It happened suddenly, burning through the castle with murderous intent, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake. They'd become weak, decades spent in a world with clean, running water and antibiotics softening their immune systems and leaving them susceptible to infection; their bodies open and ready for illness to take hold, with no means to keep it at bay.
It started with a slight cough, just a tickle in the back of a throat that slowly seeped into the chest, clogging airways with fluid and grime before morphing into a fever so high it left the skin crackled and dry. The dull ache of illness seeping into bones and weakening muscle, sapping every bit of strength as it progressed, leaving half of the castle bedridden and desperate for care by the time it was finished. Most of them were able to battle it off, to live on thin broth and purified water, herbal teas and poultices reeking of earth and sulfur slathered across their chests; but some were not so lucky.
The old and the young suffered the worst, their losses the most bittersweet and painful of all. They did what they had to do; they buried their dead, they mourned for their lost loves, parents and grandparents, lovers and children, and they tried to move on, to help those who were still in danger. To save those who were still living, instead of dwelling on those already dead.
But some losses were too hard to bear.
She knew better. She should have known better. Her love was a poison, marking anyone she dared to love, anyone foolish enough to love her in return, for torture and anguish. This was her fault, somehow someway, the sweet, dimple cheeked boy who warmed her heart, who reminded her what it was to love despite the losses she had born, the son she had already lost, was paying the price for the darkness that surrounded her life. And she would never forgive herself.
Taking a deep breath she moves to the bed, a basin of cool water balanced delicately in her hands that she settles on the side table before soaking a cloth in its depths. With the gentle, practiced hands of a mother she soothes his brow, wiping away sweat and grime until he is resting more comfortably, momentarily relieved from the pain wracking his body.
They tried everything, every healing potion from every spell book within the castle and a few she recalled from her lessons with Rumple. Nothing worked.
So now, here they are, sitting together, Roland draped across her arms, whimpering and twisting from the fever coursing through his tiny body, eyes glazed staring up at them both. She fights to smile, to comfort him through the tears leaking down her face as Robin chokes and sobs next to her, his hand running through the matted curls on his boy's forehead over and over.
His breath rattles, a cough shaking through his tiny frame as he fights to keep his eyes open.
"I love you Roland," Robin whispers, voice cracking and shuddering. "We love you," he corrects, reaching over and clasping her fingers with his own and that's when she loses it, tears flooding down her face as she clenches his hand, holding on for dear life, pulling her Little Knight tighter into her embrace.
A smile tugs at his lips, weak and brief, but a smile. His dimples wink up at them for the first time in what seems like months and it forces a broken laugh to spill from their lips. She leans down, pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead, brushing the hair away from his burning skin.
"I love you, sweet boy," she whispers against his skin as his eyes flutter closed.
His breath stops. Eyes sealed and body limp. She checks his pulse just to be sure, but he's gone.
He's gone and she couldn't save him. Just like she couldn't save Henry.
She's not meant to be a mother
She never was.