Magic, sometimes, hurts.
Not using magic, hurts even more.
Since the purple haze has faded, her apples have healed – blooming, crimson spheres, perfect once again – she's feeling strong. Magic demands to be used, pushes through her veins. Twenty-eight years without it, and now it's a physical ache, she wants it, she wants to let the fire out, she craves it.
She made a promise.
Archie can't understand – she doesn't think even Rumple could – she's of her own kind, fire and smoke and thunders and electricity and blazes.
She keeps it at bay, quietly, fighting the urge of release. For Henry.