A/N: Woof. Thank you so much for the support, you guys. I am extremely humbled by the response. Clearly we all mutually agree that I have to continue.
Disclaimers:
1. The usual. I don't own OUAT or any of its characters. I don't make money from this, blah blah blah blah.
b. I do express political views in this chapter – based on my own. Regina literally works in politics. So I feel 0
shame in doing so. And I will not be bullied into removing them from the story. They're there now. So you'll
just have to deal with it.
*. I don't actually have a 3rd disclaimer. I just wanted to start us out with a solid 3. Because I think it's neat.
Feels nice, dunnit?
Chapter 2
There once was a woman who lived in a shoe.
Regina knew that woman.
In this world, her name was Tovah Heiman. And she didn't live in a shoe. But she did live in an extremely dilapidated two bedroom, one bath cottage on the outskirts of town.
In this world's version of the nursery rhyme she was an "old woman." Which might've been true if this were the Enchanted Forest where the life expectancy of a person hovered somewhere around 60 on a good day. But she wasn't. She was in her mid 40's. In the 21st century US of A. Where the life expectancy of a person could easily shoot up to the hundo plus range on a good day. She wouldn't even be considered middle-aged here.
She was Tovah. The almost middle-aged woman who lived in a rundown two bedroom, two bath cottage on the outskirts of town. Who had too many children for food to go round. Seven, to be exact. She worked as a waitress at some mom and pop restaurant near city hall. But barely made enough to make it home and feed herself, much less her seven children.
You might not believe it, but there was a once upon a time when Regina would have given everything to be that woman. If it meant she could be with Daniel. Even if he had still eventually died of some mysterious illness years after they married and left her with all of those children (as Tovah's husband Simon had). At least no one would have been responsible for his death — other than health. Maybe then she could have mourned him in a normal way. A healthy way. One where a simple betrayal wouldn't send her spiraling out of control. Where "becoming chattel" wouldn't become the only adaptive strategy available to her. Where murder and vengeance wouldn't be the first methods of coping she clung to.
She would have much rather been poor and caring for seven children on her own in a small cottage on the hillside for the rest of her life. Because then, at the very least, she would still have those seven pieces of Daniel at the end of every day. And they would all love her no matter what for the rest of her life. Because they had to. Because they were also hers.
Now though?
Now, she had a good job that made an excellent source of income. She lived in a mansion with more room than she knew what to do with. She had so much to give. So much she could provide. And she couldn't even care for one child. A child who had been given – not only her everything – but everything in an almost literal sense. A child who was wanted and loved with every fiber of her being. A child who didn't even know the meaning of the words "go without."
Where she once thought that her children would love her unconditionally because they had to because they were hers. There was now a huge gaping hole.
Henry had been hers in every sense of the word and he certainly didn't feel any obligation to love her. He didn't feel any obligation to her at all. If not talking to her since the curse broke was any indication.
Most people assume that Regina blamed Emma for that – because, let's face it, that was how it looked on the outside. And maybe towards the beginning she did – a little bit. But on the inside, she knew that it was only Emma's fault in the sense that she'd created him. That she'd brought him into this world.
Henry had started acting out long before he knew who Emma was. He'd always been his own person. And she knew that in so many ways, from the very beginning, she had let him down – as much "in" as "not in" the same way Tovah had with her own children. She felt the pain of that in her heart more than almost any other. Which on some level, made her uncomfortably aware of how much right he had to be upset with her.
So that's why, when Emma showed up on her doorstep with those eyes that bulldozed through every wall she'd ever put up. That picked apart all the ugly pieces that she tried so hard to hide from the world. That looked back at her in disappointment – Henry's eyes – and said, "Hi." She slammed the door shut in her face. She shouldn't have opened it to begin with. At this point, she wasn't even sure if that meant the very literal door in front of her or all those metaphorical ones that she spent so much time trying to keep locked shut.
She didn't turn away until there was nothing but silence on the other side. And as she did, she saw the picture of her and Henry lying sadly in a broken puddle of picture frame on the floor. She picked it up and set it back in place on the table the best she could. Her fingers brushing delicately around the shattered glass where his once happy smile turned into a distorted frown. The picture frame could hardly stand on its own anymore, slouching pathetically like a limp old veteran struggling to stand at attention on its broken little stand.
She couldn't be on the receiving end of that frown anymore. She couldn't feel like this anymore. She needed to do something with her hands. Before the energy building inside her made her explode.
She headed off to the kitchen. She needed to bake.
Wait! Hold on. I need you to go back to the hallway with the table and the picture for a second.
Do you see that, dear reader? The thing next to the broken picture frame?
It's an old wooden box.
That box will be very important later in the story. So really visualize it in your mind's eye. Store it away like a dirty secret. A dirty little box secret. Made of dirty little box pieces and unstained white ash wood, dirtied by remnants of soil and Earth, with two dents on either side that make it look like dimples on the face of a smudged-faced child smiling back at you.
I want to be clear just how important this is to the future of the story. I'm looking out for you. I wouldn't want you to miss out on something just because its importance wasn't emphasized enough in advance.
Are you good? Have you got it memorized? All stored up in the old noodle maker and ready for quick access later?
Good. Let's continue on with the story then.
Regina was in her kitchen prepping and braiding dough to be placed in the oven with the hope that it would turn into perfectly baked challah (which for my non-Jewish readers is pronounced like "holla") [or "haa-luh" for my readers who are not Jewish and have not had the misfortune of being deeply immersed in early 2000's American slang].
Regina wasn't Jewish. But in this world, Tovah and her family were.
This was something Regina had done every other Thursday for so long, that the tradition even pre-dated the curse. She couldn't even remember how she first met Tovah or how she became aware of her situation. All she could tell you is that one day she went down to the kitchens in her castle, told her cooks to prepare several loaves of trencher bread. And then, she snuck out into the fading light of the late evening to leave every last crumb on the woman's doorstep.
She couldn't be a hundred percent sure if the woman received it. This was Regina, after all, so there was always that sliver of doubt niggling at the back of her mind. But there was also never any evidence left behind the next time she came with fresh new loaves. So someone was taking it.
Then, after seeing the state that the woman and her children were living in post-curse, Regina decided to keep the tradition going and taught herself how to make the Jewish delicacy.
Tomorrow – or more technically speaking, today – was Thursday. The Thursday that she would normally bring Tovah's family bread — so that they could have it over shabbat which started Friday just before sundown (again, for all my non-Jewish readers, shabbat is the Sabbath; which is the day of rest; which means that on that day Tovah does not work; "work" including but not limited to cooking — hopefully you can see where I'm going with this).
Look at you. Learning about Judaism in a story about fairytales. Most of which are presumably "Christian" in origin. I'm proud of you.
Unless you are Jewish. Or you already knew about Judaism via other means. In which case, you didn't really learn anything new. But I'm still proud of you too.
Anyways. Regina liked to keep a tight schedule so that the bread would be delivered in accordance with the Jewish institution. A time when the family would need it most. And she was already behind.
It took several hours to make (also dependent on how many loaves she made). And then it took another few hours to cool to a temperature that she would deem "a perfectly cooked challah." She usually started making it sometime around 6am so that she could deliver it around lunch time. And back when she was the mayor and had a day job, she would make it the night before so that it could be delivered the next day at lunch time.
But it was 7am and she had only just started prepping the dough.
She took another long swig of apple cider. Then decided that if this was going to happen, she would need something darker. Because the best way to get anything done in the Mills house was with a good bottle of Rioja.
And given how quickly she found motivation after one single sip, she was even more inclined to believe that to be an infallible truth.
Some of you might be saying, "now hold on a minute, Author. It wasn't too long ago that Regina wanted to kill herself. Now she's making Jewish bread?"
And I get why that might be confusing to you.
Make no bones about it, my dear reader. She still wanted to die. She always wanted to die. It had been the blackest stain on her heart for the majority of her life. And it was one that you couldn't just scrub away with something as simple as distraction or even a good bottle of Rioja.
But she felt strongly that these people depended on her. And she'd lived so much of her life being hated and unwanted. That when someone depended on her. Being needed started to feel a lot like being wanted. Even if it was nothing more than a grand illusion she'd made up in her head and allowed to take over her heart. There weren't many who depended on her. There weren't many who wanted her – which now included her own son. But these people did.
And just that – that one brief moment of feeling wanted – had grinded her resolve into a powder as fine as the flour she'd used to make the dough that she was almost finished braiding. Dependency was the millstone around Regina's neck. The heaviness of which she had carried for decades. Not that she believed that doing this one thing would be sufficient enough retribution for all the other wrong she'd done. But she could hold off dying long enough to do this one thing for the only people left that made her feel wanted. Maybe she could die later. After she'd delivered them their bread. That way she could do so knowing that there were at least 8 people out there that she hadn't let down. Yet.
But first, she needed to actually make the bread. And on that front, she was late.
The Rioja helped speed up the braiding process. Might've even made it a little sloppier than her usual standards. That or it was the undesired consequence of allowing urgency to control her hands. Normally, if a loaf hadn't been braided to her standards, she would throw it out and try again. But she didn't have the time nor the sobriety for her usual quality of work. So she placed the sloppy looking loaves on some pans with a frown. And turned to take the trays to the oven.
When suddenly, a small tinkling sound rang out in the room around her, like a knife being tapped against a porcelain cup. It drew her attention to the sink.
"Shit!" she blurted, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no…"
Without a moment's waste, she threw the pans of bread into the oven. Then raced back over to the sink. Where she found the purple liquid of her sleeping potion slithering out of the vial and down the drain.
"No!" she screamed once more, scrambling to grab the glass and any remaining contents that she could.
Though it was pointless. Even if she could manage to scrounge up any of the remaining potion, too much of it was already gone. She'd never be able to collect a full dose. And, unfortunately, this wasn't the Enchanted Forest. Which means that she wouldn't be able to find most of the ingredients needed to make more.
She suddenly found herself wishing that she'd never cast this stupid curse. Or at the very least, that she had cursed them to a place with magic.
"Fuck!" she screamed out. Which was normally not a word she advocated using. But given the state she was in and how her day – no, her life – had been going so far, felt completely justified.
What option did she have other than turning on the sink and letting the water wash away the rest?
The answer was none. Just like every other aspect of her life so far, there was no other option. And as she turned the handle of the faucet, allowing the water to flow out into the sink, she turned her head away. Keeping her eyes focused, instead, on her garden through the window. Because she couldn't stand to look at it. At what she'd done. She'd destroyed her one failsafe. Her last out. Gone in an instant with only a clumsy turn of the hand.
Her head fell heavy to her hands. Her fingers curling instinctively into the thick strands of coffee brown hair. How could one person fail so miserably at so many things in one lifetime? She thought to herself.
And that's what she did for the next few hours. Just stood there in her kitchen with her head in her hands. Drinking straight from a bottle of Rioja. Thinking about how much of a fool she really was.
And then the bread was done.
Regina walked to Tovah's house that afternoon. With a bottle of wine in one hand and the freshly baked challah in the other. She took a large swig from the bottle every few steps. Shocked that there was anything even left at this point. Given how long it had lasted, it was starting to seem like the never-ending bottle.
Which was all the same to her. Less work she had to do opening another. Though, it did make it difficult to track how much alcohol she'd had up to that point. She was sure that it was more than eight. Eight what? Who knows. But if she had to put a number to it, for whatever reason, anything over eight felt right. She was well on her way to "too much." Which she felt, if it were a number, would certainly be greater than eight. The Earth was rotating much faster than she remembered. Way faster than eight. Is this what it was like to die of alcohol poisoning? she thought.
(Shakes head aggressively mouthing "No. It's really not.")
Eventually she came to a stop in front of a door. Her feet knowing the way so well she didn't need a working brain to get there. The house hadn't seen the company of another human in some time. Its windows all boarded up, blocking out the world. And taped to the door, an assortment of words and lists on a white piece of paper tried to answer why.
She made a valiant effort to read it. But the letters kept wobbling and stretching across the page in the most challenging of ways. Each one mutating into a laugh line that spread out in a hundred different ways. Like they were grinning at her. As if they took the greatest delight in being completely unreadable.
But she didn't need to read the notice in order to know what it said. She had been here before. She had read it before. And no amount of apple cider or Rioja could actually wipe its message from her brain.
It was a foreclosure notice. A reminder for anyone who cared that this was now a bank owned property. Tovah didn't live here anymore. Because Tovah didn't live anymore.
She blinked. Eyes welling up with tears.
Tovah died weeks ago. Her seven orphaned children handed off to the convent not too long after. The oldest of them almost of age to go out into the world on their own. But not yet old enough to escape the system.
She only knew that because Emma had come bursting into her office the day they were taken, demanding she do something about it. Like maybe there was some exception or some kind of allowance that could be made since the oldest kid's birthday was so close. As if Regina really had any power to do anything at all. But her hands were metaphorically tied.
Mother Superior had dropped by several hours earlier to remind her that the convent operated outside of the traditional foster care system – as per their religious right. And those poor children with no family, no other foster home in Storybrooke they could go. None of them were of an age where they would be allowed to legally decide on their own where to go. The convent was the only place available to orphans in this town. And even though they were Jewish, there was no other religious institution or person who could legally fight on their behalf to be housed anywhere else. Not even the Mayor of Storybrooke. Or its Sheriff.
Emma had been mad at her for days over that. Her own past trauma and bleeding heart ruling out all judgement.
As for how Tovah died. Well, she had been violently ill for the longest time. It was one of those diseases that kills a person slowly and painfully over the span of several years. That then costs an insane amount of money to diagnose and treat. The kind of costs that even someone with decent healthcare coverage wouldn't be able to afford. Tovah didn't have money or health insurance. And for that, she paid with her life.
The entire town did hold a vigil for her though. Even managed to raise a little bit of money for her orphaned children. Regina herself had attended and donated to the best of her ability.
And as Regina stood there before the makeshift alter with its many candles and flowers and what few pictures could be found of Tovah and all her smiling children, she thought to herself
What a silly little thing, Mother America. Who deemed it completely acceptable for millions of her people to die because they couldn't afford healthcare. But who then spends all her time and money bailing billionaires and banks out of debt. And they call me the Evil Queen.
It was an interesting thought. But it was one of little importance now. As she stood there. Her own shadow still looming over the dead woman's shrine like a bad omen.
She hadn't forgotten. She never would.
She'd chosen not to think about it. Very purposely putting it out of her mind. Habits are, after all, what we become. And this habit? Coming to this house every other Thursday to leave behind several loaves of freshly-baked challah? It was something she did for reasons she didn't fully understand. And she didn't necessarily care to.
The one thing that was absolutely clear to her was that she had come to this house. She would leave the bread. And when she comes back two weeks later to do it all over again, every last bit of it will be gone. As it always was.
There she stood. Swaying on her feet. Assaulted by the delicate mixture of alcohol running through her veins and the oceanside breeze. The Storybrooke harbor slept as she stared out into the endless abyss of black water. Another gust of wind blew in from the ocean. And the waves flowed and ebbed all around her. The dock below her feet creaking to the tune. Beneath that, a hungry darkness.
The only thing she had with her was that same bottle of wine. It felt nice and cold in her hand. Although lighter than she remembered. Cold and light – like death. She felt like she was being rejoined with death again.
Her eyes were bleary. The red and irritated blood vessels wrapping around her irises like thorns on the stem of a rose. She was but a dim reflection of herself. A mirror, in which, she didn't even see herself anymore. Just the hazy shape of a person. Trapped in a never-aging body. Forced into solitude. And so very exhausted of this life.
She thought about her mortality then. She'd lived a long time. Longer than most people would even care to where she came from. It was starting to feel like it would never end.
There was only one thing she wanted to do. One thing she wanted more than anything in that moment. Freedom.
You know what you need to do, it sang in her ear, there's only one way now.
And as it hooked into the skin beneath her skirt, pulling her slowly to the edge of the dock, the noise she swallowed down swallowed every remaining feeling left inside her. With one last breath, she let herself fall forward off the dock and into the ocean. The wind stopped and for a moment there was complete stillness. Her body vanishing in the dark water. Twenty feet down to the icy cold seabed where freedom waited. Then all was quiet on the wharf.
I wish I could tell you that Regina survived.
But unfortunately, I spent too much time writing a compendium of all the things leading up to that moment that I didn't make it in time to save her. She didn't survive.
I should have just started this chapter with "Regina's about to kill herself" and then intervened – as is my responsibility as the Author of this story to do – but for whatever reason I thought you would need backstory into how she ended up...well…dead at the bottom of the ocean.
God. I really am the worst author ever. No, no. Don't you dare try to dispute that fact. I literally couldn't even keep my main character alive. Like, who does that? Or who doesn't do that? Whatever, you know what I'm trying to say.
Somewhere along the telling, I lost all control of what happens in my own damn story. And – though it was unintentional – one of your favorite characters just died in the crossfire. So, why are you still here continuing to read this?
What? You still want to know what happens? Because there must be more, right? Clearly since this isn't the last sentence.
Neither is this.
But I'm not telling you something you don't already know. Because, from the very edge of your vision, you can see all the words just waiting to be read. All those juicy sentences frothing over with the mere promise of some kind of resolution. And you're curious to know what they say. Aren't you?
What if I told you it was a recipe for chocolate cake? That I, the Author, ended this tale with nothing more than the ingredients to a popular baked confection. Would you still keep reading?
Oh, you are still reading.
(Do not test me, reader. This is a thing I would one hundred percent do.)
Okay, okay. I get it. You want me to tell you what happens next. Enough with the nonsense.
You'll be happy to know that the words below do not, in fact, contain a recipe for chocolate cake (although you'd have been extremely blessed to receive one from me because I make a mean – and I'm talking Evil Queen mean – chocolate cake).
As you well know, when someone dies, they are dead. They cannot be brought back – for the song of death is deep and endless. As much as I hate to say it, Regina did die. That happened. It's been written. And I can't undo it.
But…
While it's true that we can't bring her back, I just so happen to know someone who theoretically could.
Though it'll probably cost me – and it won't be anything good, I can assure you. It could even be something that negatively impacts this very story in the future. Just a forewarning. Magic isn't the only thing that has a price.
But I'll be the first one to admit, Regina is worth more than a cheap death by suicide. She's so much better than that. She's so much stronger than that. And even though this story has gotten out of my control – more than once might I remind you. I would be remiss if I didn't utilize everything in my writer's toolkit to at least try to save her. Even if that means owing a favor to the mother of death herself.
(Puffs out chest, pointing heroically towards the warf where Regina killed herself)
Her body floats peacefully at the bottom of the Storybrooke Harbor. But like a well-cast fishing net, awareness pulls her consciousness to shore. The rough netting abrasive as it tightens around her, digging into her soul.
A lady in black stands before her. Dark and foreboding. Looking like she was dressed in shadows. The fabrics of which seem unnecessarily frail. As if it hadn't been made to hold such an elusory darkness.
"I know. You were expecting my son," she says with a grim shrug, "but you're going to have to settle for me."
The corners of her mouth stretch awkwardly into what could only be the start of either a disappointed grimace or a truly devious grin. Maybe even both.
"Who are you?" Regina croaks as if her voice hadn't been used in years.
The mysterious woman moves closer, gesturing wildly with her hands as she speaks.
"I am Nyx. Goddess of the night. Mother of Thanatos – or I suppose he more commonly goes by 'Death' these days. You see…When a person's time has run out at the hands of the fates, it is my son that carries them to the underworld's gates."
"Where am I?"
"There are many people who long to meet my son. There are many people who deserve to meet my son. And even people who don't but who have the misfortune of doing so anyways. But you, Regina Mills are an exceptionally rare case."
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, yes. I'm sure Hades would absolutely love if I showed up to the underworld with you today. But…I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint him. You tried to take your own life. To force death's hand. And I'm sorry to disappoint you, but today is not your day, Regina. The fates do not will it so."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means that neither me nor my son will be escorting you to the underworld, my little darkling duck."
"But–But–"
"It's best if you…try again later. Perhaps then the fates will grant you mercy."
It is quick. It is fleeting. In a way that only a meeting with death and darkness could be.
Regina wasn't sure what she expected. But it definitely wasn't this.
Then, there is a sigh, traveling through the atoms around her. Circulating, pouring out, from the best parts of her being to the worst. Like that of a woman taking her final breath. Nyx, Goddess of the night, pulls Regina into her lungs, and releases her into a distant and indefinite wave of pain.
Her mind is entrenched in darkness. Her incorporeal body gone. To a place where there are no thoughts. There is nothing. She can see nothing. And it makes her heart palpitate wildly in her chest.
Her heart. It's there. And it's still beating. She can feel it.
Relief.
She had only been dead for a few hours in this world's time. But for the briefest of moments, she forgot what it was like to have eyes. Something for which the dead have no need. Yes. Hers were now closed. But they have to be open to see.
And as the darkness dissipates, she can see the dusk-laden sky above her. She can feel the smooth wood of the dock below her.
This is somewhere to be. This was all she had, but it was still something. Her heartbeat and this stupid fairytale town. The sky, the Earth. She was alive.
In that stupid fairytale town, everyone had a tale about death and life as a fanciful storybook character – a tale everybody knows. But Regina's? Well, hers had really only just begun.
I wanted to end this chapter with a few DangerBear facts™:
- My great grandmother's maiden name was Hyman. Which was the Americanized form of the Jewish name Heiman. Which stems from the Hebrew word "Hyam" meaning "Life." Which you may have heard used before during a toast when someone says "L'chaim" which means "to life." But secretly, what it really means is "to danidangerbear, the author of this fantastically fantastical story."
- I don't know if any of you caught it. But I 1000% named a character Simon Heiman today and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me.
- If you've never had challah before, you should. It is, hands down, the best bread to have ever existed. Especially if you make french toast with it. I swear, you'll never eat french toast any other way again for as long as you live.
- I am not Jewish. I only have Jewish ancestry. My ancestors converted to Christianity not too long after coming to America from Germany sometime in the late-1800's. Though I'm not Christian either. So…do with that what you will.
- The thing I enjoy most about writing this particular piece is that it feels the most natural to write. Nothing in this is planned out in advance. I literally just sit at my keyboard and type out my internal stream of consciousness. Granted, I don't think very linearly or in a way that is easy for most people to follow, so the "stream of consciousness" as it were is translated a little and edited a lot before publishing. But it's really fun to just let the words flow out of me and just guide us all to wherever the hell they end up going.
- I am a glutton for your reviews and favorites/follows. While not required, they do provide much sustenance. So please feel free to feed the troll.
- I love you all.