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He’s nervous about the flowers. But he’s always nervous about the flowers.
It’s the fourth year he’s found himself here, in the middle of a graveyard with a pouch of various sweets in one hand and a small bouquet of blooms in the other. And each year his fretting over the latter has his heart threatening to beat out of his chest by the time he reaches the tombstone.
It’s common knowledge that the goddess likes flowers, something that’s always struck Robin as a vaguely interesting quirk whenever the thought would cross his mind. The queen of the dead appreciating one of the most striking markers of life; what did she do with all the blooms she was offered, he wondered. In the past few years he’s wondered that more than he’d ever would’ve cared to.
The first year he brought roses, for lack of any other ideas and a desperate need to make an impression. It was a huge bouquet, in an effort to make quantity make up for any possible lack of quality (though the flowers themselves certainly didn’t lack that; they were fresh, stunning red blooms he humbly acquired with a pretty coin rather than his sticky fingers). And make an impression he did, for he was granted an opportunity very few get in their lifetimes – to present the bouquet to the goddess herself.
This year he’s brought marigolds, and the bouquet is barely half the size of the first one, smaller than the one from the year before. Most of the money he and his men had swindled a few days before had gone to the villagers, making sure everyone had enough to spend on preparing for these two nights of honoring their lost loved ones.
Robin’s not the only one with offerings for the goddess Regina.
The night’s festivities in the graveyard have settled now. He’s arrived late, as he does every year. He’s never quite in the mood for the first day, the honor of the children. The boisterous atmosphere of those determined to celebrate the lives of lost little ones, however short, is just not something Robin’s ever ready to face.
It’s also less likely he’ll get to see Regina in the middle of the festival.
The few people left now aren’t very filled with the high spirits of earlier in the evening; the ones who linger are the ones who are usually still stuck in their grief, unwilling to let the night end and say goodbye. After four years Robin still relates much more to the somber afterparty mood than he’d like to admit.
He reaches the tombstone and lets out a pained exhale as he reads the name: Roland Locksley. His precious boy, forever four years old and so painfully far away. The ache Robin feels in his soul is one he thinks will never dull.
He opens the pouch in his left hand, checking to see the sweets haven’t melted. They’re all Roland’s favorites, and his own as well, and he’ll admit that it’s the mere chance of getting to offer them directly to his son that’s kept him from swiping one on the way there.
“It’s about time.”
His head immediately turns to the all-too familiar voice, and, the same as every year prior, he’s stunned by the ethereal woman standing in front of him. Her long, black hair is done half up, and she’s donning a red, velvet dress and an ever-present smirk on her red painted lips.
And in her arms is Robin’s son, all dimples and a huge smile.
“He’s been asking for you all night,” Regina continues with a quirk of her eyebrow. She sets the boy down and he rushes to stand right in front of Robin, and Robin aches to pick him up, to twirl him around and never put him back down. It kills him that he can’t even reach for Roland’s tiny hand, or run his fingers through the boy’s soft curls.
Roland shares none of Robin’s inner grief, his eyes sparkling with nothing but joy at getting to see his father. “Hi Papa! Did you bring me chocolate?”
Robin lets out a laugh, holding up the pouch of sweets. “I can’t help but wonder if you were more excited about these tonight than seeing me,” he says, his eyes looking up from his son to glance at Regina, who’s looking at his son in an amusement.
She steps towards him and extends a hand for him to give her the sweets. She’s the medium between Robin’s world and his son’s, the only one able to physically cross both, and it’s to her that Robin surrenders the pouch so she can hand them to Roland. Robin feels another aching pang in his chest, and Regina’s eyes grow somber in return.
She hands the sweets to Roland, who doesn’t hesitate to open the pouch and pull one out. She runs her hands through his hair a soft smile on her face as she watches Roland pop a piece of chocolate in his mouth, and through the ever-aching grief, Robin feels a small sense of peace. To know Regina’s there to take care of his son now that he’s not able to settles a tiny part of his heart; to know she makes sure Roland’s happy wherever he is now. And to have her come share the boy with him once a year is something he’ll be forever grateful for.
“Are those for me?” Regina asks, eyes darting to the flowers in Robin’s hand. She grins. “I love marigolds.”
And the look she gives him has Robin feeling a warmth in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a very long time.