This chapter contains some frosty weather and some frosty manner, both of which Robin tries to mitigate but succeeds only partially. Well, see for yourselves. Again, thanks for your support!
Several miles passed in near silence. Robin made a few attempts at polite conversation, all of which were met with curt, dismissive answers by the Queen. Little though this surprised him, he would have preferred conversation all the same for multiple reasons.
Robin wasn't used to silent travel; journeys would be spent in lively conversation of at least companionable silence with his Merry Men. Now there was little distraction from the worries clouding his mind and heart. Was Roland alright? Was he being kept well? Was he scared? Would Robin really find him at the Dark Palace as he assumed he would? Would his and the Queen's joint effort be enough to bring the Witch down?
Lost in thought, he barely noticed the sky had turned a hostile, steely grey. Glancing to his side he saw the Queen had fallen behind. Perhaps she was tired. Someone like her would hardly be used to long, tiresome travel on foot. Robin refrained from sighing; he hadn't thought about this before. As much as he tried to stay fair, the idea of being delayed still irked him somewhat - the image of his son, alone and scared, continuously haunted him.
"Would you like to rest?" he asked, turning back.
She caught up before he finished the sentence and marched right past him without so much as a reply. Robin's eyes followed her. The hem of her skirt bore the marks of mud, and the dust of the road had settled on her boots. Darker than the gathering clouds in her elaborate gown, she moved with surprising energy and determination, taking long, brisk strides that bore a certain elegance as well. The woman was quite impressive.
Robin moved to draw level with her. For all she seemed to care, he could have stayed behind, for she never showed any intention of checking whether he was following at all. Not that he should care.
He had heard all they said about the Evil Queen since he had arrived in this land, of course. Even if just the half of it was true it was beyond atrocious. Somehow those stories drew an image of her larger than life, whereas he couldn't help but see an actual person walking beside him, kicking up the dust with a tenacity to match his own. True, he saw more pride behind her effort than the worry he was being fuelled by, but that changed nothing about the fact that she had guts. Even without magic she seemed to be more than a spoiled, capricious tyrant.
The scene at the library was nagging at his mind again. Why hadn't she just used her magic and killed him? Then she would be rid of him to prowl the Dark Castle to her will. He would not have made it so easy for her to eliminate him of course but still, she hadn't even seemed to seriously consider the option. Why? Was she not the infamous Evil Queen? Had she not brought death and suffering on dozens of people before the Curse and through it? Why not crush the odd outlaw when he crossed her path?
And then there was the camisole. Robin didn't understand himself why it had grown on hims so much, especially since Roland had never even touched it, but he just hadn't been able to part with it. The Queen's initial snappish reaction had been no shock to him but what had followed had left his mind blank. Not only had she delivered the garment but he had also felt quite certain he had caught the reflection of some curious emotion in her expression as she had handed it over. Yes, there had been something there - her eyes - though what it had been he couldn't say.
All in all, his new ally was a mystery to him, and he was intrigued against himself.
A rush of shiny droplets spattered the ground. A cool wind chimed in, throwing a spray of water in his face. The sting said it before his eyes caught it: they had a nasty night ahead of them. There was hardly a patch of sky that hadn't been obstructed by a flight of heavy clouds. The treetops swayed, leaves were torn from the branches and whipped away by the gale, and the dirt path soon became a muddy sluice.
Robin huddled under his cloak, pulling it tighter to him. A glance at the Queen revealed her struggling to keep her coat from being whipped away by the wind. Just as he moved to help her, she twisted out of his reach - whether on purpose or by accident he couldn't tell. Either way, she managed to bring the coat under control again, and without looking at him once, pushed forward against the oncoming storm.
The wet logs and branches provided for a sad sight of a fire: more smoke than heat rose from the pile of wood but they would have to make do with what they had. They'd been lucky to at least have come across the small cave to have a dry patch of ground to rest for the night. The Queen's fingers would twitch now and again at the pathetic sight of the smoke rings swirling around them, floating upwards, and eventually dissolving in the night air. When her eyes flashed at him and her mouth twitched, he braced himself for some sharp remark but none came. Nor did she proceed to outdo his attempt at a fire with a magical one of her own. She merely crouched and rubbed her hands over the weak flames.
Robin handed her a chunk of bread and a lump of cheese. "Not exactly a royal feast, Your Majesty, but supper all the same," he grinned to ease the mood. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, surveying him. At last, she took the food he was offering - and looked away without a single word of comment.
Quite irrationally, he felt a little hurt. Perhaps he shouldn't complain: worse things had happened to those in the Queen's disfavour.
"By all means correct me if I am wrong," Robin couldn't stop himself, "but I take it there will be no talking at the table?"
She graced him with a fleeting look and a slightest tilt of her head but no more; then she went back to her bread and cheese. Robin's dejection morphed into irritation. Had there ever been anyone more obstinate, more conceited, more frustrating? Challenging, intriguing, beautiful? Wait, where in the hells did that come from?
"When did the Witch take your son?"
The unexpected words made him snap back to reality. So she had spoken after all. It took him a while to absorb the message, while he busily worked at chasing away the unsettling impressions of a moment ago. She didn't meet his look as she waited for his answer.
"Two days ago."
"What were you still doing in Rumple's castle?"
Was that an accusation? It had been hard to stay. The truth was the only thing he had wanted had been to rush to Roland's rescue at once.
"Trying to find something to use against her more effectively," he answered and poked the fire with a stick, sending up another cloud of smoke and a handful of sparks.
"Found anything of note?" Her voice suggested no reproach, quite the contrary: it was quite neutral - too much so, in fact. But why?
"Not really, as you have probably gathered." He nibbled on his chunk of bread. "All notable magical items are gone, and the books I could make nothing of."
"They're beyond the level of anyone not sufficiently versed in magic," she nodded. "Nothing you as a non-practitioner could gather anything from."
"My turn to ask," he said matter-of-factly, when in fact he was conscious of a certain level of excitement at finally having her talking. Keeping it casual would hopefully keep her comfortable enough to continue. To his dismay, however, she had tensed already, stopped eating, and merely examined him closely. A sudden urge to swallow the words overcame him at that.
"Well?" she demanded with an eyebrow raised. That was good - curiosity was good, it wasn't animosity; maybe he hadn't antagonised her yet after all.
"I want my son back. What does the Witch have that you want?" The question had been nagging at him all day. "Not your palace. Not the kingdom. What?"
Did her eyes glaze over for a split second?
"Magic," she said with her chin up.
Why the defiant air?
"To what end?" he pressed on.
The Queen sat up straight, her presence coming to fill up the space in an instant. She gave him a long, hard, searching look that made Robin feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. If she was weighing her options as he assumed she must be, what were the options she was considering, and what would eventually spur her decision?
The Queen stood up, and he hardly needed any more to understand the conversation was over.
"Good night," she said with an air of uncompromising finality. Then she spread a blanket on the floor on the far side of the fire, and retired without further comment.
What the hell was wrong with him? What was he thinking, treading carefully all day to avoid conflict? He definitely wasn't intimidated by her, although she could certainly be intimidating. So the Queen kept him at a distance - why should that bother him at all?
But there was something there behind her simple 'magic' - her hesitation was proof enough of that. The more he had hoped she would tell, the more her resolve not to had seemed to grow, until eventually she had chosen not to reveal any more to him.
Why did he even care? He searched his mind warily until it returned a reasonable explanation. Probably because, once she possessed all that extra magic, she would be all the more dangerous. Yes, that had to be it. Robin settled on his own blanket and closed his eyes, leaving his contending gut feeling outside the door.
The morning brought more rain. The wind only added to their inconvenience, sending torrents of water against them in forceful blasts. Towards midday, the shower turned into a drizzle, which in turn was replaced by sleet. Cold watery flakes hit their clothes, skin and eyes with a sting, then dissolved leaving a wet trail behind. The wind crept under their skin, bearing with it the taste of ice.
Robin kept his head bowed against the hostile elements. So did the Queen - every now and then he chanced a look at her, and always found her keeping up with him but never looking his way. They had barely spoken a word since they set out, and with the steady onslaught of rain and snow and wind it was easier to keep it that way.
Then, about an hour into the icy rain, Robin finally seemed to have caught her at an unguarded moment. Clutching her coat with both hands, she tugged it upwards for protection from the cool droplets trickling down her neck. She shivered. Robin frowned. Even feathers could only repel so much, and the Queen's coat was dripping water - it couldn't be providing much protection at this point. Robin snatched one of the blankets from the satchel he was carrying. They'd miss it at night but with a proper fire, he would be fine without it.
The Queen winced as he made to throw the blanket over her shoulders. "What are you doing?"
"Your coat's all soaked," Robin managed, baffled by her reaction.
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you," she resisted, pulling away from him and backing away beyond his reach. Her eyes seemed to water and her wind-beaten cheeks and ears were raw red.
"Your Majesty," he insisted with restrained mildness, though impatience threatened to overtake him. Why was she being so impossibly difficult? It was just a blanket, and he was offering it in all good will within perfect reason. Did she not see that? "This is unwise, you'll get ill."
"How dare you patronise me," she huffed with her arms crossed. "I don't need your favours."
Was she so conceited that she felt it would be beneath her to accept even the least of help from an outlaw?
"I'm just being a decent human being here." The Queen scoffed at that. That did it for Robin - what was the woman thinking? "Your absurd pride will cost us precious time if you get yourself ill!" he exclaimed.
Her face darkened at his outrcy. "Put that thing away before it gets all soaked through," she snapped, "or else you'll just be a blanket short tonight - your choice." Turning away from him, she set off at a would-be-brisk pace, her boots squelching in the mud.
Robin stared after her for a moment. Had he not seen it with his own eyes he never would have believed a person could be so utterly impetuous. Then he stowed the blanket back away into the bag and followed, not bothering to catch up but staying a few steps behind her. When her foot slipped on a rivulet running along the path and the Queen landed in the soft brown slush, Robin didn't rush to her help.
"What is that?" she eyed him with suspicion and an alertness that puzzled him. One would say he was threatening her in some way.
"Tea, Your Majesty," he said, holding out a tin cup that oozed a funny, obnoxious odour. He could do it - he could keep a straight face. "For your cold."
"I do not have a cold." An almighty sneeze shook her. Her cheeks flushed and her lips tightened. She shot him a dangerous look that dared him to argue back.
Robin tried not to look amused. The woman was quite impossible. Still he said nothing but kept his arm outstretched, waiting. At long last, she accepted the steaming cup.
The Queen wrinkled her nose at the smell. Robin averted his face for a moment - he wouldn't laugh. She took a careful sip and her face contorted. The tea tasted as foul as it smelled, and Robin couldn't help his lips twitching at the sight of her. The Queen shot him an ugly glare but didn't comment. Bracing herself, she continued to sip the hot beverage. Robin watched her features rearrange into mild surprise and badly masked relief. She began to breathe more freely, and seemed to enjoy it. That was the perk of the concoction - it stunk and tasted nasty but its effect was immediate, almost miraculous.
"Thanks," she muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the mug.
"Excuse me, what was that again?" Robin asked with a smirk.
She pinned him with a direct, firm look. "Don't push it, thief." Her eyes were a rich brown and seemed to radiate some mystical power.
Robin cleared his throat. "Well, you're welcome, Your Majesty." He opted for a humorous undertone. "Wouldn't want you to be struck down by a common cold when we have the Witch to bring down." Would she play along?
"Have no fear, bandit. I'm not so easily defeated."
His eyes bore into hers in search for the answer to an unspoken question. Her face tensed.
"Perhaps you'd be even less so if your weren't so stubborn," Robin chanced mildly.
She jerked the cup from her lips at his words, sloshing the little remnants of tea over her boots.
"You overreach now," she hissed.
They stared at each other moment after moment, sparks flying from her eyes only to break on his steady, searching gaze. Sometimes, anger was no more than fear in hiding. What did the Queen fear? Perhaps in time he would understand. This woman was like an intricate puzzle that refused to give away the pieces, much less the key to the solution. Well, he had patience enough.
"Good night, Your Majesty," he said amicably and retired under a blanket. He heard her do the same shortly.
When her breathing grew calm and steady, Robin rose and spread his blanket over her own, then curled up close by the fire and went to sleep with a lingering grin on his face.
Regina wasn't asleep. She was lying huddled under the thin blanket, fighting each oncoming shudder, suppressing the odd threat of a sneeze, forcing her breathing into a peaceful pattern. Was he sleeping yet? No - that faint rustle had to be him fidgeting. For one foolish moment she wondered if he wasn't going to walk out on her. Then she felt the weight of something covering her and stiffened, ready to lash out. But nothing happened. A scrunch of boots and a shuffling sound later, everything grew quiet again.
Regina relished the warmth spreading over her under the double covers. Why did he do that? Out of all the bandits out there, had she actually stumbled upon a gallant one? Rubbish.
Was he freezing now, just like she had been before, or was the fire enough? Why did that even bother her?
She forced her mind back into concentration, her ears strained, listening for his breathing. Her original plan had been to seek a quiet place aside the camp but that would be foolish under the circumstances. If the thief was asleep though, and she remained quiet, this would do. Her fingers trailed down her gown and buried into the folds, wrapping around a square of folded paper. She stopped and listened. All seemed at peace. Good - she wouldn't be seen, and there would be no obnoxious questions.
Flickering shadows obscured parts of the carefully unfolded piece of paper. Not that she needed the light: she could see it - see him - with her eyes closed, every hour of the day. A lump grew in her throat, choking her, forcing her to gasp for breath. This wasn't new to her: seeing shadows, seeking solitude, feeding on memories. It was Neverland all over again, except worse, because this time it was forever.
The Henry in the picture she was clutching was smiling. They had both been happy on the day it had been taken. Was he happy now? Had it worked the way she had intended for it to? If so, he had no recollection of a mother other than Emma. From every memory they had shared, Regina would have been erased and replaced by Emma instead. Anything, as long as he was happy and loved. He had that. He had to. It was what she wanted for him, it was what she had given her happy ending away for more than anything else. If it had worked the way it was supposed to.
If it had worked the way it was supposed to, Regina would never see Henry again. She would never hug him, stroke him, or place a kiss on his forehead. She would never watch him with his face buried in a comic book, stuffing himself with his favourite pizza. He would never come groaning to ask for medicine for an upset tummy afterwards, and she would never give him a spoonful of gin on a cube of sugar to soothe his stomach, and sit by his bed while they waited for the nausea to go away. She would never hear him call her Mom again.
A dry sob escaped her. Everything hurt. But despite the lump in her throat, no tears would come. At this point, she caught herself wishing they would.