The Weeping and Expectations
A Black Hollow Deep Within the Boundaries of Sherwood Forest
Skeletal trees stretch up toward the mid afternoon sky. Their branches like fingers reaching for the last bit of sunshine as the sun slowly sets in the west. Far above the canopy of Sherwood Forest, miles and miles away from Robin and Regina, Snow and her Charming, and their company of men and dwarves, the sky is a pale gray, and a few clouds paint the thick, humid air. The wind howls and blows bitterly past dying trees, it dances with the leaves and rips them unwillingly from wooden limbs, forced to settle on the frigid, winter ground.
The witch, Mortianna, hunches over in the dirt, peels away bark from the side of a pine, and nabs beetles and larvae away from the timber. She escaped the pull of the first curse, hunkered away in her hovel, tucked in a corner of Sherwood known as the Weeping Woods – a dark and dank place, filled with unmentionables and unwanted, nameless and faceless creatures with teeth that drip with venom and eyes that feed on fear and doubt. The floor is damp and stagnant with the odor of decomposing flesh, flora and fauna.
Mortianna's hair is stringy and white like the dust of bones, hands weathered and leathery, eyes rimmed with red and pupils a beady obsidian. She creeps through shadow and shade, and creatures around her seem to cringe in fear beneath the translucent mist that covers the forest floor. On this quiet day, the animals still in silence. No being or insect dare shutter save for the carrion vultures who circle overhead, screaming for morsels. The flowers hide in their buds under topsoil, waiting for their day of freedom. A paranormal presence lurks like the hand of the devil, feeding off living organisms trying to cling to light.
Not far in the distance, a few twigs snap. Their sharp sound echoes throughout the destitute forest, and Mortianna whips her crooked neck around faster than one might think she's able for someone who looks so feeble and decrepit. It's been a long time since a man or woman other than her has disturbed this eerie part of the woods. Brittle leaves break under the pressure of footsteps and ragged breathing. Whatever or whoever it is, they slowly approach. She waits to see where the noises come from, holds her breath in anticipation, knows what foul things lurk in the shadows of trees much like herself.
No one is foolish enough to be caught out when the sun is at its weakest this close to the winding peaks and ogre territory, when light can't penetrate dark and keep evil at bay. She's lucky no one has ventured this way so far – left her alone to her predictions and visions and minor spells. She's not as powerful or wicked as others who cast this realm into darkness, but she can manipulate the elements, knows that sometimes a little spit and a little blood go a long way when one needs foresight.
Mortianna commences collecting her specimens and ingredients for another ghastly potion, when she hears the crack of a stick breaking for the second time yards away from her. She turns and glares, reaching into her basket for the crude dagger buried beneath fungi and slugs.
"Well, well, well. The prodigal son returns," she cackles, hoisting herself up off the ground, her bones creak and a shabby, midnight cloak falls around her.
A man steps determinedly out of shadow. It's been days since he snuck away from the company of the Evil Queen, Prince and Princess, days since he greedily fed his addiction with whiskey and ale, days since he slept on anything but dirt and rock, and he knows he's close to his destination.
The stench of boils and musk and death oppresses the air. The hill beneath him feels never-ending, but he knows this path well, has trudged over brooks and streams and fallen logs enough times as a child with his younger brother to navigate without really looking. They explored these forests foolishly unafraid of stories their mother grilled into them, hoping to convince them to stay on the main road and away from ancient ruins and things that go bump in the night. But, as boys tend to do, they ignored their mother's warnings and made the Weeping their kingdom.
He hasn't forgotten when gallivanting around in these woods turned into something more for him – a way to escape his father's unrelenting fists, to block out his mother's pleas and hot tears.
The back of his leg muscles burn and his breath wheezes out in harsh, painful jabs. Dirt and sweat mingle together on his brow each time he brushes his hand over his face to rid himself of salty proof that a life in Storybrooke has made him lazy. A layer of grim mars his strong features.
The man's feet feel the change first as the ground eases off and becomes level again. The forest is less dense on this side of the mountain, fragile and broken just the way he remembers it. Eventually, he and his little brother grew apart, separated by moral convictions, his hate for the station they were bound to, and his brother's want to serve their king. And they stopped coming to the Weeping together. He hadn't though.
He left their home behind in a fit of fury, when he was only twenty and one – his brother long gone by then fighting a war that wasn't theirs. He made for the hollow in the woods that would take him to the spot in the forest they laid claim to once upon a time. He kept venturing further and further in, deeper and deeper until he stumbled upon a dwelling at the base of a mountain with broken shutters, termite eaten shingles and brown shrubbery. It was a miserable sight and his curiosity seized him.
One of the stories his mother told him time and time again as a lad was about a hag who lived in these woods, who drank the blood of children and burnt offerings in pits of tar. But he never believed her tale to be anything more than worry and fear, based off superstition. He learned that day he'd been wrong. There was a witch that lived in the wood, and she was just as frightful and gruesome as his mother described. But the crone had also been his salvation.
Grunting under the heat of the afternoon, he pushes on and shivers as the mist around him now licks at his skin, tasting for light. He grins smugly, knowing the vapor won't find what it's looking for. He has no light to give, he's as dark as they come, tainted by greed and mal intent and years of letting anger fester. He shakes off the fog and returns his attention forward.
He hears his familiar crone before he sees her.
"Well, well, well. The prodigal son returns," Mortianna croaks. "Tell me, has it been thirty years already?"
"You were right, the Evil Queen was forced to bring us back. Although, I'm not sure what good your vision did since I wasn't forewarned on how god awful the Queen's curse would be in that paltry realm," the man bites bitterly. "Thirty plus years, I was nothing but a snivelling drunk, and she did that to me, and you allowed it. And, I still don't have what I wanted! That life was no better than the one I had here! What good is your magic if it can't guarantee me the outcome I seek?"
He stops a few feet in front of Mortianna, towers over her, but her posture grows taller and the insanity in her eyes makes him take one step back. She's just as terrifying as he remembers.
The witch sneers at him and wheels around, slowly hobbling down the other side of the hill.
"You know, when I found you stumbling outside my hovel, I said you didn't look much like your father," she retorts, gazing at him from head to toe. "You were such a lost, pathetic soul, drowning in self-pity and a ruin of your own making. But that was before you spent nights in a drunken stupor, before you joined Gisbourne and rallied an uprising to steal a title you thought you deserved, prior to your reunion with your duty bound brother."
A slight tremor begins in his hand, and he clenches his fist to make it stop. From experience, he knows the longer he goes without a drink, the worse his withdrawal will be.
"Now though, the resemblance is uncanny," Mortianna laughs shrilly, staring at his pasty complexion.
In anger, he stalks toward her, he is nothing like his bastard father, but with a cobra like agility she brings him to his knees with thoughts and force of will.
"Stop acting like a child," she snaps, releasing him. He coughs and bends over to catch his breath. "The fortress still stands and your men are waiting for you to return. In your absence, we rebuilt our ranks. The task made easier without our usual obstacles."
"You knew I'd be coming back," he chokes out savagely. "Why didn't you warn me of what I'd be facing? Why didn't you shield me from her curse the same way you did yourself?"
"You ungrateful wretch, do not blame me for your misgivings. I did warn you, but you couldn't resist your precious tankers of ale. It was you and you alone who got yourself imprisoned in her dungeons after acting like a fool. And in case you need reminding, I had no power in her kingdom, and my dreams don't work that way. I do not call the visions, they call to me. And to quote your brother," she spits, cursing his relation. "Timing is everything. You shall see what your absence has wrought. We're finally ready. Now, pick yourself back up, your men know you're coming, but there's something you should know."
"What is it?" he grips sourly.
She lowers her eyes and her lips set in a firm line. "Locksley is here. His encampment, like the Weeping, lay outside the boundaries of the Evil Queen's curse. He and his band of thieves and outlaws camp somewhere in the woods, but their position seems to be undetectable. Even to me. It's protected by something or someone."
"Locksley? I wondered why our paths never crossed in Storybrooke," he echoes, fury and rage slowly builds within him.
"I can see you need a moment. Try to be a little more quiet, will you," Mortianna chastises him. "I and every other creature within a miles radius could hear your putrid breathing and clumsy feet. You might stumble loudly through the Weeping now, but you'll regain your stealth soon enough. Welcome home, Nottingham."
Merry Men Camp
Every morning for the last three days, Robin and Roland waited for Regina outside her tent with a hot biscuit and a wooden cup filled with goat milk. The biscuit courtesy of the archer, and the milk courtesy of the sweet, dimpled toddler. They ate together, conversed awkwardly about life in the Enchanted Forest and life in Regina's Storybrooke. Roland was oblivious to the tension between his papa and the Queen. Robin smiled goofy at Regina, and she nervously rolled her eyes and smiled back. They took walks like Robin suggested, but he never pushed her out of her comfort zone, never asked for anything more than she was willing to give. He didn't touch her either, quickly discovered she needed to be the one to cross that particular boundary first. In the quiet solitude of her tent, tending to her injuries, or rousing her out of unconsciousness after Jakan's attack were the last times he felt his skin brush up against hers. He didn't want to make her uncomfortable, so he gave her space. But, a phantom burn on his lips lingered where he last touched her knuckles. He knew the gestured was risky, but he wanted to offer her comfort and a show of good faith. He was grateful she didn't singe his mouth off with magic right then and there, but he could tell, even if she couldn't admit it, she quite enjoyed their playful back and forth. And, he quite liked making her blush.
Day four isn't any different. They sit together on a log near the fire pit. Robin slyly steals glances her way, and shifts his gaze whenever he thinks she's looking. He helps Roland wipe crumbs off his face and ruffles his hair, and Regina laughs because she isn't blind. She knows what he's doing. For a thief, he's not very subtle, but she doesn't mind. It pleases her a little, flutters her stomach, and subtly flushes her cheeks. They take another walk, much like the first one after their friendship pact in the quiet of her tent.
She still tries to be careful, still tries to remain a little bit guarded, but this man and his little boy are equally persistent and frustrating in their pursuit of her friendship. So the first day she relented, the second she caved, the third she sighed and accepted their breakfast, and on the fourth she looked for them.
The wind picks up a little as they stroll through the forest, plenty of space between them. Roland scampers ahead, lost in his world of make-believe, invites them to join every so often. And, they do for a little while, it even pulls long forgotten laugher up and out of Regina. It's the first genuine show of joy Robin has heard come from her lips, and it warms him. They play, and they run, and they bask in the sun as it filters through ancient branches. The archer watches as Roland's childlike antics and adorable quirks chip away at Regina's walls, and he's ever so grateful for his little boy.
"Papa, catch me," Roland shouts, tripping over his boots as he skips about.
Roland loves any game that involves running and hiding, but his favorite is tag. He has always played, and played, and played until his little legs could run no more, and Robin was happily forced to carry him.
"Papa, you can't get me," Roland taunts, and, with a fatherly roar, Robin chases after him. His child shrieks jubilantly and dashes as fast as he can in and out of trees, running in circles as Robin lumbers behind him, exaggerating his steps. Regina keeps walking at a slow pace and laughs, a smile spreads across her face and to her eyes. But, she doesn't join, content to let the two children entertain themselves. That is, until Roland scurries over to her and hides in the folds of her cloak.
"Gina, don't let Papa get me," he giggles, clinging to her leg.
Robin isn't expecting it when she uncovers his tiny tot and lifts him into the air. Roland cheerfully screams, and he flies up and away from her grasp for just a second, air fluffs his curls out, and when he comes back down again, she twirls them around, they laugh and laugh, and Regina rubs her nose against his, and it triggers something in her. Robin registers the shift in her expression as her body freezes and stiffens; she sets Roland on the ground and takes a step back.
Robin frowns, and he tenses, edging toward Regina and his son. He's overly aware of the startled and shattered look on the Queen's face as she places one hand on her stomach and the other over her mouth. He knows he shouldn't, but he rests his hand on her arm to try to get her to look at him, but Regina reels backward at the burn of his touch, shutting her eyes and breathing deeply.
Confused, Roland inches closer and tries to grab her hand. Gina's face is wet and her eyes are crying, and he wants to help the way his papa comforts him when he's scared or sad. A hug or a kiss on his boo boos always cheers him up. But Regina doesn't have a scuffed knee that needs kissing or a nightmare that needs soothing; her pain is of the heart. Poor, little Roland can't possibly know or understand that in a fleeting moment guilt crashed down on Regina for enjoying time with a child that isn't her own. She reacts instinctively and raises her voice when she feels his hand tug on the bottom of her tunic.
Her words damage instantly, and Roland's devastated eyes mimic hers; it pulls a strangled sob from her throat, because the last thing she wants to do is hurt him. Regina watches as Robin picks his son up and wipes his thumb over the toddlers trembling lip. Disappointment flashes in his eyes when he looks at her, and she slips back into old habits in order to protect herself.
"What did you expect from the Evil Queen?" she snarls, and his brow furrows.
"Nothing," Robin calmly states. "But, I expect more from Regina."
"Yes, because you've known me long enough to have expectations already," she throws back at him sarcastically.
"Decency and kindness, at the very least toward children, shouldn't be expected, M'lady," Robin patiently replies. "They should be freely given."
They both walk off in opposite directions after that. Robin carries his upset son back to camp. Regina carries another regret further into the woods. She wanders for a while, until she breaks through a denser part of the forest and into a meadow. She takes a few more burdened steps into the clearing and ungracefully falls in a patch of field. Late autumn flowers bloom and dormant lemongrass sway in the light breeze, teasing wisps of her hair. Her cloak splays out around her, and she curls her legs closer to her body. Regina starts to shake, softly at first, until the reason she ruined her perfect afternoon with Robin and Roland assaults her violently.
Playing with Roland didn't dump nostalgia over her head like a bucket of ice water, but the feel of his nose against hers did.
Before she adopted Henry, she favored the aroma of crisp, red apples and cinnamon. After she held him for the first time, she fell in love with his fresh newborn smell and downy hair. She remembers the way he felt in her arms – precious baby fat and adorable stubby fingers – remembers playing tag with Henry in their backyard, remembers collapsing on the ground in a fit of giggles and full-bodied laughter, peppering kisses all over his five-year-old face as he gleefully squealed. And although Roland doesn't smell or look or sound like Henry, he's close enough in age to her most cherished moments with her little prince. The dimpled toddler's rosy cheeks and the tip of his nose brushing against hers brought memories crashing back.
She wishes she could hold her son, wants to hold him, needs to hold him, but she can't and her empty arms ache. Moments ago, she was perfectly content and forgot for just one second that beasts, monsters, and villains don't get happy endings. And, she is a monster, believes she's a monster. She wasn't always. Regina knows that. But years of laying waste to entire villages, murdering countless victims, pursuing revenge and clinging to anger tainted the broken remains of her heart. Plenty repeatedly tell her she's incapable of change, no matter how many times they've given her the chance. She can pretend all she wants, but they know how she is, and who she will always be. And as much as she wants to believe she isn't a villain, when people tell you enough times that you're not good enough, soon you start to listen to them. Besides, how else can she rationalize the loss of her fiancé, a loveless arranged marriage, years of solitude, and her ability to make even pure, innocent Roland cry?
Regina shudders and rolls over to push herself off the ground, her silky hair cascades around her face, and a lone dark, violet flower with black pollen catches her eye and pauses her movements. Reaching out, she delicately breaks its stem between two of her fingers and sits up, tears welling in her eyes.
Could it really be that simple?
Regina twirls the tiny stem and thumbs the velvety petals, shimmering dust stains her fingertips, and salty drops trail down her cheeks and off her chin. She breathes out a sound somewhere between a cry and a sigh of relief. She can finally make the pain and hurting stop. She only needs a few more ingredients, and Regina knows exactly where to find them.
Day six of Regina and her company living among his men comes and goes before Robin sees her again on the seventh day. She steps coldly between his Merry Men and her people. No one approaches her, and she makes no move to speak or mingle with them, taking meals in her tent and disappearing into the woods from dusk till dawn. Proud and stubborn and head held high, Regina ignores everyone, even Roland, steering clear of his view and changing the course of her steps whenever she spots him. And Robin lets her, doesn't want her around his impressionable son until she cools off and understands that she can't lash out at people and let her emotions control her behavior. He, more than anyone, understands grief and deeply rooted turmoil, and he wants her to feel, encourages her to be angry and temperamental, because he knows that the only way she'll ever heal is let sorrow lick her wounds until they seal closed. But, he won't allow Roland to be hurt in the process.
Robin bends down and hoists his leather quiver over his shoulder. When his back straightens, Snow stands next to him and voices concern.
"I thought she was doing better, but she's distancing herself from us," Snow pauses. "I hate watching her torture herself."
"I'm curious. Why would you come to me with this knowledge instead of talking to her yourself, Princess?" Robin mutters, and she furrows her brow. "Surely there's someone closer to her that you trust more."
"I've seen the way you are with her," Snow postulates, shaking her head. "The way you steal glances in her direction when you think she's not looking, and she is, by the way, looking. I may not know exactly what Regina's thinking most of the time, but I do understand her enough to know that she doesn't open up easily to strangers, but for some reason, she's open with you. Now, it doesn't matter what I say or do, I haven't been able to convince her that everything is going to work out."
"Did you use those words precisely?" Robin questions, having stayed quiet throughout most of her monologue.
"Not precisely, but, yes. I told her everything would work out the way it's suppose to," Snow huffs.
"For someone who claims to understand Regina, I'm shocked you didn't think about the affect of your words," Robin grins sadly. He knows Snow means well. "If she never sees her son again, what will you say? If she's forced to live a life without him, will you tell her then that everything works out the way it's suppose to?"
Snow grimaces and opens her mouth to speak but no words come. Allan A Dale bumps into Robin as he throws more firewood next to the pit.
"If she hadn't tried to kill us so many times, I might be worried about her," Allan bites, sarcastically, wiping sweat off his forehead. "Maybe we should spend less time thinking about whether or not the Queen issad and more about whether or not she plots to kill us for Jakan's attempt at kidnapping her. It's bad enough she helps with supper and prepares our meals, but now it seems our leader is wrapped around her little finger. Open your eyes, Robin. She's a monster. Put her in different clothes, leave the evil off her name, but it's no different than calling a mule a stallion. Just because you believe something, don't make it true."
The man's words are cruel, and the slip of his tongue is unfortunate given that Regina chooses that very moment to clear her throat and alert them to her close proximity behind the three of them. They all turn around. Matching pity gleams in Robin and Snow's expressions. Alan's eyes widen, and he swallows rising bile in his throat.
"Not so brave with the Evil Queen standing in front of you now, are you?" Regina laughs darkly and sneers, her words drip with venom, but Robin recognizes a glint of hurt in her deep, brown eyes as she turns her attention to Snow. "Your hopeless husband is looking for you," Regina snaps, pushing past her.
She pauses in her steps for a moment and spins around, her cloak flies with her movement and procures a fireball in the palm of her hand and throws it inches from Allen's feet. He yelps, frantically snuffing an ember out that catches on his pant leg.
"And the next time you decide to speak poorly against your monarch," she directs her chilling stare at him. "I'll remind you of what the Evil Queen is really capable."
Robin calls her name and grabs her wrist to stop her, but her steely eyes and rigid posture paralyze him. It seems he forgets his own rule not to touch her.
"It was foolish of me to let you think you were more than just another sniveling street rat in my eyes, but let me be perfectly clear, thief. It's not Regina, it's your Majesty. Do not forget that," she sharply delivers and begins to walk away.
"So that's how it's going to be," Robin mumbles, grabbing his bow from where it leans against a tree.
"That's how it's going to be," she echoes, forces her way through the space between him and Snow. Regina stalks off in the direction of her tent.
That woman is insufferable, Robin groans.
"I told you the Queen is trouble, Robin," John joins his friend and glares at Allan. "I know you like to see the good in everyone, but that woman –"
"Need I remind you both again that, that woman saved my son's life," Robin interrupts. "And, if you hadn't notice, this great and terrible Evil Queen you keep talking about, you know, the one who has magic, she has yet to use it on any of us."
"Oye, I disagree, what about what she just did to my leg?! She could've burned me," Allan passionately argues.
"Oh, bugger off, Alan. You know full well, if she wanted to really inflict pain, you'd be in a heap on the floor right now," Robin counters. "We've heard stories of her power and lethalness, but we haven't seen it, even though we all know she's entirely capable. That tells me something completely different than the horrible portrait you both paint."
Robin leaves his men to ponder his words and retreats into the comfort of his forest. He needs to think about what to do next, and hunting has always brought respite and quiet to loud thoughts and jumbled emotions.
"He's right, you know. Regina isn't the Evil Queen anymore," Snow points out. "Not the one you remember, anyway. She's trying to change, and I have to believe it'll stick this time. My only hope is that you let her. She's been through so much. We all have."
Snow goes in search of her Charming, and Allan and John both look at each other with a tiny bit of guilt and trepidation in their eyes. Allan inspects the singe marks on his trousers and mumbles about another hole in a pair of perfectly good pants, and John barks that it's his own fault. Maybe next time he won't stick his hand into the pit of a viper and expect to not be bitten. He's lucky the damage isn't worse and that the Queen isn't how they remember her from their years spent evading her Black Knights.
By the time Robin makes his way back into camp, it's dark and well past the evening meal, tales around a warm fire, and songs played with wooden flutes. He returns empty handed after hours of preying upon a lone buck. The normal solace he sought eluded him, replaced by thoughts of Regina, and all the right words he wanted to say, even though only the wrong ones seemed to sit on the tip of his tongue. Two lookouts, Much and Tuck perch in trees on either side of camp, keeping guard as a fog rolls in and blankets the forest floor. He gestures toward both of them, and they turn their attention back out into the expanse of night.
Robin retires and falls into a restless sleep, pulling his son closer to him. Not even an hour passes before Much pops his head into his tent and hoarsely whispers for Robin to wake up.
"Robin, psst," Much calls, "Hey, boss." He picks up a pebble from the ground and tosses it at Robin's face. It lands on his forehead and bounces off and onto the floor from once it came.
Robin jolts up and grabs a dagger from under his bedroll before realizing there's no danger, and it's just his friend.
"What is it, Much?" he stifles a yawn.
"Tuck saw the Evil …" the blonde Merry Man begins. "He saw the Queen sneak out of her tent. She's gone, Robin."
That revelation removes any sleep from Robin's eyes. "When?" he demands.
"Not but a few ticks ago," Much states. "She walked north, away from camp. And, Robin … she was using magic."
Robin looks at Roland asleep in their bed.
"Don't worry, I got him. You go find the Queen," Much moves further into the tent. "I woke John. He's on watch with Tuck."
"Thank you, Much," Robin sighs and scratches his head.
"I get it, you know. Aside from the Queen being a real looker," Much winks, and Robin glares at him through the dark. "I can see that you care about her. And far be it from any of us to tell you what you should or shouldn't do, Robin. We all know you have a bleeding heart and are an incredibly stubborn arse when you set your mind on something. Shit, these people have only been with us for a little over a week, and you're already fiercely defending and protecting her from herself."
"Much, it's not –"
"Let me finish. You and I, we've been through a lot. It was just you, me and John in the beginning. Three young lads looking to find our place in the world. We've been through war, and treason, and hell together. We stood helpless as our village burned, fought against tyrants and betrayal, and vowed to never let royals take our freedom again. And, in all the time I've known you, not once has the disappearance of a stranger pulled you so quickly from your bed."
Robin tries to protest, but Much doesn't let him speak.
"No, don't get me wrong. We might not be able to see in her what you see yet, but I know you. I was there when you loved and lost Marian to death. I was there when you couldn't save your brother. I was there when you learned the fate of your bastard, drunk of a father. You can't hide anything from me, mate. You've always found a way to find the best parts of people and pull that to the surface. Now, I heard Allan and John talking with Snow White about the Queen. We're just being cautious because of what we know about her. But, I'll be the first to admit, we've misjudged her. I won't be the one to go out and look for her, mind you. I'd be the wrong person for that particular task. But, you? I can't think of anyone more sharp tongued or quick witted who can match the Queen blow for blow than you, Robin of Locksley."
"Alright, alright," Robin raises his hands and pulls on his tunic. "Enough before you inflate my ego anymore than it already is. Watch, Roland."
Robin grips the tent flap, ready to duck out in search of Regina, but stops just before he leaves.
"And, Much," he says quietly. "Thank you."
"Don't speak of it," Much insists. "Seriously, don't speak of it. Little John and Tuck already think I'm going soft. Now, go find her. You need to prove to us that you haven't lost your touch tracking things through the woods. Tonight's the second time you've returned without your kill."
Much taunts his friend with his raised eyebrows and smirks at his own jest. Robin glares at him again, but he doesn't need anymore encouragement than that and chases after Regina through the dead of night.
After her outburst at Roland and discovery in the meadow, Regina spent a day and a half artfully avoiding everyone in camp, which wasn't that hard to do. She woke before them and went to sleep after them. And while they stayed close to their tents, discussing when they were going to push their company on and continue their long journey to the castle, she slipped unseen into the forest to preserve a dying flower in a conjured glass jar. She hid it in the cavity of a fallen log, and then spent hours collecting and summoning remaining ingredients with the graceful flick of her wrist. She used the hard surfaces of two rocks to grind the flower's petals into a paste. She mixed the black pollen with dew drops from early morning and crushed up the wings of twin butterflies. Regina poofed a glass beaker into her hand and meticulously combined all her ingredients. With the whispering of a spell she memorized long ago for her pale-faced stepdaughter, the contents flashed blue and then purple before settling clear. All she had to do was let it mature and warm under the rays of one sun's passing, and then she'd finally be able to end her suffering. So, she nestled it in between two ferns near the base of a mighty oak and marked the spot with a finding spell, and planned to come back tomorrow.
Well, now is tomorrow, and her potion is ready, all she has to do is drink. She chose this spot in the woods for no other reason than it being away from the others. Away from Snow and David. Away from Granny and Leroy. Away from dwarves and Merry Men, and Robin and Roland. Away from questions, and pity, and judgement. She just wants to be alone like she's always been. She didn't have the proper tools or space or time to create this sleeping curse. She cheated by using magical shortcuts, and she isn't sure exactly how she'll react to it, only that the liquid will be rough, and, most likely, scourge as it slips past her lips and down her throat, but it'll still serve its purpose.
Taking a deep breath, Regina thinks of Henry and home and dimples and the pain she caused and the regret she feels, and it's too much. She lifts the small jar to her lips, and liquid is just about to tip over the rim and into her mouth when it's ripped from her fingers.
"What are you doing?" Robin bellows, holding the vial outside her reach.
"That's none of you business, thief," Regina stands up and forcefully pushes him back, her tiny fists beat against his chest.
"So, we're back to that are we? I chastise you and challenge you not to lash out at my son, and we're back to name calling, Regina."
"It's your majesty, thief."
"No, it's not, Regina. It hasn't been since we met almost eight days ago. Now, I'll repeat myself. What are you doing?"
She hits him again, tries to grab her sleeping curse, when he blocks her with his arm. The scowl on her face is deep and ugly, but oddly beautiful to him at the same time. She is wild and untamed and gorgeous in her fury.
"God, why can't you just leave me alone?" Regina complains, walking three steps away before facing him again.
"Because it seems you're relentlessly pursuing a means to an end. Now, I don't know what foul potion you've concocted, but I can't in good conscious let you drink this."
"You're like a thorn in my side that I can't wait to be rid of," she exasperates. "God, why can't you just leave me alone?!"
"You know why."
"Yes, your care and your friendship. Well, surprise surprise, Robin, I don't want anything from you."
"But you shall have it anyway."
"Give me back the vial before I make you," Regina demands. It shouldn't astonish her that he refuses. He's done nothing but road block her attempts to ease her suffering since they met.
"No, if you planned to do that, you would've already."
She shakes her head adamantly, "You don't know what I will or won't do."
"I believe I do. Otherwise, you'd already be holding this vial," he states.
"Robin, please. Just let me do this," she begs.
"Apologies, M'lady, but I cannot." Robin turns his face to the ground, Regina rushes at him again, but it's already too late. He pours the contents out into the grass.
"Do you know what you've just done?" she screams furiously. "The ingredients to that are hard enough to come by. I was lucky to have even found that blasted flower in the first place."
"Then I'm glad to hear your chances of finding it again are slim. Winter is coming and not much blooms in the woods of Sherwood once snow starts to settle. And, I don't think you truly intended to drink it anyway."
"And what makes you so sure of that?"
"Because you have magic, and you and I both know, you could've taken it from me the moment I pried it from your fingers."
"Can't you understand that I don't want to feel like this anymore?"
"Of course, I can, but feel it you must. You can't keep running from this, Regina. You can't push people away and lash out when all they want to do is help you."
"Why?! Don't you think I know the way you look at me? Like I'm some broken animal. I don't want your pity, and I don't need it. Not from Snow, and most certainly not from you. Neither of you two idiots are helping."
"Because you won't let us! You're too stubborn to realize that the reason we're even trying to help in the first place is because there are people here who need you."
"Exactly, you need me. Help us, Regina. Save us, Regina. Forget about Henry, Regina. I'm the one who has to do the dirty work, make the hard choices for others so they don't have to carry the guilt of their decisions around with them. I get to carry it for them instead. I did that in Neverland, and I did that in Storybrooke, and I did that in the Enchanted Forest before I cast the curse, before people started calling me the Evil Queen. So don't tell me you want to help, because I know you just don't want to lose your magical weapon."
"You're wrong, and you're blind if you can't see the truth. We don't need you because of your magic or because of the decisions that need to be made. I can assure you, I've taken responsibility for my fair share of hard choices. I don't need a scapegoat for that, not when I carry consequences, and burdens, and the lives of my men in my soul everyday. I need you to not be stubborn and selfish, because I care about what happens to you. You foolish woman. Now, you're hurting and angry, I understand that better than anyone, but I will not let you bury your feelings any longer. I don't care how long it takes, but you will get it all out into the open right this instant. I gave you space, because I thought that's what you needed, and I wanted to be respectful. But clearly that's not working, and you need help."
"I don't need your help!" she counters, shouting at him. "I don't need help from anyone. I've taken care of myself for a really long time, and I won't take advice from a man who sleeps in the dirt by choice."
"You're cracking, your majesty. I think you need help now more than ever. Your anger is getting the best of you, and you're hurting people," Robin growls, waving the empty vial in her face.
"Maybe I want to hold onto my anger, because it's the only thing I have left!"
"NO, it's not. You're just too obstinate to see what's right in front of you," Robin sighs and lets go of his temper. "You can't just hold onto anger, Regina. You have a second chance to start over, but you can't do that if you don't allow yourself to feel grief and anger, frustration and sorrow. You have to feel everything, because eventually they'll give way to better things. If you don't, if you hold it all in, if you hide behind your walls and seal off your heart, it'll be your ruin. When my wife died, I was so lost, but the moment I held Roland and realized that this tiny, pink, little lad needed me, I was overwhelmed with love for him. My grief, though unbearable, grounded me, and it made me appreciate all the more what I held in my arms. Yes, sometimes when Roland learns something new, or stares at something in wonder like it's the best thing in the entire world, my heart aches for Marian. But the pain is only a faint echo of what it use to be. The pain, you have to let yourself feel it so that one day you're able to finally let it go. And trust me, when that day comes, when grief can't wedge its way into a crevice in your heart, the only thing you'll have room for after that is healing, and happiness, and love."
"Love," she scoffs. "Henry was the only love I had in my life, and now he's gone. I can't do this. I've tried, but everything reminds me of my son, and it's agony being here without him, knowing that I'll never see him again. And, Roland. You saw what happens when people get close to me. I hurt them, Robin. That's what I'm best at. How can you possibly still want me around your son? It's better that I never love again, and that no one ever loves me."
What little control she has over her emotions is gone now, fleeing with the last drop of her sleeping curse that seeps into the ground beneath their feet. Tears stream down her face uncontrollably and her hands shake. She is ever so close to breaking, and he knows she needs that release.
"Whether you like it or not, M'lady, it's already too late for that," Robin sighs and carefully chooses his next words. "My son is taken with you. He asks for you, doesn't even remember your anger or the look on your face when he pulled at your clothes. A child's memory is wonderful that way. Everything is black and white. There's no gray area. And even though his feelings may have been hurt for a moment, all he knows now is that for four days, we broke bread together and then played in his home. That's what this forest is, his home. You've found a friend in him, whether you wanted one or not is of no consequence now, because you have one. And, Regina, Roland is just as stubborn, if not more so, as I am."
He has her with that last bit, and her tears turn into sobs, because she really does like Roland, and it really did break her heart when she hurt him. And, on top of that, she cries because a small part of her wants Robin to just fuck off and finally leave her alone, while an even bigger part desperately wants to let him in. The thing is, she doesn't know how. Anger, and walls, and barriers, and revenge are all she's had for a very long time, and the idea of letting anything else in is terrifying.
Shaking, Regina wavers on her feet, and this time when Robin grabs her arms to steady her, she doesn't pull back. Instead, she lets him lead her to a tree, lets him lower both of them to the ground and pull her into his arms, tucked between his legs as he leans his back into bark for support.
If it's possible, she cries even harder when he whispers in her ear, tell me about your son. His soothing, and soft words, and tight embrace don't relent as she starts from the beginning. From adoption to one week ago, Robin listens intently to every story, every memory. He laughs with her when appropriate, and he pulls her tighter into his arms when necessary. His eyes glisten when he thinks about what he'd do in Regina's place, and he calms her with a few words here and there, but mostly he listens. He does for her what his Merry Men did for him after the death of his wife. He lets her talk, and cry, and rant, and retell every last story she needs to tell until her voice stops hitching in her throat, her hiccups cease, and her breathing evens out.
Robin's chin rests on the top of her head. He strokes his fingers through her hair, and she buries her face further into his chest. He can smell the scent of lavender again with her so close to him, and he realizes just how much he missed it. This is the closest they've been since he rubbed salve into the gash on her arm, and it's more intimate than any kiss or lover's caress he's ever felt.
He's known this woman a week, and he knows that no matter what happens, his life shall never be the same. He will fill whatever role she lets him. He breathes in the scent of her hair, and when he finally speaks his speech is gruff and husky.
"I'll help you. Regina, I swear to you, I will help you find a way back to Henry."
"You can't possibly promise that," her voice cracks.
"No, but I most certainly can try. You're not ready to have hope yet, so let me hope for you. I don't know how, but I truly believe you'll be reunited with your son again."
He holds her as her cries renew, and rocks her in his arms, rubbing her back reassuringly. From experience, he knows her grief won't just disappear after tonight, but her tears, violent outpour of emotion, and relinquishing control are healing steps.
An hour passes with them still wrapped up in each other's embrace before Regina succumbs to exhaustion and falls asleep. Robin gently carries her to her tent and lays her on her bedroll. He stares at her puffy eyes and red cheeks, moves a strand of hair away from her face with the calloused pads of his fingers, and prays she sleep through the rest of the night. He knows she needs it. The road to healing is long and hard, but he vows to be there for her in whatever capacity she lets him and in all the ways he knows she truly needs.
He moves to leave her, but she grabs his hand and stills him.
"Robin," Regina breathes, emotionally drained. "Thank you. It's been a very long time since anyone has fought for me or wanted to be ... my friend."
"It's my pleasure, Regina. Now sleep," he soothes, giving her hand a squeeze. "Tomorrow is a new day, and there's a dimpled child who'd like nothing more than to sit with you during breakfast."
Of course, it's not all sugar coated mornings and amicable exchanges after that. She still snaps, and sasses, and snarks, but none of it lasts long, and none of it has the same sharpness as before. Robin's toothy grins, a bite on his bottom lip when he amuses himself, equally witty and sarcastic comments disarm Regina. She slowly opens herself up a little more with each gentle nudge and genuine intrigue, and finds it's no longer just him stealing glances when he thinks she isn't looking. Her eyes are drawn to him just as much, like a moth to a flame.
We knew Regina needed a push to heal and grow and accept her good and bad pieces. She needed to be at her lowest before she would finally allow herself to "really" let Robin and Roland into her life. And, now that the emotional flood gates have finally been opened, let the fluffiness begin!
Disclaimer: not mine