AN: Thank you again for reading and for sticking with this story. I hope you like this new update. As always let me know what you think. Love hearing from you - good or bad. :) XOXO, Jess
Fear and New Hope
It is late in the day when Robin finally rises, when his drug laden sleep lifts and allows him to move. Starts in his fingers, a little twitch, a bend or two of his knuckles. He arches his back, slowly tick, tick, ticking awake, body edging away from his induced coma and into the land of the living. Groaning, scrunched up face, blindly patting the furs and heavy blanket, searching and drawing nearer to his goal.
Until, aw, there she is, there is her warmth. He runs his palm over the back of her hand, gently traces flesh with flesh. He laces their fingers together and gives a small, short squeeze.
He blinks.
Vision hazy.
Cloudy.
Pained.
A harsh invasion of light.
And then it clears, and he hones in on her face, her eyes closed. No movement still, just the easy rise and fall of her chest, lips parted and moist, paleness gone, no ash remains, a shade of rose colors her cheeks. Alive and breathing, and that is where she will stay. He refuses any other option.
Reaching up, he brushes a wisp of hair off of her brow and lets the pad of his thumb track across her temple. Her skin is not as clammy as it was days before, and the circles under her eyes are not as deep. John told him what happened, said they were still searching for the person or persons responsible for poisoning them, attempting to cast a curse and wipe out their company, but it seems the fates have not favored their efforts.
He vaguely remembers being weak, dragging his legs back to their room after a warm meal so he and Roland could gather their things for a picnic with Regina. His lad skipped the bland looking porridge, opted for a bit of bread and jam instead, and for that he is an eternally grateful father, does not want to imagine his son experiencing the same agony he felt as a suffocating fog quickly built in his lungs.
Only moments after packing a few necessities, a thick, black tar oozed through his veins. He was overcome by a drowning sensation and collapsed, tried to grab onto the bed post for support, but it was no use. Soon he crashed hard on his knees, Roland screaming "Papa! Papa!" Tiny fists tugging at his sleeve. Panic filled him, made his eyes widen wildly. A thrumming, a ringing, a high-pitched siren call in his ear.
And then, he remembers only flashes. A soft tickle across his face as Regina's hair fell around him, nimble arms hoisting him up, a few wet drops splashing onto his cheeks.
Tears.
Not his.
They seeped into his skin, sent tingles rippling through him, and glacially warmth spread back into his limbs. Hands pressed firmly into his chest, whispers of assurance hot on his neck.
Come back to me. You can't go. You promised you wouldn't leave.
A sensation, sharp and searing, like a jolt of lightning coursed through his body. Its point of entry at his brow, where her trembling lips connected with his skin. And it was like he was a new babe, taking a harsh inhale of breath for the first time, opening his eyes to crispness and a spectacle of light - intense, confounding, a whirlpool of spots and color behind his eyelids.
She saved him from darkness, anchored him back to grass and dirt and air, burned up the black pitch trying greedily to replace his blood with a vile toxin. She found him wandering aimlessly through shadow, held onto his hand, pulled and made him to follow, and he stared at her, took in her ethereal form. She was breathtaking, stunning in every way - a fantasy, his savior, a lady in white sent to ground and tether him to a place where corporeal beings could not spirit through time and space without purpose.
She chased away Death's steel grip, and he awoke, her lips quaking on his brow, a wave of light and magic shaking him to the core.
When he really opened his eyes, finally took in the room around him, she was gone. The door slamming shut behind her hurried and awkward steps. John helped him stand on unsteady feet, and Roland hugged his knee. A few reassuring words to his boy, and he stumbled after her into the hall, used the stone wall as support, and trudged until his balance returned somewhat. By the time feeling and control set into his stride, he was pushing open the front castle doors to a sight that seized his heart and stole his breath yet again.
Regina.
A crumpled heap on the ground.
Regina.
Unconscious and unmoving like the dead.
Regina.
Body surrounded by an undulating, silvery light.
A buzzing thrum, thrum, thrumming in his ears.
Granny cradled Regina's head in her lap, swept sweat drenched strands of hair away from her gray, ashen face, and barked at him to help her carry the poor girl to their room. He bent and lifted her easily, Regina weighing nearly nothing in his arms. He carefully laid her down in their bed, and she looked dwarfed within their sheets, presence fading in and out, fragile and unlike the woman with a malevolent reputation, not as indestructible or immune to harm. She is just like the rest of them, skin and bones that can easily break.
He sat in vigil at her bedside for 48 hours, only moving to check on Roland or answer nature's call. Sleep did not come and rest would not sweep his eyes. Or at least it would not until Granny slipped powdered milk of the poppy into his tea, and he was forcefully knocked unconscious.
Stretching his neck, he pops his back, and drags one hand over his face, wiping drool from his mouth and crusty bits out of the corners of his eyes. How long has he been asleep? His head pounds, and he feels unnaturally sluggish like a Sasquatch.
Robin pushes away the last bit of haze and leans forward, about to card his hand through her hair, when a voice just behind him says, "You'll wake her if you keep fussing like that." It startles him, and he moves his head too quickly and groans as the pounding increases.
Granny. She stares at him, only a few feet away and to his left.
"Why do I have this headache?" He complains and follows her omitted request by reclining back into his chair. "I feel like tankards are clinking in my head."
The wolf smiles, a little unenthralled thing and in a tone that reminds him of being chastised by his mother, she commands, "Stop whining like a mule. You're still alive. I only drugged you. Now let her sleep, she needs to rest."
Robin's gaze travels from Granny to Regina and stays there, taking in every soft rise and fall of her chest, wondering, "When is she going to wake?"
Granny huffs, places her hand on his shoulder and states, "Dark magic isn't something to be trifled with, even for someone as powerful and as familiar with darkness as Regina. She'll wake when her body is good and ready." She pats him on the back, thinks of the small babe growing beneath layers of muscle and flesh inside the sleeping Queen, a child the Archer has yet to be told about and continues, "I'll watch her for a while, but you need to look in on your boy. He's asking to see her."
He nods, stretches his tense muscles again, and his body groans when he eases his way out of the chair. "I'll bring him here. I understand wanting to be near her." His gaze lingers on Regina and then he's moving toward the door.
Granny pauses him with her hand on his wrist. "She's the strongest person I know. Don't worry too much. We wouldn't want that pretty face of yours to be permanently set in a frown."
He grins and for a moment anxiousness and fear aren't the only emotions at the forefront of his mind.
When Regina flutters her eyes open and begins to stir, beams of sunshine flicker through mosaic windows as the sun slowly journeys across its set path. She groans as she tries to roll on her side - limbs achy and cramped from not moving for so long. She is a little bit dizzy, and hungry, and what she wouldn't give for a bath - to rid herself of the thin layer grim on her skin, to feel clean and more like the woman who prefers designer dresses, tailored trousers and lace lingerie to capes and smallclothes and corsets (even if they do make her breasts that much more voluptuous).
But clothes don't really matter anymore, do they? Not when dizziness is making her moan and grip tightly to the blanket keeping the chill away, not when her vertigo isn't cooperating. Not when she knows that her body complains for only one reason.
She feathers against it easily now, now that she knows it is there. No effort needed, just her palm on her flat but taut abdomen - a little pulse of energy within. Closing her eyes, she sighs with relief, and a sob escapes her throat.
Pregnant.
A baby.
She laughs quietly, and it's a beautiful sound, but then it changes, becomes broken and sad, because she is having a baby. A baby nestled safe inside her, inside a place that she previously cursed. A baby that shouldn't be possible. A baby with her soulmate, and her son - her little prince - still does not know who she is. He's in New York where she put him, memories wiped, new life given, his well-being entrusted to the care of Ms. Swan.
A baby. A baby is supposed to be joyous, a cause for celebration, but it's hard to stay happy and joyful for long, not with her Henry so far out of reach. Now when all she can think about at this moment is that she couldn't protect the ones that came before.
The one that made itself known just weeks after that night in her consummation bed, weeks after her coronation. She was pregnant just long enough for the bump to start showing, for her to feel first flutters, and then just as Daniel was ripped away from her, so was that new, tiny glimmer of hope. Symptoms for the next one didn't appear until a season came and went, and she tried very hard not to get attached, not to think about the future, because her life so far showed her that hers was only filled with death and destruction. So when she was crippled by an agonizing pain low in her belly just ten days after finding out she was pregnant yet again, she wasn't surprised at the loss.
Devastated. But not surprised.
One more after that, and that time she was surprised, because she'd been further along, further than both times before. Far enough that her dresses were taken out, that Leopold and Snow dotted and sent her gifts, really gifts for the baby, and she foolishly let herself think for just a moment that this might be it, this might be her happy ending. If she never loved again, if this baby was all that she had, she'd love it, and that would be enough for her.
But as is the story of her life, just as things seemed to be starting over, just as she starting hoping and planning, it all burned to the ground in seconds.
That third time was the last miscarriage, the last time she woke to blood pooling between her thighs, the last time her body rejected a chance at a happy ending. She scrolled through her mother's spell book, looking for anything to prevent her from ever having to experience the physical and emotional torture of her hostile womb.
She sniffles, keeps her eyes closed, and then feels the mattress shift behind her.
A warm hand comes to rest on hers, she angles her head toward the connection, and a smile breaks out on her face. His hand is pleasant and comforting against hers, reassuring and triumphant. An anchor, a testament to her finally achieving a victory.
She won.
She brought him back.
"Regina?" Robin says. His voice cracks, he clears his throat, and then her favorite dimple-cheeked toddler is jumping on her bed.
"Gina! Gina!" Roland shouts and just before he's about to pounce on her in his glee, his papa scoops him up.
"Ah, no, you don't, my boy," he grunts, lifting him away and propping him up on his arm. "No jumping on Regina. We must be gentle, remember?"
That choice of words catches her attention.
Does he know?
"She's still recovering from that nasty curse, and we wouldn't want to be too rough while she's getting better, now would we?"
Roland's eyes widen, he shakes his little head, his curls fanning out. "No, Papa. Gina has an owie."
"And what do we do with owies?" Robin asks, tapping his four-year-old on the nose.
The lad giggles and says, "We kiss and make them better."
"We kiss and make them better," Robin repeats, his gaze traveling back to Regina.
She smiles and says, "Hi." Voice a little bit hoarse; tears welling in her eyes. A warmth grows low in her belly, watching father and son interact, both of them grinning down at her, matching dimples at the corners of their mouths.
Relief floods her.
He's alive.
They're both alive, she reminds herself.
Everything is fine.
And then she feels that little pulse of energy again.
Yes, I know you're there, too.
Oh God.
She's pregnant. They're pregnant.
How is she going to tell him?
A heavy dread comes and goes, ebbs like a tide trying so desperately hard to drown her, but she will not let it, cannot let it, not now, not with this life growing inside her womb, not when there's still a chance she could lose it.
She tries not to think about that. Tries instead to focus on the good.
What would Henry say?
Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.
Skin stitching together, heart beating, ears and eyes forming, warm and glowing and innocent. Her grip tightens on the fabric of her dress, and she focuses on that pulse of energy she felt before. There's something new, something she has not had in a very long time. She feels it already, the baby's magic mingling with hers - white and pure and powerful and unfamiliar and all together lovely.
This time will be different.
Regina, Robin and Roland venture down to the Great Hall together for supper, when she finally has the strength to get out of bed. And the way people stare at them as they pass through the threshold jars her. She's used to people staring at her by now, of course, has spent decades with peasants cowering before her, knights sneering at her. She's seen pity, anger, disgust, shame, embarrassment, pain reflected back at her, but these stares are different, and they make her a little uneasy. Because in their eyes she sees… what?
Admiration? Gratitude? Kindness? Concern?
Things she's only ever received from a select few - from Snow on more occasions than she can count; from Robin since the night they met in the woods; from her son… The list is growing, she realizes.
Much and Little John walk over to them first.
"Your Majesty," Much begins, gives a little bow. She rolls her eyes at his gestures, and he smirks before "Glad to see you're feeling better."
John clears his throat and adds, "Thank you for what you did." He and Robin look at each other for a moment, and then he keeps going with "You've changed. You're not the monst- the woman I thought you were, and for as long as I breathe, I'm indebted to you for saving my friend."
"I really don't think that's nec-" She tries, but he cuts her off before she can finish her sentence.
"Robin and Roland are family. And you saved our littlest Merry Man from having to grow up without his papa. That deserves respect and gratitude."
This isn't the welcome she'd been expecting, and at a loss for words the only thing she can offer in return is a smile and a nod.
Much bellows a laugh, drawing the gaze of a few others who are enjoying rabbit stew, potatoes and carrots. "Well, mate, it seems we've done our job. Rendered the Queen speechless. I'd say that's probably a first."
Regina quirks a brow at the man she's come close to considering a friend or at the very least an alley over the last few months. And then her stomach grumbles, and it reminds her of why she left the comfort of her room in the first place. On instinct, she moves her palm to rest on her abdomen, and then notices Much squint at her in response. She quickly lets her hand fall to her side and ruffles Roland's mop of curls.
Robin thankfully didn't notice her small slip up.
She's quiet throughout dinner, picking slowly at her stew, giggling every so often when Roland makes a face at her or tells her about what she missed while she was asleep.
He tells her about playing in her garden with Tuck and Alan, tells her that the Merry Men aren't as good at hide-and-go-seek as she is. His tales make her smile, her eyes glisten, and Robin can't stop looking at her, taking her in throughout the course of their meal. She's introspective, and a line creases on her brow. He knows she's trying quite hard to school her features so her thoughts aren't given away, but he's been able to read her rather easily since they met. And something is definitely bothering her.
After supper, they play with Roland for a bit, read him a few bedtime stories until he's yawning in Regina's lap. Robin picks up his boy, and the three of them walk back to their room. He stops her just outside their door, Roland asleep on his shoulder.
"Regina, what is it?" He asks. Not able to go another minute without finding out what troubles her, what has her looking worried or anxious or maybe both. She fidgets with her hands and it makes him nervous.
She sighs, grins up at him, welling tears renewed, and cups his cheek.
Rubbing her thumb along the stubble on his jaw, she replies, "Let's put Roland to bed first," and he makes to protest, but she finishes with "Then we can go for a walk outside, and I promise I'll tell you what's going on."
Okay. Yes. He can agree to that.
A half-hour later, they're walking through the gardens, circling her apple tree, his arm around her, her head leaning against his shoulder.
"Normally I'm quite a patient man, but I have to say your silence is testing me, love."
A grin breaks out on her face, and she guides him over to the bench overlooking the valley below. They sit, and he pulls her closer to him, chasing away winter's chill.
"Are you alright? Doc said that there wasn't anything to worry about. Was he wrong?"
"No, I'm fine," she replies, placing her hand against his chest.
God. Why is this so hard? Why can't she just say it?
She chuckles and it's not exactly the response that Robin was anticipating. He frowns at her, and her expression softens. The smile on her face the most genuine he has seen since they baked in the kitchen with Roland almost a week ago.
Okay, now or never. She just needs to say it.
"I'm pregnant."
His heart stops for one beat then two. His eyes dart to her stomach, he reaches out, tentatively laces his fingers with hers, rubs his thumb over her knuckles, and then looks up at her.
His crystal blues meeting her rich browns. A smile tugging at his lips.
Oh.
Disclaimer: I do not own them.