. His magic must not have fully returned, as the men hold him securely, pinning him to the floor. Belle is standing next to the pile of men, shouting and hitting out randomly. Further along, next to the podium, Henry is clinging to Snow White, his face streaked with tears, hers set with a grim determination.
Maleficient, somehow, is with us too, hands held over the wound in the healing pose, but no magic seeps from her fingers. My oldest friend and greatest rival is helpless, useless without her magic. Gently, although each motion drives claws of pain deeper through my body, she draws the knife out of me, holds it to her face in wonder, fingers tracing the flat edge. It's what she wanted, all along, to hold the knife and loyalty of the Dark One. Perhaps, I hope, this was not how she envisioned obtaining it, but together we had always maintained the end justifies the means. Her eyes lock with mine, and I see the dragon-lust lurking behind their surface, and know that the world has a new terror to face, now that the Evil Queen is vanquished.
The edges of my vision fade and swim, not with black darkness, but a strange yellow opaqueness that shrinks and grows, tinting my sight. I turn back to Emma, force my hand to her face, watching distractedly as I leave a bloody smear across her cheek, my fingers tangling in her hair. My arm is heavy, too heavy to hold up, and it sags, bringing her head down to meet mine. She closes the distance between our lips, tears running freely. Too late, far too late, I feel my own eyes leaking, and I kiss her back, wishing desperately that I had been her true love, that I had told her that I cared, that she, and her son, had given me again a reason to fight for someone other than myself.
"No," she is whispering, over and over and over again. "No no no no no no," the word a mantra, a chant, a plea. Her hands have left my stomach now, cupping my face. I wish, with all that I am, with everything I have ever been, that Emma, over all others, finds a happy ending.
I kiss her, and feel a wind rushing through my hair, over us, around us, and then the yellow closes over me completely, and I am –