Cafuné

- from Portuguese, the act of tenderly running your fingers through the hair of someone you love. Post 6.01.

.

Another day, another life
Passes by just like mine
It's not complicated

Another mind, another soul
Another body to grow old
It's not complicated

Do you ever wonder if the stars shine out for you?

.

It's the middle of autumn, when Roland inquires about it. It's the season of crispy leaves and rays of sunshine between the golden trees which surround the castle. It's the season of muddy puddles, of hot chocolate and pumpkins and, maybe, a light brush of his fingers on her cheek, when she watches the sunset and cries.

It's the middle of autumn, and they are in the library, skimming through old fairy tales and dusty scrolls. It's the middle of autumn, and Roland doesn't know that this was her son's favorite season.

"Majesty, what is that necklace?"

She turns her head at him, her lips parting slightly. Her hand reaches for the small medallion, opening it in front of the boy's curious eyes. Inside, there's a picture – seeing it sends a sharp pang of pain across her chest. Henry smiles, in the oval picture. "It's my son, sweetheart."
Roland nods knowingly, gravely. His tiny finger points towards the necklace. "And what are those?"

Regina looks at the right half of the medallion. "Well, you see," she says. "One day, it was just in this period of the year… he was starting school, and he wanted to cut his hair to look older," she smiles, remembers her little toddler insisting that Mom, I really need to cut it, really, can I, please?

She brushes her finger above the frame, where a small tuft of Henry's hair is nestled.

.

They're in Camelot, when another lock of hair goes to join Henry's. This time, it's late spring, there are lilacs and roses on the balcony, and Regina is helping Roland with his bath.

"Are you my mama now, R'gina?"

Her hands freeze still, her mouth parts in an unknown stupor. "Oh, sweetie…"

Roland is oblivious of her surprise, he keeps babbling happily. "Because, I asked Henry yesterday, and he told me he was okay with sharing, anyway he has two moms so he said I could have two moms too… then I've asked Princess Snow about the things a mama does and she told me all this list…" his nose scrunches up adorably, when he stops to think. "Yes, and she said things like… she tells you stories and protects you and hugs you when you're scared of the storm…"

Her eyes are watery, now.

Her fingers run across the untamable mop of curly hair, and she nods.

.

Summer is in its full splendor, when they come back. He caresses her back, in the tired, glowing aftermath of love – her hand brushing his cheek, her eyes won't leave his face, she has to make sure he's still here – that he didn't leave with the Fury, that he's alive and breathing and safe.

"Penny for your thoughts," he whispers. She shakes her head, tears begin to build their way into her eyes. He seems to understand, because he goes to kiss her hair, pressing his lips there as a confirmation – he's not going anywhere, he's there.

Later that night, she can't sleep.

Silent, like a bandit, she smiles in the dark, as little silvery scissors cut just the rim of his hair.

Later that day, she proudly shows him the fruits of her labor – standing beside the bed, he looks at her medallion that now holds the mingled hair of her men, and the almost-invisible baby hair of her niece – he grins, and closes it. "Look at who's the thief now," he says. She laughs, goes to kiss him, but he pushes her with one single move, both falling on the bed – oh she laughs, careless, happy.

.

And it's almost winter, almost.

Her soul is cold and half-empty. Her heart is red, her dark half is missing.

I want to start a new story.

That night, after bidding goodbye to Snow, she heads home. Cold fingers, cold hands, she finds relief in the bathtub, lavender and rose soap. She dries her hair, slowly, taking her time, counting every breath. It's long, now.

He used to love it.

He used to trail his fingers there, when he kissed her. To curl and uncurl it, lazily, lying in bed. To wash it – massaging her scalp, when they took a shower together. He was… he was enamored by her hair.

At his funeral, she has worn her hair up. Because now he's gone.

Obliterated.

The worst part is, she can still feel the ghost of his touch. Of his kisses, of his loving words.
She replaces the hairdryer down, and looks in the mirror. It's wonderful – all wavy and soft, bright, curled.

A drawer opens.

I want to start a new story.

Silver shadows fly, and cut, and change. Dark locks twirl, falling slowly, down. When she lifts her gaze again, she's changed. Renewed.

When she falls asleep that night – cold bed, cold sheets – there's a new strand in her medallion. Their hair intertwine, for a second – they shine of red and yellow. But her eyes are closed, and she doesn't see.