They fêted her, their Saviour. All across the lands, they held parties and balls, wrote simpering sonnets praising her beauty and bravery. Their return to their homes, found as if no time had passed, brought great joy and celebration, with the promise happy endings galore. I sound bitter, even to my own ears. It's not that I begrudge their pride in her, or envy their happiness, but I hate them, still. For not once, in all that celebration, did they stop to ask her opinion. Not one of them took the time to acknowledge what it cost her, what it cost me. Our ending was just a footnote in her mother's triumphant restoration to the throne.

And of me, an equal partner in that restoration, not one word was said. I faded from their minds as easily as unremarkable dream. Even my most loyal servants found new masters, new lives, turning from their previous loyalties as easily as weathervanes with the wind. The things of mine that still stood were left, ignored, condemned to rot and decay through apathy, my memory fading with each passing day. Only two people in the entire kingdom thought of me, spoke to me – my son and his mother. They fought for me, at first, exaggerating my redemption, downplaying the bad, remembering me at every speech and ceremony. But slowly, gently, the pervasive apathy wore them away, chipping at their resolve until their love for me was kept hidden, private, only to be thought of and discussed behind closed doors, in the silence of the night.

Now the sunlight streams in through the narrow crack in the curtains I have made, illuminating the gloom. I stand, looking out at the scenery – sweeping mountains, blue skies, the glimmering hint of a lake in the distance. It's an amazing world out there, one I had forgotten, and one she should be out, exploring, discovering, making her mark on this as surely as on the old.

I turn, and cross the room to her side, brush back lank tendrils of hair from her forehead, ghost my lips over her cheek. I can no longer deny what she means to me, past events and current circumstances dictating I must be honest with myself.

"Miss Swan," I say, leaning down to make eye contact, my voice dropping into its Mayoral register, "It's time you got out of this chair and did something. I will not have you slacking off. Just because you are no longer Sherriff does not mean you can sit here forever." She turns to me, and for a moment those green eyes seem to focus on my face, tenderly. I reach up and cup her cheek, smiling. I think, briefly, she is going to reply, but then her eyes slip, her focus shifting, and her gaze settles on something behind, looking past me, looking through me.

The door opens a crack, and Snow White slips sideways through the opening, barely fitting through the entrance, as though she dare not open it wider. I shoot her a look, hating her still, but she appears not to notice and makes her way to her daughter. I turn, and move back to the window, gazing again at the scenery. She sniffs in disgust at the state of the room, empty dishes piled next to Emma's chair, dust settling on the furniture, a smell of must and stale disuse filling the room. Were I in charge here, this would never be allowed to occur, but the servants do not respond when I order them, turn their heads and look away.

"Your father and Henry and I are going for a picnic this afternoon, by the lake. We want you to come." For once, the woman says something sensible. I turn to look at her, and see she is bent down, crouching by the chair, hands entwined with Emma's. Emma looks up, into her mother's eyes, and smiles, weakly. She almost nods, I can see it forming in the muscles of her neck, but she stops, and turns her gaze to me.

"I can't not. Not today. Perhaps next time." Snow White and I are speaking at the same time, our meanings in harmony. The thought surprises me, and my train of thought breaks. Emma is still turned my way, listening, so I too crouch down next to her chair, and will her to go.

Since our return to this land, Emma has stilled. In Storybrooke, she was always moving, full of life and energy and fight. Her strength of will, magic born from her personality, had the power to stop an entire town, bent on bloody rampage. When we fought, when we argued, her eyes flashed fire and vim and vigour, and I always knew that she would make a formidable enemy. I even thought that, in another life, she would have been a friend. But now, she sits, day after day, in that ragged, marked chair, picking at the foods servants bring her, not venturing outside the confines of the room. She is still, both her body and her soul, and I hate the inhabitants of this world for allowing it.

"For goodness' sake, Emma," I snap, exasperated. "Just go on the damn picnic." Before, I avoided profanity – a refuge of the weak and ignorant, little more than meaningless stuffing, the curse words filling the void left by their lack of vocabulary. Emma Swan, however, frequently drives me to the point where the words slip out, frustrated and unintended. At least, I think, Henry cannot hear me, cannot be corrupted. Rather than be raised to action, Emma closes her eyes, screws her face against the light, and sighs.

"Sometimes, Snow," she says, quietly, "I think I hear her. Telling me to eat, or go out. It's like she's right there, arguing with me." She reaches for me, fingertips brushing the edge of my clothes, hovering above my chest. "She's not, though, is she?" Her hand retreats, and although I reach for it, curl my fingers around hers, my hold has no power, and she slips through my fingers like mist. It is Snow White, instead, that takes her hand, holds it close and presses kisses to the skin. Another thing to hate her for, I think, but the bite is softer, these days, less potent and I know I cannot maintain it. "I didn't even get to bury her. And now you want me to forget her, like everyone else has." She stops and buries her head in Snow's shoulder, clinging desperately to the other woman, silent sobs heaving through her frame. "I can't."

I sit on the armrest of her chair, and stroke her hair softly, balancing with one foot on the ground. It's hardly ladylike, but I suppose no-one will see me. I whisper to her - short, comforting words, full of love and reassurance. Being the comforter has never come easily to me, and I never took the trouble to practice, although these days I often wish I had.

We stay like that for a long time, the three of us, and slowly the room gets darker, the light withdrawing for the day. Snow will soon be missed, sent for, summoned to dinner, and she will leave Emma in the darkness alone. The door opens, and I am surprised that it is the wolf's grandmother stood there, not a court guard.

"Snow," she says, out of breath, "Emma." She moves further into the room, leaving the door wide open, torch light filling the entrance. "Last night was full moon, and this morning Red found something in the woods." Her hand is over her heart, and I can hear its frantic beating from here. She stops, panting, and leans heavily on a sideboard. When she straightens again, wiping her dusty hand on her skirts, her voice is stronger, a blend of fear and excitement. "It's her. It's the witch."

Suddenly, like the woman of old, Emma is standing, away from the chair, eyes clear and fixed. She takes a step forward, rolls her shoulders and stands, confident and strong.

"Take me to her," she says, and her voice will not be gainsaid. "Take me to Regina."