A/N. Here we are with finally a lighter (?) chapter I guess. I apologize once again for the delay, but I'm afraid I'm not a very fast writer and my inspiration is whimsical. I am still cautiously amazed by the positive response to this story, and I want to thank everyone of you reading and commenting. Also huge, huge thanks to Marie for her amazing Beta work and to Katherine for her advice. You girls helped me make sense of the plot lol.
Without further ado, I leave you with some new players in this wicked game...
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She raises the sponge to her neck, and presses it softly against the finger-shaped bruises on the tender skin there. The warm droplets leak along the column of her throat, and she shivers, the touch healing like a soft press of shy, mellow lips.
She loves taking baths. She loves how the hot water licks at her skin, a gentle pet seeking to soothe, to please. She allows herself to let go in this fluid embrace, to close her eyes, to rest, to feel just a tinge of pleasure.
She loves taking baths, and leaning against the trunk of her apple tree, and the quiet times on her balcony. That's what she relies on to soothe her aches away, water and a tree and a few grey stones.
In this castle she can only trust in the things that don't breathe.
"You mean you don't trust in me? I am shocked, dearie."
She opens her eyes and wills her body to stand still, her mouth not to make a sound, the surprise and the fear not to show on her face, but he sees it anyway, he always sees everything, and the familiar giggle is loud and sickening, bouncing off the bathroom's walls.
"So now you can read my mind," she says, the sneer too bold in her mouth to be anything but forced. She's not as skilled at scorn as she would like to be, or would like to make others believe it.
Her mentor tuts in a light, scolding way, circling the large, pond-shaped bathtub, and he kneels down next to her, leans on the edge, his breath brushing her cheek as she gazes straight ahead, refuses to look at him.
She's not foolish enough to believe she can have the upper hand in this power play, but she's decided after one too many humiliations to not make intimidation any easier for him.
She doesn't cover herself either, she doesn't bother – he never leers at her the way other men do, and she hardly sees him as a man anyway.
And her modesty would only make him laugh.
"Reading your mind? Oh, dearie. Your mind is as uninteresting to me as the mind of a dog is to you. And why would I need to read it when you're just babbling about what's blistering inside." He smiles. "You were thinking out loud again, my silly little lark, singing your secrets away!" He rests his hand on her head, his claws scratching her skull teasingly, and she swats him away with an affronted look.
"You might think me a dog but I am not your pet," she spits, "if you touch me again I'll –"
"You'll what?" he taunts her, his tongue slithering over his lips, as if he's relishing some delectable meal, "bow your head and grit your teeth and run to daddy dearest to tell him how I was utterly mean to you, how misunderstood you are, poor, poor Regina, all alone in her gilded cage, no one to believe her broken songs, nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to trust, and so – utterly – weak."
Her father – she went to her father, after the guards escorted her out of the great Hall, after she stumbled in the corridor, her knees too weak and too hurt, her cheeks stained with tears, she went to his room and she pounded on his door like a drowning woman – and he'd opened, his sad eyes like of a battered dog fell upon her wrecked face and he saw the sorry state of her dress and the disheveled hair and the bruised neck – and he'd sighed, cupped her cheeks, and whimpered, "oh darling child. Why do you anger him so?" and she hadn't been able to say a word to him, she only fell on her knees, and cried and cried, hugging his legs, feeling his awkward pat on her back, and she'd thought – why am I such a bad girl?
She tries to resist Rumplestiltskin – she always tries at first – but his words are a strong liquor of rage, a haunting song of pain, she's the bird but he's a siren, a sylene, he tricks and cheats and hurts, and even as he mocks her cruelly, this sickening persiflage finds an echo in her, some self-loathing streak that makes her listen, that makes her react to it, whether she wants to or not.
"You saw, didn't you," she asks softly, and she shudders in disgust as his eyes glint with a perverse joy, "you saw what the King did to me today, how he humiliated me, how he – "
"Yes, yes, yes, I witnessed your little scene, but if you ask me dearie, you humiliated yourself."
Her upper body shots up, she sits impossibly straight in her bath, uncaring that her breasts are revealed, the peaks stiffening as hit by the cold air, she grips tightly the edge of the tub, her muscles rippling, straining, ready to pounce, and it's a growl that rumbles in her throat.
"How dare you, you soulless monster, how dare you mock me with your perverse – "
He grabs her chin roughly, his sharp, broken nails digging in her tenderized flesh, his face one of cold rage that bears none of the mad giggle that is his favorite mask to wear. He breathes in her nose a foul smell of rotten darkness. "I am not mocking you, dearie. Your weakness is no laughing matter. Don't you understand? Don't you get the true nature of your training? I don't aim to make you a fighter, a master, a queen or an enchantress. I aim to make you a God, to rise above them all and scorch the world bare with your fury. Do you think Gods weep? Do you think Gods whine?"
He lets her go, dropping his hand in the cooling water of her bath, washing it clean, washing it off her, a grimace of disgust marring his already hideous face, he's the Dark One, he's the monster, but but she's the dirty one.
"You can't afford to be strong in front of your enemies and then cry your heart out when the door is closed. You need to imagine that they are watching you all the time, waiting for that small moment, that slight waver, to pounce and dethrone you. For what you want to become, for what you want to do, you need to be strong all the time. Even when it's between you and your mirror. You have to imagine, dearie, that you are your worst enemy, and that your mask must never fall off, even in your sole presence. And if you win that war with yourself, then no one will ever be able to defeat you."
She holds her breath, all the words ringing loud and true in her ears, a world of red opening before her, a world of might. This is what true power must feel like, she thinks. To own those words, to make them mine. To win against myself. To never shed a tear again. She feels it, whirling underneath her skin, the future that can be hers, the ownership she can claim. A god. I could be a god, and crush them all under my feet. Make the King kneel. Make him bleed, make his arse swell and sting. Laugh at his misery, while she drinks Snow White's blood out of a golden cup.
The dream fades with that last drop of blood sliding between her lips.
She lies back in the water. She feels nauseated, drawn out, her head spinning, she's exhausted and sore, her bottom throbbing in pain and her knees and neck cramped, and she wants to get out, go to her room, to her bed, escape Rumpelstiltskin, escape this moment, escape these visions and these insane, dark desires that are becoming harder and harder to control.
He tilts his head, scrutinizing, beady eyes piercing through her, as if, once again, he has access to her most inner thoughts and feelings.
"We'll have none of your sensibilities, my apprentice. Remember where your vengeance lies. Remember whose head shall be rolling at your feet."
"Snow White," she says in a feeble voice, but it sounds unconvincing even to her own ears.
"Indeed. And once your feet will bathe in the blue royal blood, the people will finally respect you as their queen. You will have what you want."
But I've never wanted to be queen, one small, timid voice mouthes back, but it's too low and too far and it can't stop her anymore.
"Go now," she whispers, softly. "Go and leave me alone."
He cackles, and the irony of her own words sends a spear of bitterness running through her heart. For how could he leave her more alone than she already is?
He rises on his feet, steeples his fingers and grins excitedly.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
He bends forward and drops a kiss to her brow, his hand gently cupping the back of her head, and she lets him, she hates it but she lets him, because who touches her with any sort of kindness anymore, who but her father fighting against his repulsion, who but the distracted Snow White oblivious to the turmoil in her heart, who touches her like they know, who still gives her warm and friendly gestures, even if those touches are filled with poison and manipulation?
"Remember, my dear queen. I shall be watching."
He vanishes into thin air, leaving barely a disturbance in his wake, save for the sobbing storm in her heart.
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Snow's cousins are visiting, two highborn girls from a lesser kingdom bordering their frontiers, two simpering fools, Regina thought as soon as she saw them, tall and willowy and snickering, dark eyes darting towards her, their teenage minds fed with gossip painting some dirty pictures of her in their heads. Snow loves them – Snow loves everyone, in that childish, naive way of hers, she loves like dogs and birds and horses do, she loves the hand that pets her and the smiling faces, regardless of the careless words that sometimes tumble out of their mouths. Is it true that the queen's mother was a miller's daughter? And some say she was a witch too and an evil one – and that her daughter inherited her powers – my father heard the guards say that the maids have seen her talk to snakes in her garden – what a funny old hag.
It doesn't matter if Regina's barely three years older than them. Her position, her coldness, create a distance that separate her from the livings, from the youth. Her crown bought with malice (so they whisper, but she paid a much bitter price) disminishes her like a cane cripples the old and wounded.
Snow used to laugh and say nothing as they vilified her step-mother, trapped between her fascination for the two older, brilliant girls with their megalomania and melodramatic tales, and her fierce love towards Regina. She used to laugh, dodge, spin and evade the strange rumors even as they hurted her.
She doesn't laugh when she's brought to her room by Johanna, the grip strong on her arm, the scowl severe on her otherwise kind nurse's face, and she's yelling, her face red and eyes overflowing with nervous tears, "I want to see my step-mother! Take me to her, I order you!"
"You are in no fit state to order anything and see anyone, princess. You will remain in your room for a few hours until you've calmed down."
"I want Regina!"
She's practically thrown into her room by a strong shove from the woman, and the door locks as Johanna exits the room, and Snow lets herself fall on the floor, sobbing and hurling at the wall the few curses she'd managed to gather from hanging out around the servant's floors and the courtyard where the soldiers have their training. She sends her porcelain doll flying through the room and watches it break on the floor, crumpling into an undignified heap, her skirts thrown over her legs and showing off calves and thighs white as chalk, and she cries harder, she cries harder because – broken.
.
Meanwhile, Regina wanders in her gardens, the only thing she can call hers in this castle, though they used to belong to Queen Eva. She's pacing slowly, restless but tired, her aching behind preventing her from sitting down, the early afternoon and the beautiful sunshine a hinder for her desperate wish to retreat into her bedchambers and sleeping the day away like she achingly wants to after her horrifying morning and that encounter with Rumplestiltskin.
She flinches as she hears a rustle among the trees, and her hand curls into a claw, ready to summon one of her elusive fireballs to throw at the face of whoever is attempting to intrude on her privacy and possibly attack her. But the leaves part only to reveal the wary, though curious face of Prince Abel.
She immediately drops her hand into her skirts, cursing herself for her impulsive nature and thoughtless actions. No matter how frightened she gets by loud noises or sudden appearances, she mustn't reveal now the only card she has left in her hand to get out of this life, she can't reveal her magic at the first sight of trouble.
But her heart beats wildly in her chest and her fingers tremble as the tall, copper-skin man takes cautious steps towards her.
"Did I frighten you, my Queen?"
She gives him a tense smile that is only on the verge of courtesy.
"A little, Sir. I don't expect anyone to meet me unannounced in those private gardens."
He smiles at her bite, as if he's on to some secret about her she doesn't care much for. But there's appreciation in his features, and even something resembling respect. She can't be certain, though. It's not a look she's often met.
"My sincere apologies, Your Majesty. I didn't mean to frighten you or disturb the peace of this beautiful place. I realize now how forward I am, but I needed to talk to you out of your husband's presence."
"That is most forward indeed, Sir Abel," she replies, her voice growing colder by the minute, her body subtly taking on a defensive posture, her firing hand twitching at her sides.
"Please, do not see any harm in my intentions. I assure you I have nothing but respect for the Enchanted Kingdom and its royal family."
"You have a strange fashion of showing that respect."
"It's because I am afraid, my Queen."
The unashamed truth, the complete sincerity of his words surprises her. She cannot understand, for her the words I am afraid have always been tainted with the pain that strikes after them, the weakness they reveal, and weakness is the worst disease of all mankind. Isn't it?
"Afraid," she repeats, dumbfounded, and he nods slowly, taking a few step further towards her, his hands clasped reverently under his chest.
"I fear for my home, for my sister's kingdom. I fear the King won't grant us the help we seek. You heard him this morning, Your Majesty. You know. He hears but he doesn't listen."
"What makes you think I'll be more inclined than him to listen to you?" she asks in an even voice, but her eyes betray her, too quick and too turbulent. She doesn't know how to face this. Never before did someone come to her with political problems to fix. Never before did someone want her to listen. Or ask for her opinion.
Prince Abel gently takes her hands in his, and she lets him, still too stricken to think properly, and the gesture seems to bold to be real. The contact is strangely soothing. He doesn't touch her the way someone who wants to take something from her does, despite him coming to her with a request. He doesn't touch her the way a lover does. Yet he seeks something genuine, something deep, a connection. She recognizes the manipulation for what it is, a way to appeal to her empathy, but she falls for it anyway, a little, because behind the gesture she feels brimming a love and a protectiveness that leave her in awe, even if it's just for a patch of land he calls home (she doesn't understand home anymore, and the desire to protect has become a foreign notion).
"Because you are different. I saw your eyes before I walked out of the room, when your husband dismissed me. I saw understanding."
She doesn't answer and only looks at him, unwavering, giving him nothing but a guess as to what is going through her mind. So he speaks again, and she hears his anger and his desperation behind each word.
"My sister. Our queen. After my mother's death, she was to be the new ruler. Women reign in our country," he adds for her benefit, and she gives him a sharp nod, a tug on his hands.
"I am well aware with your country's customs," she replies haughtily (she doesn't like to be modest about her knowledge, she's got very little to brag about in her life). "Do go on."
He smiles at her, pursues. "That's when the northern tribes decided to invade our kingdom, just before my sister's coronation, while our country was weak after the Civil War. We have won the war against the Old Power, but it has left the country bleeding, the realm poor. We were outnumbered, outbested by their strength. It was so sudden. We managed to push them back. Barely. But my sister was captured."
His hands tremble in hers and she finds herself running her thumbs over his wrists, in a soothing motion she doesn't know where she got from.
"I only ask for gold to feed my people again and help us rebuild. I know how to get my sister back, and I will, but I made a promise to her, and she needs a strong kingdom to come back to."
"How do you know she's still alive?"
She feels cruel when she sees the sharp pain overcoming his noble features, but she knows a foolish hope is the worst thing of all.
"She is."
No hope here. An evidence, bright, blunt, true.
"Can you help me, your majesty?"
She remembers Prince Abel. She remembers him among all the blurred faces of the crowd she'll never precisely recall because she couldn't look at them, beaming at her, cheering, or whispering in excitement, either friendly or malicious. But she remembers him, for being the only man besides her father who didn't smile at her wedding. Who didn't applaud. Who didn't sing. And when he presented himself to her for the traditional kiss on her hand, he didn't congratulate her. He didn't offer any wish. Only a silent wall of forlorn sympathy.
"What would you have me do," she asks in a voice laden with memories, and he kisses her hands in thanks, and lets them go.
"Talk to your husband. Convince him. Make him see that my cause is fair and my need dire. Can you do this?"
She laughs, turning away from him.
"You are mistaken if you think I have any influence whatsoever on my husband. I am but one of the crown jewel. Pretty, silent, unremarkable among the others. Superfluous."
He's watching her. She doesn't know what he sees. She doesn't know if he can see the bruises her collar doesn't cover up properly, the eyes tired out from crying, the slight tremor in her body, the pain that prevents her from standing straight. The weakness, the impotency, the failure.
"Do you know what my sister made me promise? What she said to me the day my mother died, the day she learned she would be the new queen?"
She doesn't turn to look at him, but he walks to her, and they stand, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun float languidly over her apple tree.
"She said 'If one day the choice comes between saving me or the kingdom, little brother, don't save me. Because if you do, I will hate you. I will no longer be me. This kingdom is not only mine now, but it is me in a way nothing else will ever be. If I die, I die a Queen.'"
Something flutters in her chest at his last words. For once the word Queen takes a beautiful meaning. Something greater. Queen becomes caring for something other than myself. Being more than myself.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because women have a strength and a power men can only dream about. And that's why they are the leaders in the Stars Land."
"I have nothing of the sort."
"Forgive me for contradicting you, my Queen, but you do. You were strong that day when your face didn't show the shadow of a tear at being married against your will. You are strong now when you stand while you are suffering."
She digs her first in her belly in a protective, defensive gesture, tightening her mouth, recoiling against his pity. But it is not pity he is offering her. Only his hand, palm up, warm, extending towards her.
"What do you know about loveless marriages?"
"Sadly too much, your majesty."
He doesn't say more, and perhaps he'll never will. Perhaps there's only this moment of being looked at with something other than pity, hatred, lust, suspicion or indifference.
Or not. Perhaps she has more.
Perhaps she can change things.
Perhaps she can be strong.
With a sharp intake of breath, she takes his hand and shake it.
"I will try. But I can make no promises."
"With all due respect, your majesty, I think you just did. To yourself."
He smiles at her as she lets go of his hand, and she doesn't quite know how to smile back, but she tries anyway.
That's when her chambermaid of the month (they come and go quicker than the seasons, mostly because of Snow's dislike of them in her absurd fits of jealousy when they get too close to Regina) comes rushing in, her skirts gathered in her hands, with barely a look to Prince Abel and a short curtsy for her.
"Your majesty, the King is asking for you. He has important news to deliver."
She's young, this one, she speaks one or two words more than she oughts to, she won't last long. Regina gives a quick nod to Abel, hastily taking her leave with a rushed "Sir," and following the maid out of the gardens, her insides churning in discomfort, her mind anticipating new horrors.
.
Snow stops lazily hitting the wall with her leather ball when she hears someone knock on her door.
Not someone.
Regina.
She would recognize those soft, imperious knocks anywhere.
She rushes to the door as Regina unlocks it, scrubbing madly at the stains on her cheeks left by her tears, and she throws herself at her step-mother once the door is open, before Regina can set even a foot into her room. Snow locks her arms around the slender neck, her fingers grip the silky, dark shawl covering Regina from neck to upper back, and hold on tight.
"I've asked for you! I kept asking but they wouldn't open the door and you didn't come! Oh Regina, my cousins treated me so unfairly! They said awful, awful things about you and when I told them I wouldn't stand it and that they knew nothing of what they were speaking of and that they were spiteful and mean, Felicity slapped me! But I'm the one that got punished because I slapped her back and it's not fair..."
She's felt Regina tense as she'd wrapped her arms around her, but she'd assumed it was only the surprise, and that strange way her step-mother has of recoiling at other people's touch. But she feels her shaking now, as if from exhaustion and pain, and slowly, with a strained smile, Regina forces her to let go, to take a step back. "Easy my dear," she says and you would never guess at the placid tone of her voice that she could ever feel anything. "There's no need to make such a fuss. You must tell me calmly about this. Sit down on the bed, Snow."
She does as she's told while Regina closes the door behind her, and she wrings her hands and her feet are kicking the air nervously as she waits for her step-mother to sit next down to her. But she doesn't, she just stays by her side, standing.
"Won't you sit down?"
"I'd rather be standing, dear."
"Why? Please, sit with me I want you near me."
She doesn't feel above adopting the pleading tone that was hers when she was five, she always got everything she wanted by playing the baby, daddy's little girl, but Regina, she's never been quite as sensitive to her light babbling. Though she almost always comply. She does this time too, gritting her teeth as she slowly lowers herself next to her, exhaling loudly as her bottom enters in contact with the bedding. It's little, it's restrained, but it's there. Snow frowns.
"Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine, dear. Just a little sore after a bad night's sleep."
"But when I saw you this morning at breakfast you weren't – "
"Why don't you start from the beginning, Snow, and tell me how you came to being punished?"
"Oh, I cannot believe it!" she spits angrily, forgetting about Regina's strange pain as the slight that's been done to her takes all the place in her heart. "They were talking about you and Father... they were saying horrible things..." her voice drowns into silence as she realizes what she's saying and to whom and how much more impact those words have here, between them, in that great hall of obscure truths and convenient lies. But Regina doesn't allow her to stop, she presses on, as if determined to not let Snow escape her unease. "What horrible things," she asks, and her voice is deadly cold and threatens like thunder.
"I... It's not what you think, I swear. I didn't tell them anything. I didn't tell anyone anything."
She tries to touch Regina's arm, timidly, but her step-mother shies away and she lowers her hand, defeated.
"They were talking... about why you aren't with child yet. They said Father married you out of kindness and gratitude but he can't bear to touch you after he lost his true love. Or maybe he does but out of obligation and you must be cursed not to bear children because your mother was a witch! They said so many awful things and they were laughing and I yelled at them and we fought but I got punished."
The sobs start again, too loud in her chest, and she throws herself over Regina's lap, burying her face against her thigh and clutching tight at the ample dress, and she draws a sigh of relief broken by a few hiccups when her step-mother runs her long fingers in her curls.
"Why did they say that Regina? Why do they hate you so much?"
She feels Regina's hand pull back, a few seconds, and then the fingers start again on her skull, scratching a little rougher, combing a little stronger.
"They're hardly the only ones, dear. You have been well sheltered from all this until now. But I am not loved in this kingdom or the next."
"They don't know you like I do," Snow murmurs in worship, straightening up and taking her step-mother's hands in hers, pressing her mouth over them ardently, lavishing her palms, her knuckles with loving kisses.
"I won't apologize to them, I won't. I hate them. I never want to see them again. And I'm glad I hurt them."
She turns her hands in Regina's open palms, until her nails are facing the ceiling. There's still some blood drying there, from where she'd scratched Felicity's cheek. She hadn't wanted to remove it, viciously enjoying the proof of the pain she'd inflicted in return. Regina's hands leave hers, to fetch a light blue handkerchief inside her long sleeve and she starts dabbing at Snow's cheeks, gently, sweeping the tears away, the old and the fresh.
"That is not how a princess behaves, Snow. You will apologize to them. Your cousins are young and foolish, and they merely parrots the words they've heard elsewhere without fully understanding them. You will apologize because their father is a dear friend of yours and his kingdom an ally. You wouldn't want to start a war an account of a childish quarrel, would you?"
"I wouldn't care," she stays, stubborn, while Regina brushes the corner of her lips, and she leans against the touch, closing her eyes. "I don't care because I was right and they were wrong and I can't let people talk about you this way!"
"You can and you will."
She blinks, startled by the acrid tone in a voice that was soft as honey two seconds ago. Regina's eyes are withdrawn and hard, her hand gripping Snow's wrist in a vise.
"Listen to me very carefully because it is the last time we will speak about this. Whatever you think you saw between you father and I that night, you need to forget it."
"What do you mean what I think I saw, I know what I saw!"
"No, you don't. You don't know anything because you're a child and don't understand what is marriage, or what happens between a man and a woman."
"I do! I'm beginning to! You said you would help me understand, that you would teach me, and we read those beautiful stories together and you told me about love and that love should never leave marks on mothers' arms and husbands shouldn't beat their wives! I know. Why are you lying to me now?"
"Because you silly girl," Regina growls with her lips curled, grasping her by the hair and bringing her face close to hers, "you know nothing. You are a spoiled little princess who cannot think past your hurts and desires. But from now on you will listen to what I say. You shall not defend my honor more than reason requires when others speak ill of me. You shall not think badly of your father, avoid him or question him, especially not about me. And you shall never, never mention or think about that night again. Is that clear, Snow White?"
She holds her breath as Regina's anger blows on her face, as her perfume and the grip in her hair makes her shiver. Then, with a deliberate slowness, a blushing fear like when she's trying to touch a filly for the first time, or to hold a wounded bird in her palm, she extends her hand, and grazes Regina's cheek with her fingertips.
"He told you to say that, didn't he?" she breathes, filled with sorrow to the point she wants to burst, and Regina's long and painful exhale sends little needles running through her heart. "Did he hurt you again?"
"Snow, I told you to – "
"Why are you wearing a shawl, Regina? You never wear them."
Snow runs her hand from Regina's cheek to her neck, she thinks her step-mother will stop her, but she doesn't, she's struggling to breathe, her eyes half-closed, glassy, as if her mind flew far, far away, and tenderly, Snow undoes the silky material and lets it fall on the bed.
Regina wears a blue collar of fingerprints.
Her eyes fill with tears that hold nothing to the fat and loud tears of childhood.
"I am so – "
"He's sending you away."
She stops halfway through her feeble apology, her fingers stilling inches from Regina's skin.
"What?"
Her step-mother is averting her eyes, looking through the window, her gaze attached to the birds floating by, her voice thick, but toneless.
"To King Midas' court. You will be in the care of his daughter Abigail and her young siblings. You will learn everything about the royal etiquette and prepare yourself for the royal role you will assume one day."
"What are you talking about, what nonsense is it – I don't want to go!"
"It's your father's decision, Snow."
"But... (she's gasping for breath, feeling the ground shift under her, her roots being severed one by one) how long will I stay?"
Regina lowers her eyes, her face an emotionless mask, her hands twitching nervously in her lap.
"A few months at least."
"A few months?!"
She breaks and she yells and throws the delicate objects on her bedside table against the wall, where they join the broken doll on the ground, and she punches and kicks at her bed, angered further by Regina's absolute immobility and impassible expression.
"When?" she asks a last question in a hoarse voice, rough from her cries, swaying on her feet while she tries to lock eyes with Regina.
Perhaps she only imagines the tightness in her step-mother's voice when she answers: "Tomorrow morning."
Snow takes her head between her hands and crumples to the floor, for once too weighed down by shock to be able to weep.
.
She doesn't need to ask Regina to sleep in her bed that night, and she is a bit comforted, at least, that she's not for once the only one seeking comfort. She barely listens as Regina tells her in a low voice about the royal debts and the loan King Midas has granted him, about how she is to go over to the Golden Kingdom to make sure Leopold will pay his debts, about a possible marriage, about – she stops listening, and stares at the flickering flame of the candle on her nightstand, dancing like the hair of a fairy caught in the wind. She takes along time to realize that Regina has stopped talking, that her hand is heavy on her shoulder, and that maybe she's about to fall asleep. She turns in her bed, facing the beautiful face she loves so much, a face so calm and still like pure water in a crystal glass.
"I don't care what his reasons are," she rasps out, spitting the words like stones. "He's taking you away from me. He's doing it on purpose."
Regina not answering is confirmation enough.
Her face screws up, but she doesn't cry, dried out from all her tears, but she can't bear to look at Regina when she's on the verge of losing her for whole months, so she goes to rest her head on her soft chest gently swelling with every breath, she snuggles into her warmth as if it is the last time.
And it is, she's saying goodbye to her childhood tonight.
"I don't want to leave you," she whimpers and it's poison in her mouth, attacking her insides.
She feels Regina's hand burying in her hair, the other pressing strongly against the small of her back, and she leans on, heavy, needy, pushing with all her weight as if she could melt and merge into Regina's welcoming flesh. She feels more than she hears the words whispered against the top of her head. "I will think about you everyday."
Her eyes well up, it seems she had one or two tears left after all, and she eventually surrenders to sleep, lulled by Regina's breathing and the soft, urgent kisses breathed into her hair.
.
She doesn't know what she feels as she sees Snow walking away on her horse, her head down and her shoulders shaken by sobs. There isn't a dry eye in their small gathering to send the princess away, and despite Johanna reaching out gently from atop her own horse, Snow never calms down.
No one dares to comment on Leopold's absence. Not now, not openly, but there will be rumors afterwards, about a so-called loving father who didn't bother watching his daughter's departure, or about a sorrowful man too broken to get out of his room and stop his cries. Whatever the truth, the unease will remain.
This time, she jumps when he appears.
"Your little plaything is going away, I see."
She's left the courtyard to go to her room and stand over her balcony, where she could see the small party escorting Snow's journey disappear behind the hills. She's been so busy evaluating the void quickly digging in her heart that she had paid little attention to anything else. And certainly not to her lurking master.
She's still back to him, and takes a moment to will her features into a blank mask and her voice into a smirk.
"Thankfully. Her presence will stop grating on my nerves and I can finally focus on my lessons with you. It is for the best."
"Is it indeed?"
She shivers as he whispers in her ear, much closer than she assumed, and as his fingers grab her bicep and turn her towards him, she knows he's not fooled.
"Are you sure that while she's gone you're not going to forget who your real enemy is?"
She tilts her head back, high and proud, and her lips curl, curl until a grin appears that would make a wolf run.
"My dear Rumplestiltskin. How could I ever forget the girl who cost me my freedom and my happiness?"
He seems satisfied enough with her answer and lets out a fond giggle while his finger trails over her face.
"That's the spirit, dearie."
When she's alone and the light is bleeding out and the riders are long gone behind the sunset, she lets her fingers hover above her breasts, hesitates for a beat, then plunges them deep within her chest, grasping her own heart with a gasp, squeezing it so painfully her breath dies out in her throat. When she tears it out, the bright, deep red makes her head spin and she has to lean on her bedpost. She looks and looks but nothing in here gives her an answer about the moment where love and hatred merged, when the enemy became herself.
She puts it back in her chest, and still the void remains.
.
.
A/N. I would especially love to hear your thoughts about the Golden Queen scene and about Prince Abel - those were particularly tricky to write. Thank you for reading!