Note: I am continuing chronological storytelling here, so this follows the previous chapter.
She pinches her cheeks, trying to get some color back in them. Her hair looks haggard, she finds, messy around the scalp from drying sweat. Her skin is still slightly flushed and her eyes are rimmed red, and she curses the fact that the garrison is arriving so early.
At least her stomach has settled somewhat. She adjusts the stays and her skirt, deciding that she does not appear pregnant under the layers.
"Emma, are you ready?"
She turns to look at her mother, who wears a gentle smile. She nods and smiles tightly back. "Yes, I believe I am."
She takes her hands, cocking her head to the side. "My, Emma, you have a glow," she says.
Emma tries not to snort indelicately. "I was ill. It is only the sheen from the exertion," she counters.
She frowns and shakes her head. "I am sorry that your sickness has gone on this long. But it's not that. You look lovely, I promise."
"I don't look …?" she asks hesitantly. Her stomach has rounded generously in the past week, though Charlotte has insisted that she knows how to guide the fashions to hide it. She does not want it to be given away just in a glance.
Her mother smiles. "Not at all. Your face is a touch rounder, perhaps, but Charlotte chose a good dress for the occasion."
She checks the mirror again and decides she is right. The ties and folds and full skirt all help to create the illusion, the contrast of white and gold in elaborate patterns camouflaging the distention. And after today, she will need to worry no longer.
Her mother is in a pale blue gown under a golden corset, the style more mature but reflecting the one Charlotte put on her. The entire castle's styling from the nobles down to the rougher fabrics of the staff have evolved to make Emma's transitioning wardrobe more trendy rather than explicitly necessary.
Snow pats her hand and guides her to the entrance hall, and Emma feels her breath catch. When they enter the room, her parents' council and several members of the court are already milling about. The air holds a low hum of conversation, an atmosphere of excitement roaming over the vast hall.
She feels the anticipation digging in her spine as she walks to the platform that houses the thrones.
This will be it.
Her parents will receive the soldiers, and with them the final members of the council. They will debrief them. Then, the majority will be dismissed and the council will be held. The announcement will be made of her pregnancy quite immediately, despite her prior protests. She will have to watch him take in the news from afar, express with only her gaze that they can speak in private later.
She swallows. He doesn't deserve to hear the news in front of anyone else, doesn't deserve to hear it from her father instead of from herself. There is little she can do to stop her parents, however, as they believe it is partial to her security.
Before she could stop the battle within her of wanting to delay versus wanting to see his face, the garrison is announced. They file in, bodies war-torn and fatigued. Her own feelings dull as she takes in her people. They look as if the world has rung them out and left the pieces.
They retreated, she remembers. They were outnumbered and outmatched. The defeat hangs on them more than the struggle, she thinks.
He is last to enter the room. His hair is longer, beard thick over his jaw. She feels her heart flutter to see him again, and then she has the chance to truly inventory him. His eyes are shaded and dark, fixed on the floor.
Something is wrong.
Her spine straightens and the child shifts within her. Dangerously wrong, she decides as the faction bows.
"Soldiers, welcome hom—"
She reaches out and grabs her father's arm, interrupting the beginnings of his reception. "Wait," she says softly, eyes bouncing across the members. Missing. Something is missing.
"Emma?" her father asks, brow furrowing.
She hesitates, taking a deep breath. She closes her eyes and concentrates on the feeling she is having. Her eyes snap open and fall on his face, wind sucked out of her.
She feels stricken.
And he still cannot bring his gaze up to hers.
"Father," she says, voice trembling. "Have Jonas check Commander Lewell's heart."
Jonas steps forward, heeding her command without the King's prompting. She has a second of pride, that her men follow her word now. The Commander's face is impassive as the blond man approaches. Once Jonas takes his shoulder, the sword at Lewell's belt unsheathes, slicing through Jonas' center before he can stop it.
Jonas gasps and stumbles back, eyes wide and shocked as he collapses. Three nearby soldiers rush to grab Lewell back as the other man falls. Lewell tears away quicker than they can subdue him, and he grabs a musket from his belt and brings it to his temple before the others can even think to stop him. The thunder of the shot pierces the air, the smell of gunpowder sharp and pungent.
The whole episode takes mere seconds.
The crowd is silent, completely shocked at the events. Jonas gasps, a last clutch to life as he fumbles to grab the soldier who has reached his side. Their hands clutch, deep red painting their skin, before his eyes go blank. Emma can only hold her hands to her mouth, breaths staggering violently as she looks down at the two men she's known for years, both dead at her feet.
All at once, the council begins to erupt in shouts, tears, and retching before a flurry of activity.
She manages to look up, tearing her eyes from the carnage. Graham looks unsurprised, his brow twisted and mouth tight, completely frozen in his place on the line. He still cannot bring his chin up, cannot look at her. She sobs out, turning her face and finding her mother at the ready, bringing her into the fold of her arms.
After the sob emits, she feels cold. Numb. Her heart is absolutely broken.
The Commander's heart is not the only one missing.
Her mother is shaking, her tears thickening her breath. "Don't look," she says, brushing her hair with her hands. "Sweetheart, don't look."
"Get the princess out of here," her father commands once his voice returns.
Pino takes her shoulder, but she grasps her father's arm before she is pulled back. "We need to discuss what happened. In private," she says, lip trembling as she raises her chin.
Her father looks at her grimly before he nods once. "Jiminy, take command while we speak," he demands.
Jiminy is still staring at the bodies, mouth wide in shock. He finally turns and nods, collecting the crowd. The last thing she sees is Martin draping a cloak over Jonas' body, tears staining his cheeks.
She is sequestered to her father's library, but her parents abide her and follow quick behind. She is shaking like a leaf, but can't seem to feel it.
"Emma—"
"His heart was stolen. He wasn't acting as himself," she chokes out.
Her father and mother share a look of anguish before their heads hang. "The poor man," her mother whispers tearfully.
Emma swallows back bile, and she tremors again. "He isn't the only one," she announces.
Her father's eyes round, distress painted over his face. "How could you know all this, Emma?"
She presses her lips together and braces her hands on the desk. She still feels like she can't breathe.
"Emma, Emma, sweetheart," her mother says, taking her by the shoulders.
She feels her lip tremble, the grief and horror taking over the anger. "I can feel the missing pieces. At least six are missing their hearts."
"Six?" her father asks incredulously. "And yet they make it back? How is that possible?"
She feels sapped of her energy, swaying slightly. Her mother rubs her back, supporting her. "Sir Elon, Sir Hector, Sir Thom. Maester Nolan, Maester Farooq. And the Captain." She knows her voice trembles over them all, but she almost cannot believe as the final word slips out almost evenly. Her Huntsman, her Graham.
After all they worked for, all they've accomplished. Gone in an instant.
She presses her hand over their child, nausea swimming in her. "They are all missing their hearts," she says bitterly.
Her father looks grim, taking his seat. His jaw sets, and he slides his hands across the desk. "They took our most dedicated, but not all. It must be strategic. But to what end?" he asks, mostly to himself. "And why kill Jonas, have Commander Lewell kill himself?"
She blinks back her numbness. Yes, focus on the tragedy of these men losing their lives. Don't focus on him. She feels guilty that she could forget for a moment, how she lost two of her people, one of which who was just becoming a friend and ally.
"The Captain," she gasps as she realizes, and then her lashes flutter shut. "He is next in line."
"But she would have had that post under her thumb had Lewell lived," her father muses.
Sickness permeates her at the thought of the Usurper with any plan for her Graham, and her blood begins to stir in anger. "She wants him in particular for that position. I don't know why, but she must."
Her father nods grimly. "Perhaps we shouldn't give it to him."
She shakes her head and levels her gaze on him. "Then we give away our advantage. Maybe she has the rest …," she heaves a dry gag, unable to finish as the flash of Lewell's murder starts once more in her vision. She cannot risk Regina forcing his hand like she did the Commander's.
"Emma," her mother says softly, and grips her shoulders close.
She rests a fist over her mouth once more and swallows down a few gulps of air, steadying. Her vision is still blurred, but she is not without a plan. "No, we proceed with tradition. The Commander is dead, the Captain takes his position."
"Emma, this is not your decision," her father says firmly, but then softens. "But you are right. We should not risk these men. I will take it into consideration as the council deliberates."
She glances around them, noting the absence of mirrors. She knows the next step will be even harder, but she needs answers. "We should question the captain in here. Where there is no reflection," she says blankly.
Snow's jaw drops, shock coloring her. "How do you know …?" Snow asks.
Emma takes another deep breath and ignores the question. She knows from him exactly what the witch is capable of. "And we should delay the announcement," she continues, and rests her hand over her stomach.
Her father nods once, firmly. "Until this is figured out, I agree. The Captain and Sir Elon were part of the council, after all, and if they are now commanded by the Usurper we cannot trust them."
"We can trust them," she hisses out defensively, but then feels the blood drain from her face, exhaustion filling her. No, they really can't. With his heart in Regina's possession, she cannot trust him with the truth at this time.
"I know it is not their will, Emma, and that is not what your father is saying," Snow soothes.
"I don't want you here when we question any of the six, Emma," her father says firmly.
Her eyes snap up, and distress colors her vision. She wants to look upon his face, to read behind the façade he must wear. She wants to piece out what has happened through their connection that seems to fissure at the development. "It must look like everything is standard," she protests.
He nods. "Yes, Emma, and you were not such a part of these meetings as you are now. If everything is the same, then you are to remain in your rooms while I debrief these men."
She knows what he is saying makes sense, but she still feels utterly helpless at the words. She has fought so hard, and now when she and he both are at their most vulnerable, she is knocked down to her former position.
"Emma don't fight him now. We can confer later, go over what was said," her mother compromises.
The doors open, and Fern is there with Blue. The fairy gives a short dip, indicative of a bow. "Your Majesties, the council would like to know how to proceed."
Her parents share a look before her father nods. "Bring the Captain for a word. And please escort the princess to her rooms," he says in a commanding boom.
The woman nods and exits just as quickly, a trail of light floating behind her.
Emma ducks her head, aching from the frustration and fear and sadness, and it is then that she sees the blood at the hem of her white dress. It scatters in minimal drops, lightly sprayed across the edges of the silk and following into the pattern of the golden embroidery. She wonders at how the slaughter calls into these fragmented pieces, the faint echo belying the terror of the moment. She looks up, and Fern is studying her. She straightens her spine deliberately and nods once. "Let us be on our way," she says stiffly.
"Of course, Your Highness," she says in her bare wisp of a voice.
She takes Fern's offered arm, not quite trusting her own steps. Her mind is buzzing, a cacophony of white noise and static, and she wills her thoughts not to race.
As she exits into the hallway, she meets Graham's eye as he is lead to her parents. His blue eyes are almost completely grey, hollow yet haunted, a piece of him still screaming amongst the depths. But his gaze drops just as quickly, wholly ignoring her searching look, and he passes into the library without so much as an acknowledgement.
The tears climb in her throat, but she refuses to release them.
Charlotte is waiting near her cabinets once Fern delivers her to her chambers. She looks as pale as Emma feels, and she wastes no time in unfastening the buttons from the back of the stained gown.
Emma stands in the center of the room as the maids wordlessly busy themselves in getting rid of the evidence of the incident, pulling pins from her hair and removing stays and skirts, She can only stare, unfocused; she feels absolutely drained as the multitude of emotion has left her numb.
She is left for a moment with messy hair and in a nightgown the color of the lightest part of his eyes. It hangs loose, barely losing its drape over the curve of her stomach.
Their son has been quiet over the incident and only takes the time now to stir as she focuses on him again. He was supposed to know of him by now. Had all gone to plan, he would know, and they could journey together on this path.
His heart.
She remembers holding it out to him, and his utter disbelief at seeing it. She remembers the plain fear in him as she offered it, as if it would be snatched away just as quickly as it was returned. She remembers the tears scattered on his cheeks as her own heart raced once it had fit back into his chest, she remembers her worry.
She remembers the adoration and peace scattered across his features just as he cupped her face for their first real kiss.
Her knees give out and she collapses to the ground. She curls to her side, that hollow feeling she had found echoing in him now in her as well.
She moves a hand over her belly, carefully cradling their child.
Finally, finally she feels the tears spill down her face, just two drops from each eye before they run down in a steady stream. She mourns.
She feels it, somewhere out there. It is not clear like it had been the first time she'd noticed it separate from him, that immediate knowledge of where it was tucked away. It is shrouded by dark things, a thumbprint of evil crushing the signal to a faint beacon.
She pushes to her knees, and her gaze narrows as she stares out the window, to the lands, to where she is hiding out there somewhere.
She stops mourning. She begins to rage.
The witch won't live to regret what she's done. If her son is meant to be the omen of the Usurper's downfall, it will be because she forced his mother's hand.
Regina doesn't know what she's done in threatening her family.
Emma will fight. She will win.
She wills it so.