Author's Note: It has been far too long since the last chapter and I apologize. I have not had a particularly good semester academically or personally. Now that I'm on Winter Break I have more time to write and am making definite progress!
I would like to thank everyone who sent me messages and reviews during my hiatus from this story, you were all wonderfully supportive, kind and occasionally insistent (you know who you are, areyousavvy!) about me continuing this story.
Additionally I would like to thank and welcome ExactChange to the team. She has graciously volunteered as tribute, I mean to beta-read this for me and has made herself invaluable. Furthermore two artists have stepped up and give life to Esmeralda. First off is corasparasol, who created a wonderful portrait and the other is my very good friend Fox who provided a head shot. These illustrations are both available for viewing on tumblr. It is damn near impossible to put in a url on this website so please check under my user name RebelByrdie and under the tags #Rebel Writes, #SN Esmeralda, and #SN Fanart. A huge thanks and much admiration for these two talented individuals.
There are some lines and scenes borrowed in part or in their entirety from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which is the intellectual property of Disney and Victor Hugo and blah blah blah.
Lastly thanks to EVERYONE who has read and continues to read this and all of my stories. You guys are amazing. Now, please read, enjoy and review if the Spirits move you.
Chapter XVIII
We All Fall Down
Regina gaped incredulously down at the foot of her stairs. She was utterly horrified, her brain refusing to interpret the scene. It's not like she'd never imagined the "Savior" lying on the ground somewhere, still and bleeding, but this—she could declare with utmost certainty—had never been what she'd had in mind. The darkness surged forward and she doubled over, the pounding behind her eyes overwhelming, nausea and fear combining in her gut. She was out of her element here; something wasn't adding up. Why didn't it feel like victory? Why on earth, instead of glee and happiness, did she feel like a piece of her soul had—yet again—been ripped from her, without her consent? Like it had been sliced from her being, sucked dry of all meaning and potential, and whisked away on the wind like an afterthought—all within the few inscrutable moments it took Ms. Swan to fall? Why were her feet moving down the stairs so damned fast? And why oh why, her mind lamented, WHY had she let the stupid, stubborn woman wrestle the dummy downstairs by herself? Regina could have levitated or teleported it down, with next to no effort. This was her fault. Emma Swan's battered, broken body lying in an ever-growing puddle of her own blood in Regina's entry way—this was on her. Unintentional or not, Regina knew she was blame.
"Emma!" she screamed, falling to her knees, ignoring the pain as bone connected with marble. Her fingers fell to the woman's neck, desperate to find a pulse. She found one, and although weak, it was there, thrumming steadily against her fingers.
"Oh thank the Spirits!" she exclaimed in relief, the words spilling from her lips without reticence, unhindered by pride. Her terror hadn't allowed her time to consider that she no longer acknowledged the Old Ways, or that she hadn't prayed to the Spirits in eons—not since her wedding night to Leopold. Nor had it allowed her time to speculate why she prayed now.
But she did. Like her life depended on it.
"Emma, please, open your eyes," she begged. Please Spirits, don't let her die. Regina was afraid to touch the other woman, afraid to move her—what if she'd broken her back or neck? The former mayor simply didn't know enough about medicine or healing to be of much benefit in this situation. Powerless, Regina felt frustrated and angry. Even more than she hated Rumplestiltskin and Snow White combined, she detested feeling powerless. But what could she do? She was helpless, unable to do anything but stare down at Dani—Emma's body. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Where had that thought come from?
"Mom, help her!"
Henry stood stock-still, small arms wrapped around himself, tears in his eyes. He wasn't looking at Emma, though. Regina turned her neck to follow his gaze and saw exactly what caused Emma to fall. Henry's Nikes, the ones she had bought him at the beginning of the school year, were on the stairs. One shoe remained, a silent witness, on the fourth step from the top, while the other lay overturned beside Emma's left arm.
Regina's first thought was that it wasn't her fault after all! Thank the Spirits, she was innocent of this, at least. But she quickly reigned in thoughts; she absolutely did not want their son blaming himself, either.
She spoke hurriedly, eagerly, attempting remove any doubt from his mind who was at fault here. "I shouldn't have let her move the form alone. I—this is my fault."
Regina had quickly decided that her son hated her for so much already, what was one more stone on the pile? She would not let him carry this guilt. He was a child, innocent and beautiful, and she would protect him from this, distance him.
"It's so heavy, and she's so damn clumsy. I should have known better." She felt like crying, could actually feel the tears prickling the back of her eyes. "This is my fault," Regina repeated. No one would believe she was innocent anyway; this accident would be her undoing. Snow would have her head for this. This—this Emma! This woman, her enemy, who lay unmoving and barely breathing, her son's other mother who was dying in her mansion, on her floor, in front of their child. There would be no Savior to step in and stop the mob this time. She looked down at Emma's motionless face. "Go get the phone, we need an ambulance." They would be too late, far too late to help her, but they had to try.
"But you can fix her with magic!" Henry's voice cracked on the word 'magic'.
She wished she could. By the Spirits she wished she could! But she was, as Emma's crumpled form plainly displayed, destruction incarnate. The darkness surged forward, immobilizing her.
"I can't!"
Just like she hadn't been able to save Henry when he'd needed her. "I'm the Evil Queen, remember?" Her chest was painfully tight now and she had to force words out through gasps, tears now falling unchecked. She was unable to tear her gaze away from Emma's still form. "I can't save anyone!"
Her words were fast and harsh, and having never been on this end of her majesty's anger, he was frozen in place, staring at her, mouth still breathing requests without sound. She looked up and met her son's eyes, but had no gentleness to give him. "Go get my damn phone!"
Her lungs were afire, each labored breath making her body jerk like an epileptic. She hadn't had an asthma attack since she was twelve—at which time Cora had taken it upon herself to cast a few insanely painful spells and "heal" her child's affliction. Magically cured or not, though, Regina was hyperventilating now; her chest heaving for purchase. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't save Emma. She couldn't do anything.
There was an all-consuming buzzing in her ears, in her brain.
She vaguely heard Henry's voice and footsteps, but her thoughts were jumbled, incoherent. Today had been too much. She felt herself sinking down to the floor, wanting to lie beside Emma and fall into oblivion. She simply couldn't do this anymore.
Her darkness, the evil inside of her, would always win. People would always hurt her, be hurt by her. Emma and Henry were just two more names to add to the excruciating long ledger of lives she'd ruined. Her lungs burned as they dragged in less and less air, her vision blurring as true panic set in.
Regina looked up when someone shouted her name and saw Esmeralda standing at the front door. To Regina, the aged gypsy looked absurdly normal standing there with two steamy pizza boxes in her hands.
Esmeralda took the scene quickly before speaking again. "Take this pizza to the kitchen, Little Henry."
Henry had Regina's cellphone and had been about to dial 911. "But I—we need—" he stammered, glancing over at his mothers, trying find words to explain.
Esmeralda ignored his panic, unceremoniously pushing the boxes into his hands.
"We all need to find our calm."
Esmeralda had always been the one to help Regina as a child when her breathing had been ragged and she'd been terrified she'd die. Daddy had tried to help, of course, but he'd never been able to calm her the way Esmeralda could.
The older woman knelt beside her and Emma's prone body.
Regina looked into her guardian's eyes, pleading. "She—" her words burst forth between desperate gasps for air. "—fell."
"Calm yourself, Little One." A warm hand started to rub circles on Regina's back. "You cannot help her if you are like this."
Esmeralda looked up at Henry, "Is there any cinnamon candy around?"
Regina didn't acknowledge the conversation, her eyes locked on the pale blonde woman, her fingers still trembling against the other woman's pulse-point.
Henry ran, presumably to find her purse, and came right back. Regina could hear his rapid footfalls, feel Esmeralda's hand on her back, and Emma's thready pulse under her fingertips.
She heard the crackle of plastic and Esmeralda handed her a bright red hard candy. As soon as the first hot taste hit her lips and tingled on her tongue, the panic began to subside just a little.
"That's it, Nightingale. Slow your breathing and find your calm."
Regina forced herself to turn to the side and look at Esmeralda. "Heal her, please Nan, make it okay."
Emma was the Savior. She was strong, brave and good. She was his mother and she wasn't ever supposed to get hurt. Regina was the Evil Queen. She was, or had been, his mother and she had never been scared of anything. She didn't cry, she didn't scream or curse at him, and she didn't huff, puff or lose her breath.
He had never seen either of his mothers like this. Emma was still on the floor and there was blood everywhere. It was coming out of her nose, her ears and a big gash in her arm that had things poking from it. One of her legs was sitting at a funny angle and her jeans leg had turned a dark red. Seeing his Savior bleeding was bad enough, but it was his other mother that was truly scaring him. Her face was pale and she could barely breathe. Her hands were shaking and she didn't seem very evil or queen-like at all. She was scared and her fear made him even more afraid because if his mom was afraid then there really was something very bad wrong with Emma.
"Heal her." His Mom's voice shook and she sounded different. Henry couldn't quite figure out why but she sounded small, like she was one of the girls he went to school with. She sounded, he realized, exactly like Grace had when she had fallen down and scraped cut her knee on the playground. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do.
"Please, Nan, make it okay," came the second desperate request.
Henry had a cold knot in his stomach. He wanted Esmeralda—or his Mom or David or Snow or Mr. Gold or SOMEONE to make it okay. This couldn't be how the story ended. The Savior had tripped over his shoes, making it his fault no matter what his Mom said. He just wanted everyone to be okay.
"Mom." He tried to hold the tears back. After all, he was almost a grown man and a prince and he shouldn't cry. But man, he wanted to. "Is Emma going to be okay?"
Esmeralda's hand was still rubbing circles on her back, just like his Mom had done for him when he was little and sick, and she looked up at him. Henry was shocked to see that there were tears in her eyes too.
Only Evil Queens didn't cry, did they?
"I don't know, Henry. Nan?"
She had never, not in his entire life, asked anyone for help. Not really. Sometimes she had told Graham or Sydney to do things, but she never asked anyone for anything.
"You can heal her, Little One."
"I can't."
A tear slid down her cheek and Henry's stomach squirmed. He had to do something. Heroes didn't stand by the side and do nothing. But what options did he have?
"Mom."
She blinked at him, but didn't say anything.
"I know you can do it. I believe in you."
It was like switching the TV on, a sudden switch from black to bright colors, and a sudden spark appeared in his Mom's dark eyes. She turned her head back to Emma.
"Okay," she said vacantly.
Henry watched, uncomfortable with the magic that Esmeralda was talking to his mo—Regina about but more uncomfortable and confused by the fact that his mo—Regina had responded to him so quickly, without fight or hesitation. He didn't understand why or what it meant, but knew that it meant something.
"This is the same as with your tree, Nightingale, only bigger."
"She's a person, Nan. With blood and bone and—"
The older woman shook her head, "Do you think your tree does not have these things as well? Find your calm. Go to that peaceful place inside and focus on your love. Your love is your power."
Love, Henry blinked, was power? He knew that True Love was the most powerful magic, but power? She was the Evil Queen! How could she love enough to save Emma?
"Her head first, then her chest. All other injuries can wait. A man can live without an arm, but never without a mind."
Regina's hands, the same hands that had made his lunch every day and tucked him in every night, shook as she raised them over Emma's head.
"Focus on your love and how it healed you and let that feeling spill out of you and flow into her."
At first nothing happened, but then he saw it. Small, at first, but bright and shimmering, the purple light pulsed in his mom's hands. For a second he forgot he hated magic because the light was so pretty. His heart thudded in his chest against his sternum and he swallowed a big gulp in his throat. He wanted Emma to be okay.
"Slow and steady, let your magic guide you. Let your love flow like a river." Esmeralda wrapped her arm around his mom's shoulders, "You are doing so well. Your father would be so proud of you. Keep going. Move to her chest—let your love fill her with health and well-being. Imagine the light filling in the cracks in her ribs and soothing the bruised muscles."
Emma's face looked smoother, Henry realized, and her breathing was better. It was working. It was working!
"Now her arm. Remember the tree limb? Let your magic flow into her bones, rejuvenating them, new and healthy tissue curling around the broken and injured, making it whole and strong once more."
Henry watched as the ugly gash in Emma's arm slurped the white pokey-outey-bits back inside.
Those white parts were, he realized, her bones. His stomach flipped and sweat popped up all over his body. That was so gross.
"Now her leg. Slowly, that's it."
Regi—his mom was wobbling now, like she was having a hard time sitting up straight. Her skin, usually a golden tan even when she didn't go outside, was pasty and pale, like the really cold winter days when she coughed a lot.
"Stop."
Esmeralda shook her, "Stop now. You're done."
He watched the Gypsy grab her hands and try to jerk them away from Emma. "She's okay now. Stop before you faint. Regina, listen to me!"
His mom was not responding her and Esmeralda was getting louder but it didn't seem to help. His Mom's usually brown eyes were wide and full of purple swirls. Purple light poured from her hands like a faucet that hadn't been turned off. Her breathing, which had calmed, was becoming quiet—way too quiet.
"Mom?" She didn't respond; he wasn't even sure that she had heard him. He stepped closer, scared but determined, and touched her shoulder. "Mom, it's okay. Emma's okay, you can stop now. Please."
Her eyes fluttered open and shut, like she was surprised or just waking up. The purple faded until his mom's eyes were normal brown again. Her hands fell limply to the floor between her knees. She wobbled and might have fallen, if Esmeralda hadn't been holding her.
"Hen—" She blinked at him like she was confused, "Henry?"
"Thank you, Little Henry." Esmeralda nodded at him, "now help me get your mothers to the—" She pursed her scarred lips, "the den?" It sounded like a question. "So they can rest on the couch."
Mothers, plural. Huh, it was weird that he had two moms, but he did. No one in Storybrooke or on TV had two moms. Was that even allowed? He had begun to think more on this when he watched his mother try to stand. She began to fall again almost immediately and without thinking, he reacted, catching her in his arms. He wobbled then, almost bringing them both to the floor, as her entire weight slammed against him; but thankfully, he managed to remain steady. "Whoa," he breathed, surprised.
Using magic had really drained her. He had never seen her so weak. He hadn't ever even realized she could be weak. Ever. She was the Evil Queen and before that. . . He glanced at the pictures on the wall as he helped his mother to the den, she was his mom. She had never needed help or struggled or cried. Had she?
Henry helped his mom to the couch; his eyes widening in amazement as she did the unthinkable—she flopped like a fish down onto it (her own words, and something that was never, ever allowed). Esmeralda followed them into the room; Henry stifled a laugh at seeing Emma being carried like a sack of potatoes. The Gypsy lowered Emma to the couch and for a moment the blonde sat up straight, head tilted to the side, before starting to slide. He moved to help, but Regina caught her first, guiding her head to her lap. Esmeralda positioned Emma's bent legs over the remaining length of the couch. And that was it. Both moms were on the couch.
"Idiot." His mom looked down at Emma's head in her lap, her insult barely a whisper. It almost sounded friendly, like a nickname.
Esmeralda leaned over and looked his mom right in the eyes, "You sit, rest, and tend to your Swan. Little Henry and I will bring you both something to eat."
Henry was about to say that food, except the popcorn bowl on movie night, was not allowed in the den. His mom, true to form, opened her mouth to protest but Esmeralda quickly cut her off, "No argument from you."
No one told his Mom what to do.
He waited for her to stand up, roll her eyes and say, 'Miss Swan can take care of herself'.
Instead, he heard, "Okay."
What? Henry looked between his mom and Esmeralda and back again. He didn't understand what was going on.
"Come, Little Henry," Esmeralda beckoned placidly, as if it was the most normal sight in the world, his moms lying together like this. She walked back towards the hallway and did not turn to face him. "Come now. You can show me how to use the me-crow-waver."
He followed, but paused at the door to look back at the two women, his moms, on the couch. 'Moms', it still sounded totally weird. They were just sitting there, well Emma was laying, but his Mom, Regina, had her head tilted back, resting it against the back of the couch. They weren't fighting or even arguing. They were just sitting there, like normal people—like two really tired people. Not good, not evil, just tired.
He followed Esmeralda down the hall to the kitchen without paying any attention to the actual trip. He knew exactly how many steps it was from the den to the kitchen without thinking twice. Thoughts swirled in his head. Magic—the Evil Queen's magic—had saved the Savior! That wasn't how it was supposed to go, was it?
"Where are the pizzas?"
He blinked and stopped just in enough time to not run into Esmeralda. "In the dining room."
Instead of just telling him to go get them, though, Esmeralda raised her brow, just like his mom did. He knew better than to argue with that look.
The pizzas were still sitting on the table beside his project and his backpack. His hands paused over the pizza boxes. His backpack with the DVD still in it.
Maybe the whole 'moms' situation was confusing. Maybe he didn't know exactly what was going on. Maybe he didn't know a lot of things. He did know one thing for sure, though, and that was he was really, really good at figuring out people's fairytale identities and he had a few questions for Esmeralda.
She stared at what Regina had called the me-crow-waver and wondered what sort of magic could give a box the ability to produce so much heat with no fire. Though perhaps, Esmeralda thought as she glanced down at the pink scars on her wrist, it was for the best. Still all magic, or whatever powered the box, came with a price.
"I know who you are," Little Henry stated, assuredly.
Esmeralda turned away from the mysterious me-crow-waver and smiled at Little Henry. It was like she had told his mother, he was very much like Regina. He was smart, but very temperamental and had an inflated ego.
"I did not know that my identity was a mystery," she replied succinctly.
He put the greasy thick paper boxes down and held up a smaller, shiny box. She blinked at it and though she read the Common Language just as well as she did any other, it took her three times through to comprehend what it said:
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
The illustration on the front of the DVD case, brightly painted with exquisite and eerily accurate details, took her breath away.
"I watched it. Your story, I mean. About you and Quasimodo and Frollo and I know you're not bad. You're good." Little Henry pushed the box into her hands, "but where's Phoebus? Where's your True Love? Did my Mom take him from you?"
Memories, unbidden and unwanted, crashed into her mind's eye, accompanied by a flash of phantom pain racing across her skin. She dropped the box and it clattered across the tile floor. "I—"
They had stripped her down to a dingy shift that barely covered her, making her practically naked in front of the entire city. If she hadn't been so afraid, she would have been ashamed. Her dark hair was loose, falling into her eyes and over her face. She was a prisoner, tied to a post, waiting for her final journey to begin.
She watched as they dragged sweet Quasimodo back towards the Cathedral, back to the bell towers that were his home and prison. He fought at first, but even the bravest boys eventually run out of courage. Quasimodo was the kindest, bravest, sweetest, most innocent person she had ever known. If only he were as beautiful on the outside as he was within, then he would have been treated as the man he was and not the monster others believed him to be. His so-called protector, the man who called himself Justice, was the true monster.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was young, and all she wanted, all she had ever wanted, was to travel the world. She wanted to dance her way across the worlds, happy and carefree. She did not practice witchcraft, she eschewed her gifts. She didn't want them. She didn't want the responsibilities that came with being a soothsayer. She didn't want to lead her people or do great deeds. She didn't want to be special. She only wanted to live, love and dance. She wanted to be free.
Frollo marched towards her, his black robes billowing behind him, a torch clutched in his talon-like hand. His eyes, deeply set, jet black, soulless pits in his face raked over her lasciviously and she shuddered.
"The time has come, Gypsy Whore, you stand on the brink of the abyss." His voice was cold, grating, sounding like it belonged to a graveyard and not a living man. "Yet even now—" He leaned in closer to her, his fingers reaching out to caress her cheek. She flinched away but he grabbed her face and held her still. "—it is not too late. I can save you from the flames of this world and the next." Her heart hammered in her chest; she swallowed back the bile that rushed into her throat.
"Choose me or the fire," he demanded.
There was no choice there. She did the only thing she could think of, it being the vilest, most insulting gesture her people knew. She spat on him. He was filth, a disgusting worm, a creature of nightmares.
He let her go as he jerked back and away from her. His opulent ring nicked her lip and she tasted blood.
He twisted around and lifted his torch high. "The Gypsy Esmeralda—" saying her name like a curse, "—has refused to recant. This evil witch has put every soul in this city—"
Evil? She was the evil one? This man-monster had hunted down and slaughtered her people by the dozens. He had cut down women, drowned children, tortured men until they screamed and begged for mercy. She, on the other hand, had danced, befriended a sweet boy and fallen in love. How was that evil? She was not being persecuted for witchcraft. She was being persecuted for being a Romani woman. She was being persecuted because she was brave enough to say "No".
"So as is my duty as the protector of this city and its people, I will send this devil back from whence she came!"
He lowered the torch to the bundles of hay and they instantly caught fire. Smoke and heat engulfed her. There was so much she had not done, so many things she had not seen. She would never be a wife or a mother. She would never give her virginity to her true love, she would never teach her children the mysteries of the world underneath the shade of a tree. She would never grow old. She would never see her clan again. This was the end of her journey in the living realm. She grit her teeth and clenched her jaw, she would not scream. She felt the pain reach out and grab her, orange and yellow tongues of agony licking her skin, turning the flesh of her arms and legs to blistered flesh—she could smell herself cooking, like a pig on a spit.
"No!" a voice rang out, clear and true.
She blinked, pain and smoke clouding her senses. Had she screamed? No; she had bitten the inside of her cheek until blood flowed onto her tongue, her jaw locked, to keep from uttering a sound. Then who had screamed?
Pheobus?
Arms pulled her free of her bindings and lifted her, a sudden jerk and she was away from the fire and flying through the air.
Was this death?
She felt herself being lifted. Was she being offered to the spirits?
"Sanctuary!"
Not Pheobus.
"Sanctuary!"
Quasimodo.
The amazing man had saved her once again.
"Sanctuary!"
How could anyone think Quasimodo was anything less than a hero? She had been shocked, at first, by his appearance, but had learned quickly that there was more to a man than his face. This was known.
Phoebus might have the golden armor and the sword but Quasimodo was, to quote the silly stories girls listened to when they were young, her knight in shining armor.
She drifted in and out, pain making her lose her sense of time and place. The violent sound of wood splintering under metal forced her to drag herself into a sitting position. She stumbled, blistered feet in agony on old, rough, uneven and splintered floor. Her burnt and abused body protested every single step. Her arms, fingertips to shoulder blades, were blistered and burnt, charred black in some places. Her legs were no better off. Her grandmother's lessons on healing herbs and spells seemed so hazy now. Why had she never paid attention? Spirits help her, she had been such a foolish child, and an equally foolish woman. She limped towards the sound of men's voices, the world tilted and her vision blurred. Her senses were warped by pain to the point that even the Cathedral's ghoulish statues had come to life and were fighting off soldiers who dared invade the holy confines of the city's great Cathedral. She continued onward towards the balcony, using beams and low-hanging bells to lean against and remain upright.
The view of the city, once breathtakingly beautiful, was now haunting. The city, the gorgeous jewel of civilization, was in flames. An orange haze lingered above the rooftops and reached towards the heavens, unstoppable. Smoke choked the air and in every direction she turned, she saw destruction.
Two silhouettes stood, however, coal black against the fiery sky, at the edge of the roof. The tall and sinister shadow of her captor and the misshapen one of her rescuer. Man and monster together once more.
"All my life you have told me the world is a dark cruel place, but now I see the only thing dark and cruel about it—"
She limped closer, every step a new lesson in agony, to see Quasimodo throw a dagger down on the stones.
"—is you."
He was angrier than she'd ever thought he could be. Her sweet bell ringer was too kind to attack his beast of a master, had thrown away the dagger. He was not going to let darkness into his heart. "Quasi—" Her throat felt swollen and blistered, and her breath reeked of smoke. Each sound was pain, but she could not stay silent anymore. "Quasimodo?"
He turned to her and the smile that crossed his face could not have been more beautiful. "Esmeralda." He walked towards her but stopped midway into his odd-shuffling gait when the cold rasp of a sword being pulled from its scabbard reached their ears.
"She lives."
The sword was pointed at her and she was in no condition to fend it off.
"No!"
The fight between the wicked Frollo and the wonderful Quasimodo was the thing that fireside tales were made of. Dashing, daring, heartfelt—but this was the real world, not a story, and the hero didn't always win. Sometimes life was cruel, the truth was dark, and the things people loved the most betrayed them. The Cathedral, the only place that he had ever truly called home, crumbled beneath Quasimodo's feet.
She ran, the Spirits offering her their speed and strength, and she dove for him. Not quickly enough, though. She only caught one of his hands in hers. She locked both hands around his thick wrist and immediately felt the charred flesh of her shoulders start to bulge and rip; she grit her teeth against the pain. Despite her determination, though, she could already feel her grip slipping.
"Esmeralda?" the new voice called to her.
She twisted her head and almost dropped Quasimodo from the pain the simple movement caused her. He stood there, and even clad in a ragged tunic he was every inch the knight in shining armor. The fire's glow from down below painted him gold, much like the armor he'd been wearing the first time she'd met him. In that moment, with a simple spear in his hands, he looked exactly like the sun god he'd been named for.
"Phoebus," she responded. Even the mention of his name brought her a bit of comfort. She tried to smile but the strain on her body was too much. "Phoebus, please, help me. He's slipping." He started towards her, ready to be her hero.
"Stop, Captain Phoebus." Frollo's voice was firm. Phoebus stopped abruptly, his body suddenly rigid. It was a soldier's reaction that had been drummed into him since boyhood. "Think about what you're doing. These are fugitives, criminals—a condemned witch and a monster. You have a promising career ahead of you, Captain. I would hate to see you throw it away."
His words, slick with implication, hit their mark immediately.
"He's going to fall! I can't hold him, please!"
"Let them fall, and you'll have a clean record, Phoebus. None of this mess will have ever happened. You can return to your duties with a commendation from the highest man of justice in the kingdom." Frollo emphasized his own nickname with obvious intent.
Esmeralda looked back down at Quasimodo's face. It was as grotesque as ever in the flickering firelight, but that wasn't what caught her attention. It was the resignation she saw in his eyes, the loss of the ever-present hope that had marked him such a wonderful man.
"Hold on, try to find a handhold or a ledge!" If anyone could save themselves from this fall it would be the strong, sure-footed bell ringer.
"I will speak to the King myself, and recommend you for a true noble knighthood. Land, a title, a legacy. Everything you have ever wanted. Everything you've worked towards. Everything that a lowly gypsy will never be able to give you."
Quasimodo's wrist was quickly slipping through her blistered, aching fingers. Tears sprang to her eyes and she frantically tried to tap into the magic that she knew existed within her. Fear, pain, and anger swirled through her head and heart, though, and she could not find the calm place she knew she needed in order to channel it.
"He's going to die!" She screamed at them, at the Spirits, at everyone below. Somebody, anybody, had to help her. His hand slipped through her grip and she grasped him only by his thick and roughly calloused fingers.
"I love you, Esmeralda." Quasimodo's spoke these words with the sweetness of a summer breeze.
He looked up at her with the clearest, saddest and most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. Then he fell. A sweet boy who had only wanted to go to a festival fell from the Cathedral and to the unforgiving cobblestones and fire bellow.
She couldn't even scream.
Esmeralda lay still for a moment, hands and head dangling over the edge.
She felt his presence, malevolent and disgusting, hovering over her only a moment before he spoke, "And He shall smite the wicked. . ."
She saw RED—every ounce of outrage and anger shot through her body, obliterating everything else. Magic, as old as time, flowed through her and she twisted, rolled onto her ruined back and threw up her hands. Magic, real magic, flowed from her fingertips and froze Frollo in place. His sword clattered to the floor, his limp and powerless hands unable to hold it, his face twisted into an almost demonic grimace. She stood, and with the rage as a buffer, did not feel any pain in doing so.
"You wanted a witch, Frollo? You wanted magic? You wanted to smite the wicked?" She twitched a wrist and he rose into the air. His eyes, the only part of him that could move, frantically darted back and forth.
"You are the wicked one. You have destroyed this city. You have hunted and slaughtered my people for no reason." She narrowed her eyes, feeling the magic pouring off of her, crackling and arcing dangerously. She didn't care. "Worst of all, though—" She twisted her wrist again and he shook in the air, "—you destroyed Quasimodo. Beat him, neglected him, isolated him. You let that sweet and innocent soul die because you are the monster." The decision was made before she had even realized it, "And tonight I smite you." She threw her arm out to the side of the building and the judge, no longer safe within the ornate and pompous black robes of his corrupt office that covered him, fell over the edge of the House of God.
"Bastard," she angrily whispered at his falling body, her eyes and body on fire.
She turned then, magic still keeping the agony at bay, to look at Phoebus. The once golden knight had Frollo's sword in his hands.
"Monster!" he growled, trembling arms betraying his fear.
He spat at her, "You are a witch. You murdered him."
"Monster?" Her muscles tensed under ruined flesh. "You thought I was beautiful once."
He smirked, an expression she had found endearing once, and bit out at her, "Baby, you got real ugly real fast."
Her heart twisted in her chest, and she raised her hands, ready to show him exactly how ugly she had become. But he ran towards her, sword ready to fly. She pulled back, but not quickly enough, and the tip of the blade cut through her face. The pain was sharp and bitter with betrayal. She put her hand up and it came back slick with blood. He had cleaved through her face, her lips and cheek, the same way a butcher chopped meat.
Any feeling of love that remained in her heart for him withered and died.
"I—" Phoebus faltered, the perfect chivalrous knight shocked by his own actions. "Oh God, Esmeralda I'm sor—"
The door that lead to the Cathedral burst open and soldiers poured onto the roof with them.
She moved her hand from her bleeding face and pointed it at the shocked Phoebus. "He killed Frollo." The soldiers, simple men with just as much fear in them as bravery, looked at their onetime-leader and the sword in his hand.
"Guys, it's me!" he shouted, to no avail. They were on him instantly, like rabid dogs on a fresh steak.
Fatigue, pain and sadness started to hit her, along with wave upon wave of other emotions, but she fought it. She had one last bit of magic to work before giving into it. She thought of home, of her clan, of the creaking wagons and the crackling campfires. The smoke that marked her translocation spell was completely lost in the haze of the burning city, but she thought she might have heard, or maybe imagined, that Phoebus had screamed her name one last time as she disappeared.
She re-appeared far outside of the city, in a clearing nestled in a deep forest. The spicy scent of cooking meat, the soft melody of guitars and laughter of children marked the camp as Romani just as much as the brightly painted wagons and tents. She appeared in the middle of the camp, her anger-fueled translocation spell, obviously much more powerful than the camp's magical wards, and stumbled to her knees. She breathed one last word before succumbing to the darkness, "Sanctuary."
She fell forward and thought she felt hands catch her, she had no idea who, only that they were her people and she was safe.
Sometime later, sound was the first thing she noticed. It was distant at first but quickly moved closer and became clearer, understandable.
"Why can't we heal her?"
"I tried, Grandmother, but nothing works."
Esmeralda realized vaguely that her sisters, one older and one younger, were fussing over her like mother hens. They were very much like their dear mother in this way, always caring for each other, doting on one another.
"She's waking up," someone stated, though she wasn't sure which one.
Esmeralda opened her eyes and winced at the low lamp light that surrounded her. The glow reminded her of the burning city's haze.
"Hello, my wayward child."
Her grandmother, Patia, greeted her and Esmeralda licked her lips to wet them. She tasted blood and bitter herbs that told her that someone had bandaged and treated the cut on her face.
"Hello, Grandmother."
The woman, the serene soothsayer, with white hair and sharp green eyes that saw through all lies, had raised her along with her sisters. And after everything that had happened, Esmeralda was so happy to see her that tears sprang to her eyes.
"Can you tell me why our healing magic isn't working on you, Little One?" the old woman asked.
Tears filled Esmeralda's eyes, overflowing. "The world is a dark and cruel place, Grandmother. It destroys innocence and extinguishes any chance of love."
Soft, weathered and wrinkled hands brushed her tears away, "Yes, but what did Esmeralda, daughter of Galina, do to darken her heart?"
The story, of the fire, the fight on the rooftop, her fury and the magic she'd made spilled out of her in a rush. When she finished, her grandmother only sighed. "You've lost your innocence, Little One. Your deeds have darkened your heart and sullied your soul. That is why we cannot heal you. All magic comes with a price, and this is yours."
Esmeralda blinked, unable to understand. Her grandmother continued, "These wounds will not be healed by magic. You took two lives tonight and this will be your penance. You will spend many long and pain-filled weeks healing, whereupon you shall carry these scars with you for your entire lifetime—a reminder of your crimes."
She could see tears in Patia's eyes in the lamp light. "Tell me, Little One, was it worth it?" she asked softly, smoothing her granddaughter's hair softly with her withered old fingers.
Despite the pain, the shame and the knowledge that she would bear the scars forever, all Esmeralda had to do was close her eyes and see Quasimodo's face to know her answer.
"Yes." she responded, her answer true.
"Um—" Little Henry's voice and concern cut through the remembrance, bringing Esmeralda abruptly back to the present. She blinked and the memories dissolved. She was back in the very foreign and odd kitchen that Regina's curse had created. Back in her Little Nightingale's home in Storybrooke with Regina's son and something called pizza.
"Are you okay?" Little Henry asked, probably wondering why the strange old woman that his mother called Nan had ignored him.
She unconsciously wrapped her arms around her waist, wishing it was her Henry's embrace.
"I did not know that this story, my story, had come to this realm," she told him simply.
Little Henry bent down to pick up the strange shiny box again. "Yeah and you just dropped the DVD of it on the floor. I hope it didn't break. It's not even mine." He opened the clasp on the side of the box to reveal a small, shiny plate inside, replete with a hole in the middle.
"So what about Phoebus? And Quasi? Where are they? Why aren't you with them?"
He regarded her with hazel eyes that were strangely familiar to her. "They are gone, Little Henry."
She sighed, it was such a complicated story, and if the small painting on the box indicated anything, the story that Henry seemed to know was wildly different from the truth. (Where had the goat come from?) "I do not know what is in this story-box, but Phoebus was not my true love and not all stories come with happily-ever-afters."
He blinked at her and tilted his head, the same way his mother had when she had been puzzled as a child. "Are you saying the bad guy won?"
What a simple question, a child's question. "I am saying that things are not always as simple as they seem. Sometimes the knight in shining armor is not courageous. Sometimes love is a lie. Sometimes the hero falls. My people believe that every person tells their own story."
"So—" The boy frowned at her, "you don't have a True Love?"
She couldn't help it, she chuckled at the question. The child certainly had a one-track mind.
"I do have a True Love, but even that is not simple. Love is never simple and not always happy. These things don't always happen when you want or need them to. Sometimes your True Love is with someone else or in an entirely different realm. Sometimes they are so unexpected that you can't imagine that it could ever work out. Sometimes they are a prince while you are a pauper."
"A prince?" Henry smiled at her, a crooked half-smile that seemed incredibly familiar. "Your true love is a prince?"
She smiled because even the smallest mention of Henry brought her happiness. "He was more than a prince. He was a kind, caring, gentle man, but married with a child."
Little Henry blinked, "But you fell in love anyway."
She needed to do something with her hands so she opened the greasy paper box, only to find an odd combination of meats, somewhat identifiable vegetables, and cheese.
"Yes."
He scowled, "But then he got a divorce and was with you, right? The same thing happened to my Gramps because of the curse. Now he's with his True Love again."
She put two triangle chunks of the pizza on one of Regina's white china plates and handed it to Henry. She did not know how to use the magic box. The child, however, popped the front open before proceeding to make it beep with his finger, seemingly without emotion. She watched, baffled and fascinated in turn.
"What is a dee-vorce, Little Henry?"
This word, like the hot-box me-crow-waver, was a mystery to her.
He shrugged, "It's when grown-ups stop being married. It happens all the time on TV. They go to court and yell a lot and then after three commercial breaks the judge tells them who owes who money and they're divorced."
The box beeped three times and Henry opened it again. The pizza was now steaming hot. Magic? More of the electric power she had been told about? This world and it's dee-vorce and me-crow-wavers was beyond her.
"I do not know about ending marriage. A marriage is a powerful bond, a partnership that is meant to last through the realm of the living and into realm of the dead. This is known."
She put two more chunks on another plate and Henry started up the me-crow-waver again.
"Love is complicated. Sometimes it is a struggle and other times a surprise. Sometimes it sneaks up on you. Sometimes it is the last person in the world you expect. Love can happen between two people who are supposed to hate each other. Everything points to bitter animosity, but love blooms in its stead."
The box beeped again and Little Henry removed the second plate.
"Come." She was tired of talking about matters of love, life and destiny with a boy. "Your mothers will need to eat."
Emma's last thought before taking her big "Swan dive" down the stairs had been 'Oh fucking shit, this is going to hurt.' She had been right. It had hurt like a fucker. She had been beaten, had been in car wrecks, and one time she had even sort of fallen off of a building, but this staircase shit hurt worse than all of that. At the moment, though, she wasn't really in pain. She felt tired, weary, but otherwise fine. Her body felt like it was made of granite but there wasn't a single ache or pain. She actually felt tingly.
"Idiot."
Well she knew she couldn't be dead because angel's voices would never be so decadent. They wouldn't dare bring that level of sass into heaven.
"Clumsy oaf. I can't believe you fell down my stairs. You do not live up to your chosen surname at all, Miss Swan."
Yep, that was Regina, alright.
Emma felt decidedly warm and surprisingly comfortable to be lying on a floor. Sensation started to come back to her. She was not on the floor, then, that was good. She was on a couch, even better. Someone had her head in their lap and was running their fingers through her hair, so very good. She practically purred, feeling so loved and comfortable. Emma wanted to stay exactly where she was for the next five-hundred years or so.
"It must be genetic."
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. That's when it all dawned on her. She was cuddled up on Regina's couch, snuggled in Regina's lap.
"Henry fell down those same stairs when he was—"
Regina's hands froze in Emma's hair, breaking the soothing rhythm.
"Well, when he was about three he went through a very clingy stage. He was an absolute terror. The tantrums were—well in retrospect, he does have quite a bit of your mother in him." The petting, the soft stroking of her hair, resumed. "He hated it when I went to work and he couldn't stand daycare. I only took him three days a week but he would try to get around it every day. First it was my car keys, and sometimes my cellphone. There were a few plumbing incidents, but lucky for me, I know Jack quite well. Henry learned, though, that I could leave without my phone and even my keys sometimes—"
She chuckled and Emma wanted to open her eyes and look at her but didn't dare. She was talking about Henry, about their son, freely and openly without arguing or pitching a bitch-fit. Emma loved it. She wanted to know everything about Henry, and by extension she was mildly surprised to realize, Regina.
"—but never without shoes. So he would hide them. He would come into my room, usually while I was in the shower and take whatever shoes I'd laid out—"
Because only Regina would coordinate her outfit before her shower instead of afterwards like a normal person.
"—and hide them. It was so cute that I couldn't find it in my heart to scold him for it. Louis Vuitton's in the potato bin. Manolo Blahnik's in his toy box, and one time I found a pair of Jimmy Choo's in the oven. It ran us a bit behind, but he thought he was so clever. It became a special little game for us. It didn't hurt anybody, until it did."
The stroking picked up speed, as if the woman above her was reliving the events she was telling.
"He took a pair of shoes, a navy blue pair of Gucci's. I will always remember; those shoes are branded into my brain. He went to hide them in the den, but dropped one. He didn't even realize it. He hid the one shoe and then went back upstairs to find his Georgie and play. I called him down for breakfast and he just didn't notice the shoe. He fell—" Her voice hitched, "and I thought my heart stopped. He was so tiny and I was helpless. All those years and I had never missed magic, but I would have done anything in that moment to have it back."
Magic, Emma realized, was the pleasant tingling she felt. Regina had healed her, like the tree. From gardening to surgery without a step in between. Some people were just too damn good at life.
"I called Graham, frantic. I must have scared him over the phone because he came over, sirens blaring, in less than five minutes. The paramedics were right behind him. I don't remember everything, but I do remember that they wouldn't let me ride with Henry. I was frantic; Graham had to physically pull me away from the gurney and shove me into his squad car so he could take me to the hospital. I was still barefoot, believe it or not."
Emma did not believe that at all. She had never even seen Regina without heels. She was like a Barbie Doll whose shoes were a permanent fixture on her feet.
"I was a terror. Dr. Whale almost cried, I think. Henry was fine. A broken arm and a mild concussion. They held him overnight just to be sure. I don't think I let go of his hand, the unbroken one, the entire time."
Emma had broken her arm when she was six and had waited in a cold ER exam room with an uninterested social worker for hours. No one had held her hand or raised hell for her. God, the Kid had no idea how lucky he was to have Regina.
"Then again maybe this is a product of nurture over nature. I was clumsy as a child, myself." Regina a klutz? Emma seriously doubted that. "When I was, oh ten or so, I fell down the stairs and still have the scar."
The sexy as hell lip scar? Not that Emma had stared at Regina's lips or anything.
Regina's voice grew distant. "A lady must never run. It is unseemly."
Emma's eyes almost popped open at that. Those words were cold and borderline robotic, like they were being forced out of her. Cora, Emma realized, had taught Regina that. Anytime she thought of Regina alone with Cora, Emma got a little nauseous. That night at Granny's, Regina had been terrified at the mere mention of her mother. What the hell had that woman done to her?
Emma opened her eyes, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the light didn't hurt her head or eyes. Regina was above her, lost her thoughts, memories, whatever. Emma took the opportunity to stare at her. It was an odd angle, but Regina was gorgeous from any view. This particular vantage point, however, seemed to soften The Evil Queen. She looked just as tired as Emma felt, maybe more so. She was pale, her usually olive skin dull and drawn. Her eyes were wide, dark and glassy and instead of the usual unflinching gaze, her eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. She looked like she could burst into tears at any moment. And for reasons she couldn't quite explain, Emma couldn't stand the idea of Regina crying.
"Hey," she managed roughly, her voice jagged in her throat. Regina's hands immediately went still, fingers still buried in Emma's blonde hair.
"Hey."
Regina was looking down at her now, and Emma knew it should be uncomfortable and weird, but it wasn't. Like, at all.
"How are you feeling?"
How was she feeling? Warm, comfortable, and surprisingly safe. "Pretty good. Tired, a little tingly. How are you feeling?"
She saw the lie coming from a mile away, "Fine." As much as Emma would love to stay there, head on Regina's lap being petted like a kitten, this conversation wasn't headed anywhere.
Emma rolled her eyes, "Help me sit up, Mayor Mayor pants-on-fire."
Regina huffed, but slid her fingers out of Emma's hair and slowly helped her sit up.
"Any pain?" Regina asked.
Emma twisted around and finally settled, settling next to Regina on the couch, head resting against the cushions. "No. I picked the right voodoo-lady to fall on my face in front of. You fixed me right up."
She turned her head and from this angle she could see the pronounced shadows that surrounded Regina's eyes. "And I'm betting you paid a price for all that pretty magic, too, didn't you?"
Regina looked away from her, breaking eye contact. "All magic comes with a price, Miss Swan."
Emma reacted automatically, immediately reaching out and grabbing Regina's hand, "It's Emma. You probably just saved my life, so it's Emma." She was pretty sure she had heard Regina scream it just after her fall, but maybe she had been dreaming.
"Emma then," Regina practically whispered. What was happening between them? What was this?
Emma brushed her fingers across the back of Regina's hand, "If you get this tired from healing a bump on the head," Emma began, having thought about this for a few days, "what happened to you after you sucked up that crazy death thing at the well?"
Emma could sense the lie coming, maybe it was her super power, or maybe she just knew the other woman better than she realized. She headed it off. "The truth, Regina."
Regina paused for a moment before sighing, "Had Esmeralda not arrived when she did—" Regina looked away again, "well it was a death curse."
Emma felt a cold shiver crawl up her spine. "Jesus Christ, Regina, why the hell would you do that?"
Why had she risked her life for people she didn't even like?
The response was the go-to, constant. "Henry."
So short and to the point. She had basically attempted suicide because Henry had told her to. That idea was disturbing and terrifying and Emma wasn't sure how to handle it. Luckily for her, and probably both of them, Henry and Esmeralda chose that moment to make their entrance. Henry carried two plates of pizza and Esmeralda was pushing the Dress Dummy from Hell.
"Are you two okay?" Henry asked, uncertain.
Regina moved her hand, slowly and subtly, out from beneath hers. "Yes, Dear, we're just a little tired, but I'm sure we can finish your project tonight."
Finish his wh—? Was Regina kidding?
"But Mom, you're both hurt!"
Emma, in simultaneous disbelief, echoed his sentiment, "But Regina, I almost died!"
Emma reasoned briefly that if their voices, hers and Henry's, had resounded off the walls with almost identical cadence and whine, it was pure coincidence, right?
Regina's mouth twitched at the spectacle, like she wanted to smile.
"Henry, this is one of the biggest grades of the year for you." His shoulders slumped but he nodded. She turned then to the woman next to her. "And Miss Swa—Emma—welcome to motherhood."