Chapter Text
Robin is assigned to her the day of her father’s funeral. The grey skies weep in solidarity with the mourners—a congregation of shadows in dusky garb—as they huddle beneath a small pavilion in a vain attempt to escape the drizzle. She sits by the grave, staring at the coffin with a hollow expression, red-painted lips the only pop of color in the achromatic scene.
She's beautiful—stunning—despite the grief she hides behind a cold, impassive mask. Robin notes this as a simple observation rather than the first blush of attraction. The latter is verboten, and honor has ever been his guiding principle.
“Regina Mills is a special case,” Tink says next to him.
The two stand a few paces off from the others, untouched by the rain. Nothing in this world truly affects their kind. The sodden grass under Robin’s boots, the hazy air curling around him—these hint at his senses, but it’s hardly more than an echo of memory from his centuries-ago mortal life. He is tethered to the Celestial plane now, and only an Appearance, full or partial, can make the things of Earth tactile to him again, albeit temporarily. There is, of course, a way to make the transition permanent, but it’s not an option he will ever entertain.
He studies his crew’s newest charge. Her aura is an angry crimson, so dark that it's nearly black. Not Lost—not yet—but near enough. He can easily guess why Tink is transferring her care to him. His Watch deals exclusively with those souls who are almost completely in the palm of the Dark One’s hand, though they’ve never been given one quite so close to the precipice before.
“I’ll assign her to Little John,” he says. “He does well with those who are past Hearing.”
Tink shakes her head. “It has to be you, Robin.”
Robin glances at the petite Herald, brows raised. “Me?” He hasn’t been a human’s individual custodian for ages, not since he was elevated to Dominion and made a Keeper of the Watch.
Tink nods. “At the Author’s request,” she says.
Robin is again surprised. Since his Ascension over seven centuries ago, he’s never heard of the Author of All Creation condescending to personally appoint a guardian task. He’s been content to delegate the work to His angels. Robin glances at the woman, searching for whatever spark the Author has discovered within her, what it is that makes her a special case, but he can only see that charred fury.
“He permits all forms of Influence,” Tink goes on.
Robin waits for her to delineate the usual restrictions; he can recite most of them. But when silence stretches between them, he looks at Tink and prods, “All except for—”
“All forms of Influence, Robin,” she asserts in a soft voice, meeting his gaze. “Nothing is forbidden.”
The implication is breathtaking. He’s never been given complete sanction before. He’s only heard of it happening once or twice in eons, and even then, the stories are more legend than fact.
Tink places a hand on his arm, kindness etched in her pale features. "Will you accept the task?"
A thread of uncertainty tangles in Robin’s middle, and he glances at the graveside service. Regina Mills curls her lip in a nettled sneer as the priest drones on about the hope of life after death in a dispassionate voice. Her aura has dimmed a half-shade. Is she past Feeling as well as Hearing? If so, his efforts might prove in vain.
No. No, he won’t allow such a fatalistic notion to take root in his thoughts. So long as she draws breath, there is a chance for Redemption, no matter the path that led her to this gloom. He tells his Watch as much whenever they are given a particularly difficult case, and he would be a poor Keeper, indeed, if he shrank from this undertaking.
He blows out a soft breath, dips his head. “I accept.”
Tink smiles, but it is a thin thing—as if she understands the breadth of the challenge he’s been given. "I would have taken her as my charge…" She leaves the rest unsaid. With a finger, she swipes the air in front of her, and a glittering, gilded rune takes shape. "May the Divine Hand guide you, Robin."
“May he write a happy ending for all,” he finishes the farewell.
Tink casts him a final look of sympathy before spreading her luminescent wings and shooting off toward Heaven.
The rune hangs in the air. Every moment of Regina’s life is engraved in the glowing symbol—including annotations from her previous sentinels. Robin reaches for it, but then hesitates. Once he takes this Knowledge into himself, there will be no turning back.
He grasps the rune and presses it into his chest over his heart. The truth of Regina Mills pours into him in a torrent of experiences. Knowledge transforms into Empathy and burns away the last vestiges of his apprehension. When he looks at her again, he sees past the tenebrous shroud she wears like armor to the resilient soul suffocating beneath. The spark is tiny, flickering weakly, but it still burns.
It’s more than enough for him.