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Regina smiles at the Saviour, at her son, at the man who thought it fair to break her, and the woman who was too kind and too trusting, too naive.
She smiles and she stands, under the piercing eyes of those who deem her evil, held up only by pride and the tree sat sturdy behind her. She will not let them see her pain, will not allow herself that weakness - they will take their chance and strike her down, too cowardly to kill her, sent to suffer the cruelty of being caged. Regina will not be caged, not by her mother, not by a king, not by a curse cast by her own hand, freshly soaked in the blood of her own father - she has been trapped too many times to truly count, in too many ways, and she refuses to ever let it happen again.
There is blood in her mouth when she speaks, when she welcomes back the woman who holds onto her son like ten-years of absence meant nothing, the taste metallic and bitter, arsenic on her tongue yet her words are earnest enough - seeing Henry so happy is worth bearing the presence of the Saviour, of the woman who tore down twenty-eight years worth of suffering with a single kiss, of Emma Swan, a Charming in all but name, who looks at Regina with concern in her eyes and something she might dare to call guilt.
Cora is coming, one way or another, and their chance at being free from her wrath was destroyed the second Henry stepped foot into the clearing; yet Regina would do it again, if she had to, for she knows her son would never forgive her if Emma died, and he would be lost to her, would be lost once and for all to the rage and resentment that many years ago staked its claim on Regina herself. Her mother may rip her apart, may rip everything she loves to shreds, but she will suffer through it all if it means never witnessing the birth of the same expression she sees every day in the mirror, reflected back at her in the eyes of the one she loves more than anyone or anything, in this world and every other.
They all leave, eventually - the weight of their presence lifted from her chest but Regina still cannot breathe. Magic always comes with a price; the words a whisper in her ear from a man, a monster, standing too close for comfort, setting her on a cliff-edge that Regina had failed to see until she’d already fallen, and the price of magic cast by the Dark One and the Evil Queen is a hefty one indeed. Death magic, pure and violent, roiling electrical energy that reduces anyone who is unfortunate enough to encounter it to dust, and Regina can feel it thrumming through her, tainting her, tar in her veins that flows thick and hot, corrupting and consuming as her own magic does its damndest to prevent the destruction that wracks every inch of her body.
Regina falls, a puppet with its string cut, no one to perform to as her tears flood the forest floor, the smell of petrichor marred by salt and sweat as she shakes, trembles, the only comfort her arms wrapped tight around her body and the memory of Henry’s smile, branded onto her heart as each breath rattles like loose change.
She thinks she screams, if only because the sound echoes back to her, over and over, relentless until she’s coughing up black bile. There is no one coming to save her, to help her, to lay a lay a palm on her forehead and wipe away the tears that stain her cheeks - she is a villian, through and through, the Evil Queen in name only but a title like that sticks, and no matter how much she wishes there was someone to comfort her, she is damned to always be alone in her suffering.
It is night by the time Regina gains consciousness enough to pull together the last dregs of power that still stubbornly remain, and the lurching jolt of motion that comes from teleportation magic ignites her agony anew, banked flames flaring back to life as Regina lies upon her cold, hard-wood floor, violet smoke fading before her eyes as she shudders in the dark.
*
There is a pounding on the door, loud and insistent, thundering in time with her heartbeat. Regina curls in on herself, tighter, a terrified child, fresh cut on her lip from a ring that meant power instead of love, from a mother that would sneer at the scar left behind. Someone is calling her name, like a prayer, like a plea, but Regina is tired, too tired - her tithe paid in blood, in sweat, in tears and choked off cries, the sickly sensation of something necrotic creeping through her, dark and deadly, the same colour as the spittle that she coughs up onto the floorboards.
There is a thud, then another, then a sudden burst of cool moonlight and a flash of pale gold. There is a breath, an inhale too soft to be Regina’s, murmured words that she cannot hear as the pain sharpens, the honed edge of a knife, bevel glinting - a threat signed and delivered.
Regina sobs, wet and ugly, hands ghosting across her back and she surrenders to the touch, craving it, craving anything that isn’t pain, the sheer need outweighing her uncertainty, the age-old fear of unwanted hands crawling across her skin. But these hands are not unwanted - through the biting haze of copper and sour sweat, of ozone and decay, Regina can smell leather and sweet shampoo, woodsmoke and cinders, at once achingly familiar and strangely unknown, though all serve as a balm that settles her breathing just enough to say, “Emma.”
Her grip is tight enough to bruise as Regina opens her eyes, sees Emma’s face inches from her own, eyes alight with that same concern from however many hours earlier, and Regina reaches out with shaking hands, winds her fingers into the worn fabric of her tank top, tears soaking into Emma’s neck. Emma does not protest, holds her closer as she kneels on the hard floor, pulling Regina into her lap.
“Regina?” She says, her own voice a steady contrast, “What do you need?”
Blunt, bullhead and stubborn and exactly what Regina wants - she does not have the energy for conversation that would doubtless do little to help, pointless explanations that aren’t necessary when Regina’s state is explanation enough. She clings to her - ignores the caustic tone that cuts through the fog in her mind, the word pitiful declared in a voice that sounds too much like Cora and Gold and the Evil Queen - and feels magic simmering beneath Emma's skin, light incarnate, chaotic and unable to be controlled, acting on intent and emotion alone; cool and unfamiliar, Regina’s magic is all scalding heat and anger, pure rage that she flings with years of experience, of being thrown into the sometimes literal fire with no one to help her but herself.
“Magic,” Regina says, spoken against Emma’s pulse, quickening beneath her lips. “Your magic, light magic.”
She can feel Emma swallow, can feel the way she tenses, ready to run, to pull away but Regina does not let her. Even if Emma will not do this, cannot do this, damn her pride and dignity, her fear, Regina does not want to lose this comfort - will claw it back if she needs to, for anything is better than isolation, than the desolate fear of suffering through this slow decay alone.
Emma runs a hand through Regina's hair, pulls out pine needles from where they have tangled into knots, “I don't know how.”
It's an admission, laced with guilt and tinged with failure, from the Saviour that seems to resent her title, who may have been born in a world filled with fairytales and magic, of prophecy and destiny, good and evil, but who lived all her life in a world of grey reality - it is a change, and Regina knows is has not been an easy one. “You helped me once,” Regina says, voice hoarse, each inhale-exhale ragged an wan, “I need-”
Regina turns, coughs, spits blood onto the floor, bright crimson sparkling with green iridescence. Emma's eyes go wide, her worry obvious but there's determination there, too.
She pulls Regina impossibly closer, sharing air and heat and Regina finds herself flushing, heartbeat speeding up in spite of herself, in spite of the mess she made and failed to smoothly resolve. She can feel Emma's magic simmering, boiling beneath her skin and begging to be set free, and Emma lets it loose in wave upon wave of pulsing light. Above them the chandelier flickers on, glowing brighter and brighter, casting the room in shards of cut-glass and amber, and Regina revels in it, lets it fill her up and up, raw and desperate, the pain bearable for the first time since she absorbed something she never should have helped cast in the first place.
“It's okay. I've got you.” Emma says, barely more than a whisper. It is a statement, a fact, and Regina is struck dumb by the desire to kiss her - remnants of a fractured chance at a relationship before a curse broken, put back together like puzzle pieces, here and now, in Regina's hallway as the world around them dares to tear itself in two from threats as of yet unseen.
Emma stares at her for a moment - this woman who still ruins her, fingers finding purchase on Regina's hips, tight, like Emma's scared she'll float away, will vanish in a plume of deep purple smoke; like she is fragile, precious. Regina sinks into Emma's embrace, tears on her cheeks and blood in her mouth, she sinks into the shimmering remains of emotion made magic, the taste of the breeze on her tongue.
Damn her foolish heart as it pounds behind her ribs - sounding out love-struck syllables and every beat is: Emma, Emma, Emma.