Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two old lines of blood. Both dark and light.

Twin paths of loneliness. One in red and one meant for white.

Emma Swan’s earliest memory is of her mother—not her real mother, but still the only one Emma had ever known, up to that point. There had been another one, before, but Emma had been too young to remember her. And of course she must have had a real mother at one point, but Emma hadn’t then and didn’t now know anything about her.

So this was the first mother that Emma could remember.

And she wouldn’t stop screaming.

.

Emma covered her ears, but it barely even dulled the strident sound.

Her father didn’t seem to mind at all. He remained in front of her, still down on his knees and looking at her expectantly.

What was it that he had said?

“Command me, Confessor.”

Emma had no idea what that had meant.

Nor did she know what sort of instinct had guided her into grabbing him by the throat; she’d only wanted him to stop hitting her. Emma could never seem to do anything right, no matter how hard she tried, and in response, her father was very free with his fists (or his foot, or a bottle, or whatever stray tool he could reach).

Well, she’d gotten him to stop, all right. Emma couldn’t get the image out of her mind, the way her father’s pupils had blown out, expanding so rapidly, like too much ink flooding a page. His eyes were back to normal now, but he certainly wasn’t.

Her mother finally ceased her wordless shrieking, but only in favor of hurling insults.

“What have you done?! You wicked, evil thing! How could you do this to us? After all we’ve done for you? No wonder no one wants you, you wretched girl. This is how you repay our generosity? Oh, my Robert. Stand up, Robert. What has she done to you? You witch, you’re a monster!”

Emma began to sob. She didn’t want to be a monster. All Emma wanted was to be a normal girl, with a family who loved her.

Her mother spat at her. “May the Keeper take your soul, Emma Swan, you’re—”

Emma could take no more. “Make it stop!” she screamed, wishing only for her mother to cease her yelling.

She was startled when her father spoke. “As you wish,” he said, his voice a strange monotone.

He rose to his feet, and all it took was one large stride before he could reach out and, without even the slightest reluctance or hesitation, snap his wife’s neck.

The sudden silence was deafening, as her father turned to look at her for approval.

Emma stared in horror at her mother’s lifeless body, now lying in a heap on the floor.

Then she turned and ran.

All of Regina Mills’ earliest memories are of pain.

She knows that there was a time before she was taken, when she must have been happy—now she knows well that the Mord-Sith always take the gentlest of children, those who have the farthest to fall.

But those years are nothing but a vague fog in her mind, and any truly positive memories are gone now, forever tainted with what came after.

.

With each stage of training, she’d thought that it couldn’t possibly get worse.

Each time, she’d been wrong.

First had been the torture; physical pain unlike anything she’d ever felt. By the end of it, she barely knew her own name. All she had known was how to obey.

But then it turned out that watching someone you loved be tortured, that was even worse. Daniel had been her best friend in the world. He was the first boy she’d ever kissed.

It was a relief, really, by the time Mistress Cora killed him.

And it had all led to this, with her father on his knees before her.

She hadn’t realized that betrayal could hurt this much.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mistress Cora crowed. “Of course he knew that we would be coming for you. He knew perfectly well what I was, but he gladly took me into his bed anyway. And when I left you in his care as a newborn, I told him in no uncertain terms that I would be back for you once you were of an age.”

Regina could only stare at her father, silently willing him to offer some kind of explanation. Something that would make sense of all this—more sense than that Mistress Cora was her mother, and that her father had willingly given her away.

Instead, he offered her nothing but the tears streaming down his face.

Mistress Cora went on, saying, “He could have hidden you away. He had close to ten years to do it, after all. Most likely I would have found you anyway, but he didn’t even try. This worthless excuse of a man doesn’t love you, Regina. He never did. How could he, when he knew what lay ahead of you, but he refused to do anything about it? He is a spineless, pathetic coward, Regina, and he does not deserve to breathe the same air as you and I do.”

Regina’s hand tingled as Mistress Cora pressed an agiel into her palm. She wrapped her fingers around the handle, freely welcoming the sharp bite of pain that now flooded her body. So much had changed since the same weapon had been used against her, in the first stage of training.

“Go on, Regina,” Mistress Cora urged, her voice a low, seductive hum. “Use your agiel on him; you know as well as I how its touch will loosen his tongue. Dare him to deny what I have told you.”

Regina did not hesitate to follow Mistress Cora’s incitement to violence. Unlike Regina, her father didn’t know how to handle the pain of the agiel. His cries of agony did nothing to satisfy her, however, and still, he would not deny a single word that Mistress Cora had said.

The figure before her disgusted her, now. He was nothing more than a sweaty, heaving mass of flesh. A thing—not a man; not her father.

“You know what you must do,” Mistress Cora—her mother; her deliverer—whispered into Regina’s ear.

She reached into the thing’s chest, pulled out his heart, and crushed it into a fine dust.

Some people might relish having the power to make others act like compliant puppets.

Emma absolutely loathes it.

Magic is reviled in Westland, though it is said to exist and even thrive in the Midlands and D’Hara, located on the other side of the unpassable boundary. And if people knew what she could do… Emma imagines that a toasty warm burning at the stake will be waiting for her one of these days.

Her survival depends on remaining inconspicuous, which can be hard to do when she has a trail of lapdogs following along in her wake, fighting amongst themselves in order to prove their devotion to her.

So she’s learned to only use her curse when it is absolutely necessary—it certainly has gotten her out of quite a few scrapes, she must admit—and to command all of her puppets to leave her as soon as is possible. A few depart without a backward glance. Others are inconsolable at the thought of having to abandon their mistress’ side.

But they all leave. Because Emma tells them to.

She doesn’t always have control over her curse, however. Most of the time, in fact, Emma feels like she only has the very loosest hold on the whirling energy inside her; she feels like it might slip through her fingers at any moment. It’s a terrifying way to live.

The biggest incident occurred when she somehow managed to confess an entire village at once.

Emma still doesn’t understand how it all happened. Normally she has to grab people by the neck in order to release her power, but this time…

The man had come upon her so suddenly—Emma had thought that she’d managed the theft without him noticing, but she’d apparently been very wrong about that—and Emma hadn’t been set to defend herself at all. He was big, and strong, and he’d landed a solid right hook that took her completely unawares, allowing him to grab hold of her and ram her up against a hard stone wall. He held her pinned with one arm and scattered her bag’s contents onto the ground with the other, while mumbling something about teaching thieving wenches a lesson as he then reached down to her pants.

Emma had simply wanted him off of her, but she’d panicked, and something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. She had created such chaos. She never knew how the fire started, but by the end of the day, the village had been burned down to ashes, and everyone except for Emma was dead.

She’d thought for a long time about killing herself, then.

That certainly hadn’t been the only time her curse had brought about much more than she’d intended, and not in a good way.

Once, when Emma was twelve years old, she’d taken control of a family and commanded them to love her. But the parents then stopped caring for their own daughter, just a small defenseless toddler, and it all felt wrong and hollow, anyway. Emma barely lasted a week before she left again, with stern instructions to the parents that they needed to love and take care of young Paige.

And then, years later, there was Neal.

Emma doesn’t like to think about Neal. Or the boy…

No. Emma doesn’t think about that.

It’s a lonely life. But Emma’s good at surviving, if not at just living.

It is no small feat, becoming the leader of the Mord-Sith and right hand to the Dark One.

But like her mother, Regina is very good at manipulating people, getting them to either bend to her will or get out of her way.

Or else, suffer the consequences. Regina lost count of how many people she’d killed by the time she was sixteen years old.

She is known—feared—all across D’Hara. They call her the Evil Queen, she knows, and although the Dark One doesn’t approve, she does nothing to dissuade anyone from the title. Regina likes the idea of being royalty, even though they have no queens in D’Hara. No kings, either.

Only their fierce, dark lord, the most powerful wizard in all the lands.

The Dark One had played his part in helping Regina reach her elevated status. Mistress Cora is the one who trained her as a Mord-Sith, but it is the Dark One who set her apart when he personally chose her to serve as his apprentice. Within the realm of magic, there are but a few things that all Mord-Sith can do: deflecting the magic of others, the removal of hearts, and the Breath of Life. But in Regina, the Dark One saw something more, and he chose her alone to take under his wing and tutelage.

The day that she first put on her standard Mord-Sith leather—that dark, deep red uniform, like a second skin, the color of blood—Regina felt truly powerful.

But the day that she first put on her own black leather, as a symbol of her close ties to the Dark One… That was when she felt true pride.

That is not to say, however, that Regina is naught but the loyal servant the Dark One sees in her.

Regina is no one’s servant.

Not since Leopold.

When the Dark One first presented her to Leopold, Regina was eighteen years old, still quite early in her apprenticeship with the dark lord. She had assumed that she was meant to kill Leopold; that was usually what the Dark One wanted from her, after all.

The Dark One had laughed at her, but the mirth in his voice did not match the sinister flash of his eyes.

He explained that he and Leopold had made a deal, and on Cora’s suggestion, Leopold had chosen Regina as the reward for his end of the bargain.

Regina had sneered, not loosening her hold on her agiels in the slightest, but she’d immediately seen things for what they were: a petty power play from Cora, and for the Dark One, a test of Regina’s loyalty.

So she did what was asked—commanded—of her. The only alternative was death, and that was no choice at all.

For precisely one full year, Regina lived at Leopold’s palace—he was some minor lord; Regina never bothered to learn more than that—and served him as he wished. As his head of security, as his companion at snooty parties, and in his bed.

Leopold made an outward show of kindness and benevolence. None of his so-called friends would have ever guessed that he’d allied himself with the Dark One. When Regina was allowed outside the palace grounds, she at least was able to retain her black leather. But always in the form of extravagant, showy gowns, rather than the easily recognizable garb of the Mord-Sith, so no one other than Leopold’s guards and servants knew her as such.

Behind closed doors, however, neither kindness nor benevolence were anywhere to be found.

Regina never complained. Indeed she would not have known what to do with kindness, anyway.

And on the dawn of the three hundred and sixty-sixth day, as soon as the Dark One’s deal was complete, Regina woke Leopold from his slumber with a kiss from her agiel.

Five very satisfying hours later, he was dead.

Then Regina had calmly packed up her things and gone home.

Fourteen years after leaving Leopold, it has now been nearly two years since Regina has seen the Dark One in person, rather than receiving her orders by enchanted message. As Regina understands it, it has been well over that amount of time since anyone has seen him in person.

Not since he learned of the prophecy that foretells his demise.

Now, when Regina sees him, he is somehow smaller than she’d remembered him. With his dry, yellow-tinged skin and small, beady eyes, he looks almost reptilian.

“Dark One,” Regina greets, bowing her head. “How may I serve you?”

He gazes at her silently for several long moments, but Regina remains unbothered by the scrutiny.

Despite the dim lighting within the throne room, the Dark One’s eyes—yellow where they should be white—seem to almost glow. Regina meets the stare head-on.

“I have found her,” he finally says, and his pronouncement is followed up by an almost manic-sounding giggle.

His mood suddenly shifted, the Dark One claps his hands in delight and then jumps spryly down from the dais. He comes right up to Regina, and leans in to whisper, as though someone else might be listening, but there is no one there but the two of them.

“She is hiding away like a coward, beyond the boundary. You must find her, Regina—the one called Emma Swan—and bring her to me.”

Chapter Text

Entrenched on opposite sides; at odds they shall begin.

But cross over, they will. It starts when trust is found within.

The outside traveler has been the talk of the town since he arrived two days prior.

So much so that even Emma, who never bothers to pay attention to town gossip, has heard the whisperings about him. In the local tavern, they say that he is a minstrel, traveling aimlessly from one town to the next. They say that he knows more stories and songs than you could imagine. They say he brings frightful tidings from along his journey. They say he is very handsome.

Emma rolls her eyes.

When the object of all the chatter himself walks in, a hushed silence falls over the crowd. If he cares or even notices how he is the center of attention, he makes no show of it as he walks calmly to the bar and orders a pint before taking a seat at a table near Emma.

Emma eyes him, curious in spite of herself.

She quickly downs the rest of her drink, signaling to Archie for another and moving over to take the seat across from the traveler.

“I hear you have the voice of an angel,” she says in greeting.

He looks up at her with a bright smile, not noticing the sarcasm to her tone. “You are too kind, my lady,” he responds.

“Whether I am or not, you wouldn’t know,” Emma replies. When Archie comes to set down her ale, she nods in thanks and puts a few coins down on the table. After a sip, she goes on, “Hearing something doesn’t make it so, and I don’t take much stock in gossip. For all I know, you might sound more like a frog than a songbird. Maybe you keep getting chased out of villages because of your croaking, and that’s why you have to keep traveling around.”

Clearly taking no offense, the traveler’s grin only widens, and he laughs out loud in seeming delight.

“Would my lady like a demonstration of my skills?” he asks, lifting his lute to strum a few notes.

“Not particularly,” Emma admits with a shrug. “And I’m not your lady.”

He nods, still amused. “And what might I call you instead?”

She hesitates, but can think of no reason not to tell him. “I’m Emma Swan,” she says.

“And I am August Booth,” he supplies with a bow of his head and a flourishing hand gesture. “At your service.”

Emma flinches—too many people have been ‘at her service,’ whether they wanted it or not.

August continues, “And might I remind you that you approached me? If you have no desire to hear the croaking of a frog, is there something else you wanted, Emma Swan?”

Emma considers him as she takes a long drink. Archie’s tavern is perhaps best known for the barkeep’s propensity for offering sage counsel to his patrons, but the ale is fairly good too. Now that Emma thinks about it, it may be that the quality of the ale is directly responsible for the seeming wisdom of Archie’s words.

Finally, Emma leans forward to place her elbows on the table. She says, “I’m more interested in news than song.”

For the first time since she sat down, his facial expression grows serious.

He looks around guardedly before telling her in a hushed voice, “Someone crossed the boundary.”

She can’t help it, then—Emma laughs out loud.

“Have you had too much to drink, minstrel? No one can cross the boundary,” Emma declares. “It’s not possible.”

Still, August simply looks at her, his face grave. “I saw it with my own perfectly clear and sober eyes,” he insists. “And if you don’t believe that, then you certainly won’t believe the rest of my news, either.”

“Try me,” Emma suggests.

She must look sufficiently sincere, because after considering her for a long moment, he does go on. “It was a Mord-Sith who did the crossing,” he says with a sheepish grimace, as though he knows fully well how ridiculous he sounds.

Emma doesn’t laugh this time. Her brow furrows as she stares at him. For as long as she can remember, Emma has always had this uncanny ability, rooted somewhere deep inside of her, to tell whether someone is lying or telling the truth.

Everything inside of her is saying that, at the very least, August fully believes that what he is saying is true.

“Mord-Sith aren’t real,” she counters. “They’re like gars, or screelings—fairytale creatures that mothers use to scare their children into being good.”

“The one I saw looked real enough. So did her agiel; I watched her kill a man with it. Just one touch from it, and the sound he made…” August trails off with a shiver of remembered horror.

What he says sounds fully impossible, but still, she can’t help but believe him.

“Why would a Mord-Sith cross over from the Midlands?” she asks.

August looks at her sharply, clearly shocked that she’s giving his tale any credence. Still, all he can say is, “I have no idea.”

Regina is growing weary of her task.

She is a fearsome warrior, a sorceress, a Mord-Sith. She is meant for fighting and killing and missions that end in honor and glory. Not long, tedious journeys to fetch wayward assets.

And for someone as important as the Dark One seems to think this Emma Swan woman is, it seems as though no one has heard of her.

Not that Regina has even been in Westland for all that long, really. But Regina has never claimed patience as one of her (many) strong suits.

It takes her little more than a week before she finally catches on to Emma Swan’s trail.

There is something… strange about some of the people who do know of the Swan woman.

“If you find my mistress, will you tell her that I say hello?” this one eagerly asks, after he’d told Regina that he’d met Emma Swan in a village about four days’ journey to the west. “I do miss her terribly.”

Regina rolls her eyes, but then, curious, she asks, “Why don’t you go and tell her yourself?”

He looks down to the ground, dejected. “Oh, she told me that I had to leave her,” he explains.

Regina can only shake her head in amazement; she almost has to be impressed at the continued loyalty of what appear to be spurned lovers, stretched out across Westland.

Growing ever more impatient the closer she gets, Regina picks up her pace, and it is about three days before she arrives in the village the man had described for her. There, she finds another—this one just a regular innkeeper and not one of Swan’s devoted former paramours—who directs her a little ways to the south.

And then, at long last, Regina finally sets her eyes on Emma Swan.

Emma is starting to grow restless. For most of her life, she has been in near-constant motion, traveling around from place to place.

Trying unsuccessfully to outrun her curse.

But she has liked it in Barrowton. For once, she has actually found a means of gainful employment, tracking down those who have escaped from the nearby jail (it must not be a very secure jail, Emma has realized, because there seems to be no lack of escapees), or those who have tried to run instead of paying off their debts. It’s not exactly meaningful work, but Emma is good at it—her curse helps, of course, but she is good even without it—and she certainly appreciates the coin it brings.

Still, she has remained longer in Barrowton than perhaps any other place she has lived, and it has her feeling somewhat antsy and thinking about getting back on the road.

It’s the minstrel’s story of the Mord-Sith that pushes Emma over from idle thought to a firm decision. The news deeply unsettles her, somehow, and something tells Emma that it is high time for her to move on.

August himself had continued on along his travels two days earlier, after spending some time in the village, regaling Archie’s patrons with song each night.

Now, sitting alone again, Emma solidifies her plans over dinner. There’s no particular hurry, but she’ll gather her things and wrap up her business, then depart within a week or so. She doesn’t know where she’ll head, but she’ll figure something out, she knows.

With that decided, Emma suddenly feels lighter, like some kind of pressure inside of her has been released. Feeling good, she waves goodnight to Archie and then heads out towards the room she’s been renting.

Emma is normally quite good at paying careful attention to her surroundings; she’s had to be, being on the road without friends or family for as long as she has. But she’s grown more careless during her time in Barrowton.

When the woman in red suddenly steps out from the shadows, Emma simply jerks to a stop and blinks at her, slow to react.

The woman’s grin is sinful, as she raises her arm and strikes something hard against the side of Emma’s head.

Then, the world goes black.

“Hey, that’s my horse!”

The hushed whisper comes from off to Emma’s right, and after a moment, Emma’s eyes are able to make out the dark shape of a young man hurrying over to her.

As soon as the mare finishes eating the sugar cubes from Emma’s hand, she launches herself up onto the horse’s bare back, clinging tightly with her knees to stay upright. She leans down to pat the mare’s neck and whisper calming words into her ear, as the large animal stomps her foot anxiously.

Emma doesn’t need to see the young man’s face clearly to know that he is lying.

“If this is your horse, then what are you doing creeping into the stables in the black of night?” Emma questions. “No, I’d wager that this is just as much your horse as she is mine. Less than that, even, since I’m the one riding her. Now get out of the way, before you get us both caught.”

Giving up the pretense, the young man’s voice turns to frustrated anger. “Come on. Why don’t you pick out one of the others? I’ve been casing this place for a week, now” he says.

“Well,” Emma replies, “then I guess you should have acted sooner. Again, I’m the only one of the two of us currently sitting on top of a horse, so you can go pick out one of the others, yourself. If you’ve been watching, then you know as well as I do that my girl’s the fastest horse here, so I’m not giving her up.”

At that, she clucks to urge her new horse forward. With a mock salute to the young man, Emma declares, “Best of luck to you, Mr. Too Late.”

In the dim light of the moon, Emma can just barely see him offer a charmingly rueful smile.

“Just watch out, that I don’t steal her back from you one of these days,” he says, watching her go. “And it’s Cassidy. Neal Cassidy.”

Swan comes to with a start.

Regina spares her a quick glance, before continuing on with her preparations.

“There is no point in even thinking about escape,” she tells the other woman, who is looking around in wild confusion. “Your hands are tied, very securely, so if you try to get down off the horse so that you can run, you’ll be more likely to fall and break your neck. The horse is currently tied as well, so there is also no point in trying to leave without me. We’ll be leaving soon, and I will keep a lead connecting your horse to me. I won’t be removing the tie from your mouth until we’re well out of earshot of any town. Then we’ll start off with allowing you a drink of water. Whether or not I gag you again after that will depend entirely on you.”

Regina has found that laying things out ahead of time tends to save her time and energy, and efficiency is something she greatly appreciates.

The Swan woman attempts to speak around the gag, but her words are completely unintelligible, and Regina adds, “I have absolutely zero interest in whatever you might have to say, right now.”

Mercifully, Swan shuts up, then, but out of the corner of her eye, Regina can see that she is being glared at sullenly.

“We have quite a long journey ahead of us,” Regina continues. “Do as you’re told, and we’ll get along just fine.”

For the first stretch of days, Regina is forced to keep Swan gagged whenever she is not giving her food or water. Each time that Regina does untie the cloth restraint, the stubborn Swan keeps trying to either yell for help or, even worse, ask Regina incessant questions.

Other than that, however, the journey back through Westland passes without incident. It’s almost boring, Regina has to admit, now that she is no longer on the hunt, and merely traveling in as close to a direct route as she can manage.

When they reach the boundary, Swan stares up at it in awe. She clearly hasn’t been this close to it before. It glows an eerie green color, reaching out as far as the eye can see, both horizontally and vertically.

Swan turns to look at Regina, and her desire to speak is written clear as day across her face.

Regina sighs. She must be getting weak, because she asks, “Are you going to yell or scream?”

Swan solemnly shakes her head.

“If you’re lying, I’ll let you feel the pain of my agiel,” threatens Regina, and Swan nods.

Sighing again, Regina guides her horse over closer to Swan’s before reaching to loosen the gag. Swan stretches out her mouth, spitting several times, but does not yell.

Even once she can speak, Swan remains silent, continuing to simply stare at the boundary.

At last, she asks in a soft, reverential tone, “What is it, exactly?”

“It was created by a Wizard of the First Order,” Regina explains. “It is a section of the Underworld itself, raised up to the land of the living. Enter the boundary, and your soul will belong to the Keeper.”

After a moment, Swan adds, “And you plan for us to go through it? If you just wanted to kill me, I’m fairly sure that there are plenty of easier ways than this.”

Regina smiles. “It is not yet time to kill you, Swan,” she says. She reaches into her saddle bag and pulls out the wisp. “This will get us through the boundary.”

Swan turns to look at it, once again awestruck, this time by the tiny glowing blue creature held within a small glass bottle. “And what is that?” she asks.

“A night wisp. Her light will guide us through to the other side. The night wisps are no friends of D’Hara, to be sure, but the Dark One is quite adept at persuasion.”

“‘The Dark One?’ Really?” Swan looks skeptical. “Sounds like someone is overcompensating.”

Regina hides a smirk. “Hardly,” she says. “And I ought to beat you for your lack of respect.”

In spite of her words, Regina makes no actual moves against Swan.

She has been too long away from her Mord-Sith sisters, she knows. Her first instinct is still a violent one, but the longer she is away, the less she finds herself inclined to act on that instinct if it does not seem necessary. Perhaps it is an effect of being too long on this side of the boundary, where there is no magic. She still feels the connection to the Dark One—her agiel would not work without it—but it is weaker, here.

It is both freeing and disturbing in equal measure.

“Do you really know so little about the Midlands?” Regina asks.

Swan shrugs. “Why would I know anything about it? I’ve lived in Westland all my life.”

“It is only…” Regina trails off, briefly unsure if she should say anything. But a Mord-Sith must always be sure, so she quickly finishes, “The Dark One seems to believe that you have some special knowledge that he wishes to acquire.”

“Are you sure you have the right Emma Swan?” Swan inquires dubiously.

Regina rolls her eyes and doesn’t bother to answer.

“So that’s where you’re taking me, then?” Swan continues when Regina says nothing. “To see this Dark One?”

The question finally stirs Regina from her reverie—it is almost mesmerizing, staring at the shifting lights of the boundary.

“Yes,” she says. She dismounts and turns to help Swan down from her own horse, since her hands remain bound. “We will have to continue on foot for now; the horses will not cross with us. It should take us close to an hour to get through the boundary.” She raises the night wisp out in front of her, thrusting it forward. And before them, the boundary begins to part, allowing them a narrow passage. “Now come along, Swan, and stay close. It is time you were introduced to the other side of the world.”

It takes almost a week, once they emerge from the boundary into the territory of the Midlands, before Emma manages to get a name out of her captor.

Mistress Regina—it is only once that Emma makes the mistake of calling her simply “Regina”—at least stops gagging her all the time. She only occasionally answers Emma’s questions, more often choosing to brood in silence. In those cases, Emma is content enough to alternate between simply taking in the strange world around her and essentially talking out loud to herself, just to fill the wordless void.

Once, she even catches Regina smiling in amusement at something she’s said.

Emma finds herself strangely proud when it happens.

Their conversations, such as they are, are usually short and stilted.

“So, Mord-Sith are real, clearly,” Emma begins one day, simply thinking out loud. “Are gars?”

She is surprised when Regina answers. “Yes.”

“Huh. Have you ever seen one?”

“Yes.”

“Do they really look like flying lizards?”

Regina seems to think about that one for a moment.

“…No.”

“What do they—”

“That’s enough about gars.”

“Okay. What about the Mriswith, are they—?”

Regina interrupts her question with a groan.

Emma grins, but does stop talking.

They carry on.

No one they pass seems to question the sight of a Mord-Sith leading a prisoner, and Emma has long given up trying to get someone to help her. Everyone is too afraid of the Mord-Sith to want anything at all to do with Emma. Regina doesn’t even have to pay to get them new horses; she simply walks up to some stables in one of the larger towns they pass through, informs the stable-hands that they will be taking the two best horses, and it’s as simple as that. The sight of Regina’s leather and her agiel are all it takes to get them anything Regina wants.

But every day brings them closer to their destination. And with each day, Regina grows colder and Emma becomes increasingly worried. She’s been biding her time, hoping for some opportunity for escape to present itself, but Regina is too good for that.

Until one day, it finally happens.

They have been traveling in silence much more often. Emma is tired; her wrists hurt, where the rope bindings chafe badly against her skin; her ass is practically numb, from sitting astride a horse for so long; and she no longer has the energy to think of more questions or try fruitlessly to start another one-sided conversation.

And in the silence, with nothing but the sounds of yet another forest around them, it suddenly becomes apparent that they are not alone.

There’s just a light thrumming sound from off to their right, and that’s all the warning they get before the arrows come flying through the air. Both horses are hit, and they stumble, hurt and panicked. Emma’s horse rears up, and she can no longer keep her seat. She falls, landing hard, in time to see her horse sprinting away.

“For the resistance!”

They all come rapidly over a ridge, gaining momentum as they run downhill and straight towards them, dodging trees as they go.

Emma can’t tell how many of them there are, but it seems like a lot. Regina is standing tall, facing the oncoming horde without fear. Emma looks up at her from her spot on the ground, and sees blood running down Regina’s face from a nasty-looking cut on her face; she too must have been thrown from her horse.

Her hands still bound, at first Emma can only curl in on herself and try to protect her head as the first line of men reaches them.

Part of Emma knows that any enemy of her captor is likely to, by default, be her friend. But the sudden, unexpected attack is terrifying, nonetheless.

In numbers, they have Regina far outmatched, but in skill…

As soon as she has a bit of breathing room, Emma manages to twist herself into an upright position. Eight dead or dying men lie still on the ground. Regina stands at their center, one hand holding her agiel, and the other holding a dagger, stained red with blood. She’s breathing heavily, but with an expression of near-glee on her face.

Another set of arrows comes flying towards them both; it doesn’t seem to matter that Emma is Regina’s captive, not on her side. But with a simple wave of her hand, Regina stops the arrows mid-flight. They hover there for half a second, before falling harmlessly to the forest floor.

Emma stares at Regina, shocked. “You have magic,” she whispers, only just barely biting back a ‘too.’

Many more men are continuing down the slope towards them—somewhat more slowly once they are close enough to see what has happened to their comrades—and without really thinking, Emma thrusts her bound wrists at Regina.

“Cut the rope, please,” she begs. Regina blinks at her, as though she’d forgotten that Emma was even there. “I won’t run away. I promise. I can help, I just need to be able to defend myself, and I can’t do that like this.”

Emma doesn’t understand herself, doesn’t have the time to think it through, but somehow, in the face of the attack, she finds herself wanting to stick with the enemy she knows; wanting to stick with Regina.

Regina stares at her, brow furrowed in conflict.

“Trust me, Regina. Please.”

The next wave of men is almost upon them, when Regina reaches out with her dagger and slices through Emma’s corded manacles. She then presses the dagger into Emma’s hand.

Together, they turn to fight.

Chapter Text

A dream will lead to betrayal; in betrayal lies salvation.

The Savior must be saved to begin her transformation.

Regina has been slowing their pace, but it’s unavoidable now. They will arrive at the Dark One’s palace before the sun sets.

They haven’t spoken much since the attack by the Midlands rebels. Swan had fought well, though she’d clearly done all she could to only wound, rather than kill.

Fighting together, back to back and side by side, had felt… Regina didn’t know how to describe it. It was a feeling that she’d only managed to achieve a few times before, with those of the Mord-Siths whom she trusted most. It was like they were somehow in sync, each knowing what the other was going to do, and reacting accordingly.

The rebels were no match for them at all, and the attack had barely even begun, before it was over.

And true to her word, Swan had not run away. She was a fool; an admirable fool, but a fool nonetheless.

Afterwards, it had felt almost wrong to bind Swan’s hands once again. But a Mord-Sith did not, could not, hesitate. So she had simply informed Swan that she would need to restrain her again. Swan’s shoulders had slumped in disappointment, but she’d nodded and accepted her fate without complaint.

And if Regina tied the restraints much looser than before, well, it was as close to an apology as Swan would get.

A treacherous thought niggles at the back of Regina’s mind, however, as they continue on their journey back through D’Hara. It doesn’t seem honorable—turning Swan over to the Dark One, likely to be tortured and killed, after Swan had fought bravely by her side.

Such thoughts are dangerous, so Regina ignores it.

At last, as the Dark One’s palace grows larger before them, Swan breaks the uneasy silence between them.

“What does he want with me?” she asks.

“I do not know for sure,” Regina answers after a moment. “As I said before, you know something that the Dark One wishes to know himself.”

Swan doesn’t respond for quite some time.

“And once he gets what he wants from me?” she finally continues. “He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? That sounds like something that someone who calls himself ‘the Dark One’ would do.”

Regina’s silence is answer enough.

Regina tries to leave once she delivers Swan to the Dark One, wishing only to turn her back on this mission and return to the Mord-Sith temple, where everything makes sense.

But her lord commands her to stay; to stand guard and to watch. If he suspects anything, believes her to be anything less than his perfectly feal servant, then her punishment will be waiting as soon as he is done with Swan.

But Regina has long ago grown accustomed to keeping all of her thoughts well-hidden, and the Dark One cannot read her nearly as well as he thinks he can.

Regina has borne witness to enough of these “questionings” to know how they go.

The Dark One likes to play with his prey.

He eases into things, making them think that everything will be fine, if they simply answer the Dark One’s questions. He makes them think that they have nothing to fear. He makes them think that he isn’t the evil tyrant they’ve previously thought him to be.

They are always wrong.

And the very moment that they relax, that is when the Dark One turns on them; that is when he lets them know how very wrong they have been.

But things are different this time.

This time, there is no easing into things.

This time, the Dark One is impatient, and it makes him vicious, right from the start.

The Dark One’s hands are sparking with small bolts of lightning, and his first question gets right to the point.

“Where is Baelfire?” he demands.

Swan’s expression reveals only confusion, and Regina knows from that moment that things are not going to go well for her.

“Who?” Swan asks.

Even before the word has left Swan’s mouth, the Dark One’s fingers flex, and the lightning shoots out from his hands and into Swan’s body. She cries out at the sudden pain, and the sheer force of it brings her down to her knees.

Regina can only smile when, stubborn as she is, Swan gets back up to her feet.

“Where. Is. Baelfire?” The Dark One is up and out of his throne, his hands grasping at the air, like he wants to pull the answers right out of her. Or simply strangle Swan by the throat.

“I don’t know who—”

And it repeats. A blast of lightning. A sharp cry of pain. Swan’s legs give out on her. And she returns to her feet.

And again.

Regina stops counting the repetitions after the fourth time.

But it isn’t long after that when the question changes.

The Dark One is near hysterical, practically frothing with rage, and a Mord-Sith does not know fear, ever, but even she is taken aback. She has never seen him like this.

“Where is my son?!?”

If this question means anything more to Swan, Regina doesn’t see it. She is too busy staring at the Dark One.

His son? The Dark One has a son?

“Look, man. Sir. Whatever.” Swan spits blood onto the floor. The Dark One’s lightning has left no outward marks on her, but it has clearly done its damage. “I’d never even heard of you before your lady in red showed up to kidnap me, so how am I supposed to know who your son is?”

Yes, Swan is a fool, all right, for talking to the Dark One like that.

This time, the lightning arcing out from the Dark One’s hands is bright green; this time, when Swan falls to her hands and knees, she does not get back up.

The Dark One stalks over to her, an ugly sneer stretched across his face, and with a wave of his arm, Swan is up in the air.

She is only able to maintain contact with the floor by the tips of her toes. She claws at her throat, as though he were choking her, but his hands are instead fisted in the front of her tunic, holding her close to him. The lightning now snaps constantly around them both, but only Swan seems affected, as her eyes roll up into her head and blood flows freely from her nose.

When the Dark One speaks, it is almost difficult for Regina to hear him.

“And my grandson?” he asks, his voice a deadly quiet. “Are you telling me that you didn’t notice when my grandson emerged from your womb? Where are they?!”

The Dark One releases his hold on her, and Swan immediately crumples to the floor.

Swan remains where she is, but when she looks up at him, she cannot hide the dawning understanding.

“Neal is your son?” she asks softly, sounding lost and confused.

In the blink of an eye, the Dark One has Swan back on her feet once more. This time, he does reach for her neck, wrapping his long fingers tightly around her throat.

And then—it’s the strangest thing…

Nothing happens.

Regina has seen the Dark One use his Confessor powers countless times.

But now…

Regina whispers to herself, “A Confessor cannot be confessed.”

.

The woman launched herself at Regina, seemingly from out of nowhere.

Even when Regina quickly drew her agiel and pushed it hard into the woman’s side, the woman merely grunted out her pain, but she did not back down. She only drew herself closer, and when she blinked her eyes, Regina noticed that the woman must be blind, for her eyes were fully clouded over in milky white.

“Listen, Mistress Regina,” the woman hissed, and that she knew Regina’s name was enough to stay Regina’s agiel. “Listen, and remember. A Confessor cannot be confessed. She is the daughter of thine enemy, the enemy of thy master. But a Confessor cannot be confessed, Regina, and when it happens, you must protect her. The Bird is the key. The sword will be hers, but only if she has you by her side. For the Savior cannot save anyone, unless she herself is saved first. A Confessor cannot be confessed, so protect the Bird and find the boy. Listen and remember. The fate of all the realms depends on it.”

Regina woke up suddenly, drenched in a cold sweat. 

 “A Confessor cannot be confessed,” she whispered in the dark

But she did not understand.

.

The strange dream had been many years ago, but Regina remembers it now. If the bird was the key, did that mean Swan? Could Swan truly be a Confessor?

The Dark One has recovered from his shock at not being able to confess Swan. And in the denial of his desires, he has gone dark and cold, even more so than usual. Red smoke swirls about his feet, slowly snaking its way towards Swan, who lies unmoving at the far end of the room, where the Dark One had thrown her violently against the wall.

Regina understands immediately that he will kill her.

When it happens, you must protect her.

With no time for doubt, Regina rushes across the room. She cannot think about what she is doing—being a Mord-Sith is all she knows, and the Mord-Sith serve the Dark One, and…

No. Regina is no one’s servant. Not anymore.

The Dark One has not noticed her at all. Not until she throws herself between him and Swan. She arrives just in time to put up her hand, palm facing outwards, and deflect the Dark One’s thunderous blast of magic.

If it had hit Swan, it surely would have killed her. Deflected back against the Dark One, however, it merely seems to enrage him even more.

Before he can retaliate, Regina crouches down by Swan’s side, grabs hold of her wrist, and waves her hand to magic the two of them away.

“Am I dead?”

Emma thinks she must be dead. Absolutely everything hurts. And there had been an angry and terrifying wizard who seemed intent on killing her. Plus, she could have sworn that a moment ago she had been inside his palace, but now she’s lying on the ground, staring up at a clear blue sky.

Her line of sight is blocked when Regina leans in to look down on her

“You’re not dead,” she replies simply.

“You sure?” Emma asks.

In response, Regina kicks her lightly in the side, earning a loud, “Ow!” of protest.

Regina seems angry. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’re a Confessor?” she demands.

Emma’s feeling very sleepy.

“Whazza Confessor?” she slurs, closing her eyes. The word sounds familiar, but… She’ll just take a little nap, and then… Emma doesn’t know what then. Something else will happen, probably.

Emma hears a heavy sigh, and a moment later she feels some kind of wave of energy pass through her, and she suddenly feels astoundingly better. The pain lingers, but it is now manageable.

“Whoa,” is all she can say. She remains lying on the ground, but looks up at where Regina is still standing over her. “Did you do that?”

Regina lifts an eyebrow, with an expression that is a clear indication that she had.

“Well that’s a neat trick,” Emma comments. She manages to sit up, and she may not be dead, she’ll accept that, but she still is very confused.

Regina interrupts Emma’s silent musings, explaining, “Confessors are an ancient order of magical women. With the power of confession, they can compel others to do their bidding.”

“Oh, yeah.” Emma nods. “The grabbing people by the neck, energy whooshing thing? Yeah, I can do that. There’s a name for that? There are other people who can do it too?”

Regina looks up at the sky and sighs. “Spirits, you’re completely hopeless.”

“Why am I not dead?” Emma asks, still stuck on that point.

“Because I transported us out of the Dark One’s palace,” Regina answers, though without really explaining anything at all, Emma can’t help but notice.

Still, she looks up at Regina in awe. “Why?” she asks, unable to comprehend why this woman—who had captured her for the sole purpose of taking her to the Dark One—would save her life.

At that, Regina actually looks slightly embarrassed. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “And really, I should have let him kill you.”

In spite of everything, Emma feels oddly hurt at that.

But Regina goes on, almost talking to herself, “It would have been the more strategic move, but I wasn’t thinking properly. I could have used the Breath of Life to resurrect you, hopefully without the Dark One noticing, and then he might not even know that I had betrayed him.”

“You can resurrect people?”

Regina rolls her eyes, as though being able to bring people back to life weren’t a big deal.

Emma’s head is starting to throb again, and she lets herself fall back into the grass. “Well you’re just full of surprises,” she says. “Especially for an evil fairytale character.”

“Fairytale character?” Regina asks in confusion.

“Westland, no magic.” Emma vaguely waves her hand through the air, before making a scolding gesture as she adds, “‘Now do as you’re told, little Johnny, or the big, bad Mord-Sith will come and get you.’”

Regina frowns down at her. “We only take girls,” she says simply.

Emma has nothing to say to that.

Before the silence can get too awkward, Regina goes on. “We need to get moving,” she says. “The Dark One will not take this treachery lightly. If he has not already sent a squadron of Mord-Sith or his Dragon Corps guards after us, then he will very soon.”

Emma grumbles, “You know, I didn’t actually do anything, here. You’re the one who did all the treachery—and I’m very grateful for that—so he should be mad at you, not me.”

Still, Emma puts her hand up in the air, a wordless request for Regina to help her up off the ground. Instead, Regina glares down at her for a moment, before turning away to begin walking.

“We need supplies. And horses,” Regina says, as Emma pushes herself into an upright position and hurries to catch up.

“Why can’t you just poof us with magic again?” Emma asks.

“There is a limit to how far I can take us, and I can only transport us to places I know,” explains Regina. “Around here, those are precisely the places we should avoid. Once we gain some distance, then we can use magic again.”

“Okay,” Emma nods. “And where are we going?” She can’t explain to herself why she has so quickly accepted that she and Regina will continue on together. They could just as easily split up and go their own ways; it might even make more sense.

Regina spares Emma a brief glance out of the corner of her eye, looking almost apologetic.

But there is steel in her voice when she says, “We have to find your son, and then kill him.”

Emma stops dead in her tracks.

It takes several steps before Regina notices and turns to look back at Emma.

“What?” Emma asks weakly. She can feel the color draining from her face.

Placing her hands on her hips, Regina makes no attempt to soften her message. “The power of confession always passes from mother to child. Amongst plenty of daughters, sons are exceedingly rare, but whenever a male Confessor is born, he must be killed. It is the Confessors’ own practice to do so. Inside a male body, the power of confession corrupts the soul.”

Emma can only shake her head. She doesn’t know what to feel. She just wants Regina to stop talking.

Heedless of what Emma might want, Regina goes on. “If allowed to live, male Confessors inevitably grow to be horrible tyrants. They have an unquenchable thirst for power and control, and their bloodlust knows no bounds. If your son is allowed to live, then he will be as bad as the Dark One, if not worse. You’re new here, but ask anyone in all of D’Hara or the Midlands what they think of the Dark One’s mother’s selfish decision to let her son live.”

“No,” Emma protests. “No, I— I don’t even know where he is. I never… They took him, and— I couldn’t have…”

She grits her teeth and turns her back on Regina, looking down as she scuffs her foot against the ground. Her eyes remain dry, but she can feel her heart beating faster than it should.

She’d somehow been managing not to think about him—them; the boy and Neal—since the Dark One had reopened that wound. But now…

Startled, Emma flinches at the feel of a hand closing over her shoulder. Regina squeezes, just once, and then lets her hand simply rest there.

Emma bows her head, breathing deeply in and out.

The moment is broken when, off to their left, a sudden cry sounds.

“Get away from her, you Mord-Sith scum!”

Regina is faster to react, turning quickly and pulling out her agiel, while Emma can only stare dumbly at the man now running towards them at full speed, with his sword drawn.

Unlike the rebels who had attacked them earlier, the man shows himself to be a skilled swordsman. He strikes without fear, putting Regina on the defensive and unable to land a blow against him.

Realizing that she has no weapon, Emma panics at first. Until it becomes apparent that the man is purposefully maneuvering things so that he can put himself between Emma and Regina.

“Stay back, Emma,” he says, and Emma has no idea how he could possibly know her name. “Don’t worry, I will protect you from this evil being.”

Regina snarls at him in response, and for a moment, Emma just stares at the back of his head, confused. Then she walks up right behind him and, sticking her foot out, trips him up so that he ends up sprawled across the ground. Regina quickly brings her agiel down to press against the side of his neck.

He doesn’t scream, but his entire body stiffens, before he quickly passes out from the pain.

When he awakens, he finds himself sitting up against the trunk of a tree, with his hands tied behind his back.

“Who are you?” Emma demands of him. “How do you know my name, why did you attack us, and what do you want?”

The man beams up at her, unconcerned about his restricted state. “Emma, I would know you anywhere,” he insists. “My name is David, and I am your father. I am here to take you to Aydindril so you can claim the Sword of Truth and take your rightful place beside your mother, the Mother Confessor.”

Regina lags behind Swan and David, even as Swan continues shooting her looks of concern, which Regina ignores.

She can’t quite conceive of how she’s possibly gotten herself into this mess. Not only is Swan a Confessor, but she comes directly from the White family line.

Spawn of the Mother Confessor, herself.

She recalls again the words of the woman in her dream: “She is the daughter of thine enemy, the enemy of thy master.”

That part certainly makes sense, now.

The Mother Confessor is the full embodiment of all that Regina has been taught to hate—righteous piety; a sense of moral superiority; a belief that the world can be split into ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ with the Confessors set up as the sole authorities on which side is which.

What is Regina doing?

She cannot possibly be meant to follow the Mother Confessor’s daughter to Aydindril, no matter what some crazy woman said to her in a dream.

It was a dream. Just a dream. Regina has been an utter fool in thinking it to be anything else. She ought to get as far away from these people as she can, before Swan is inevitably turned against her.

But where would she go?

Returning to her Mord-Sith sisters is now out of the question. Ever loyal to the Dark One, they would kill her without a second thought.

Doubt is not something that Regina knows. She is a Mord-Sith. The only emotions she feels are anger, or pride. Regina does not do anything so pedestrian as doubt herself or feel insecure, ever.

Swan looks back at her again and smiles, tentative.

Regina feels something gnawing at her—something she will not name—and continues on resignedly.

Mord-Sith and Confessors do not mix well, and sooner or later, Swan is sure to turn on her. That much, Regina knows to be true.

But there is nowhere else for her to go, so she trudges on towards her end.

She has inflicted enough pain on enough people, that maybe this is her fate; they say that a Mord-Sith dying by confession is the worst pain imaginable.

When the time comes, she will face it without fear.

Chapter Text

Darkness flies on wings of spite and ill will,

When death comes calling in Aydindril.

Aydindril is unlike any place Emma has ever seen. All she’s known is small town living; her life has been a progression of one small village after another, each one no more memorable than the last. No real place to call home.

And if David is to be believed, then she could have grown up here, in this vast, magnificent city.

But instead, they had sent her away.

‘For her own good.’

Emma does believe him. She thinks. She’s so overwhelmed with all that he’s told her that she doesn’t quite know if she trusts herself on this one, but her instinct does say that he’s telling the truth. And even with that—Emma has always assumed that her ability to tell truth from lie was just some weird quirk of hers. Something that made her unique. Now David tells her that it’s nothing about her in particular at all; it’s simply proof of her heritage as a Confessor.

But now, with every step, with every breath, one word keeps echoing inside Emma’s head.

Why?

Why did they give her away? Why was it for her own good? Why did she grow up in Westland, alone? Why, after all this time, did David only now decide to show up in her life?

Why?

She doesn’t say any of it out loud. She’s too afraid of what the answers might be.

The order, when it comes, is unsurprising.

Regina has been expecting something since the moment she stepped within the city walls. She walks with her head held high, but every single person they walk by knows exactly what her outfit signifies; every single person they walk by must hate her for it.

The only vague surprise, then, is that no one dares to approach Regina until they are inside the palace and the Mother Confessor herself calls for it.

“What is a Mord-Sith doing here?” the woman demands.

Regina has never actually seen the Mother Confessor before, but there is no mistaking her. She stands at the front of the room, dressed all in white and practically reeking of moral self-importance.

“Seize her!”

At once, the palace guards who line the room attempt to obey the Mother Confessor’s orders, but Regina is always ready. Here in this city, she is not reckless enough to draw her agiel without provocation, but surely no one can fault her for defending herself.

Regina grins as the first guard reaches her; she knows, in the back of her mind, that there will be too many of them, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t go down fighting.

She’s still managing to hold her own when she realizes that Swan is pushing her way towards Regina.

“Hey!” Swan calls out. “Hey, stop it! She saved my life, what are you all doing?”

Regina had been about to use her magic, but she hesitates for just a moment at the sight of Swan being suddenly so close, and that’s all it takes before too many guards are on her. They force her agiel out of her hand and wrestle her down to the ground. Even so, Regina smiles in satisfaction at the grunt of pain she earns when she gets in one more solid elbow to the face of one of the guards.

She can still hear Swan. “David, tell them to lay off of her!”

There’s a buzzing in Regina’s ears from her head hitting too hard against the ground, as the palace guards wrench her up off of the floor and hold her firmly by the upper arms, pulling them towards her back. She keeps her fists clenched, but doesn’t have the mobility to either hit anyone or call up her magic.

The Mother Confessor is no longer looking at Regina, however.

“Emma? Is that you?”

The crowd of people who fill the room, all of whom had been eagerly watching the guards take on Regina, parts easily for their Mother Confessor. The woman walks quickly to stand in front of Swan, but if she notices the wary expression on Swan’s face, she pays it no mind.

The Mother Confessor’s own face is one of such wondrous adoration that Regina feels like she might be sick at the cloying sweetness of it.

The matriarch of the White family line raises a reverent hand to touch the face of the one who apparently is her long-lost daughter.

But Swan flinches and ducks her head away.

“Emma,” the Mother Confessor says, the hurt clear in her voice. “I am your mother.”

Swan’s voice is quiet but hard when she says, “All you are to me right now is a stranger. And a room full of people I don’t know isn’t exactly the setting I’d pick for a reunion, anyway.”

“I did not know you would be arriving today,” the Mother Confessor explains, and she won’t stop smiling once she says it. “These are people of the Midlands, here to seek my counsel and word of justice.”

Regina rolls her eyes.

Still, the Mother Confessor gestures for the people to leave her, and they begin filing out of the room, stretching their necks in an attempt to get a closer look at things as they go.

“Well that’s great for you,” Swan responds. Neck tense, shoulders tight, and hands clenched into fists, she is clearly uncomfortable. “But do you think you could have your goons, here, release my friend?”

At that, Regina raises an eyebrow.

Friend? Since when?

“Emma, this woman is a Mord-Sith,” the Mother Confessor chides. “Whatever you may think of her, she absolutely cannot be trusted.”

“She saved my life,” Swan says again, “so I certainly trust her more than I trust you.”

The Mother Confessor frowns. “You are angry with me,” she intuits, and Regina cannot hold back a scoff of derision. This idiot is supposed to be the word of justice?

Swan says nothing.

After a long, awkward, moment of silence, the Mother Confessor inclines her head, and though she does not take her eyes off of Swan, she tells the guards holding Regina, “Let her go. For now.”

Regina gladly yanks herself free even before they have fully released her. She stoops down to pick up her agiel, and as she spins around in a circle while holding it out, the guards nearly fall over each other with the effort to quickly move away from her.

The Mother Confessor frowns again as she eyes Regina with distaste. But as Regina sheaths her agiel in the holster attached to her thigh, the Mother Confessor turns back to Swan with a bright smile. “Well,” she says, clapping her hands together one time. “We must have a large feast in your honor! Emma, I cannot wait to get to know the wonderful young woman I am sure that you are.”

Swan looks like she wants to hit something.

“Yeah, I need some air,” she says, and then quickly flees from the room.

Regina looks around at the people who remain—the guards, David, and the Mother Confessor—and begins to slowly clap. “Really,” she says, “that was quite the remarkable homecoming you put on for the daughter you abandoned when she was just an infant.”

And with that, Regina turns to go find Swan.

When Regina finds her, Emma is enjoying herself in some local tavern, already a little ways past tipsy.

“Regina!” she calls out in delight at the sight of her. “Come meet my new friends.”

Regina frowns at her. “It is unnatural for someone to be so happy to see a Mord-Sith,” Regina comments. “I don’t like it.”

Emma can only laugh in response, and okay, maybe she’s a little more drunk than she’d thought.

She turns to introduce her friends to Regina, only to find that they have scattered.

“You scared them away,” she complains, and now Regina smiles.

“They should be scared,” she says with a satisfied nod.

“Well, you’re here now.” Emma finds it a fair trade, and tugs on Regina’s sleeve to get her to sit. Regina bats her hand away, but takes a seat anyway.

Once Regina is sitting, though, Emma can’t think of anything to say.

Instead, they sit in silence for a while until Regina says, “So, your mother’s a piece of work.”

Emma snorts, grinning into her drink. “She is, isn’t she?” She adds, “My father seems all right.”

But Regina scoffs. “He’s an idiot too. Not that he can help it, of course.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asks.

“Well, he’s been confessed,” Regina explains, as if it were obvious. “Now he has no alternative to fawning mindlessly over his mistress.”

Now that Regina has said it, Emma supposes that David does bear some resemblance to her own ‘puppets,’ in the way that he kept raving about what a wonderful person Emma’s mother is. Emma had only thought him to be a loving, loyal husband, but with the way Regina was talking, she wonders if there’s some other way to tell when someone has been confessed.

When she asks Regina as much, it first looks like Emma will be the next person that Regina is going to call an idiot.

But then a look of understanding passes over Regina’s face. “Right,” she says, and she actually appears alarmed. “No one ever taught you these things.”

At Emma’s inquisitive expression, Regina looks away, unable to meet Emma’s gaze, but she does explain. “It would be impossible for David to be your father, were he not confessed. Confession will occur when a man lies with a Confessor, if he has not already been confessed. With the woman’s release, it is physically impossible for her to hold her magic within her.”

Her words sound almost clinical, but when their meaning sinks in… Emma feels like she might be sick, and not because of the alcohol she’s been drinking.

Neal.

So that’s what happened. That’s why he… Even though she hadn’t…

Regina remains silent, letting Emma process things on her own.

After her initial feeling of horror, what Emma really feels is anger. If her mother is such a wonderful person like David had said—a leader to her people, an arbiter of justice, a pillar in the community, a messenger of hope…

Then how, in the name of all creation, could they have left her to fend for herself like this?

Emma doesn’t even notice that she is clenching her fists until Regina breaks the silence.

“Would you like to go and hit something?” she asks calmly.

Emma’s answer is immediate.

“Yes.”

Of course, Swan’s family finally manages to track them down at the exact moment that looks the worst.

“Emma!”

The frantic cry comes less than a minute after Emma has submitted, admitting Regina as the superior combatant.

She now remains lying flat on her back in the middle of the sparring grounds, with Regina standing over her. Their eyes meet, and there’s something strange in Swan’s gaze; an intensity that Regina can’t quite read.

The moment is broken at the Mother Confessor’s cry.

Regina sighs and steps back and away. Swan immediately raises an arm straight up into the air and waves her hand around.

“I’m fine!” Swan calls out loudly, clearly hoping to stave off the cavalry currently rushing at them. “I’m fine, really. Just a little friendly sparring. I’ll get up. Just… give me a moment.”

Regina smirks.

But apparently the word of their “Savior” isn’t enough, because soon Regina is once again surrounded by Aydindril’s guards, as Swan’s parents rush over to their daughter’s side.

Regina stands tall, angling her head to calmly stare down each of the guards, one by one. They have her vastly outnumbered, but they are the ones who seem petrified. She has a feeling that all she would have to do is flinch in their general direction, and they’d drop their weapons and flee.

“Did she hurt you?” the Mother Confessor demands. “What were you doing?”

Swan waves them off. “I’m fine, I just told you that,” she grumbles. The presence of her newfound family is enough to get her up and off the ground, though. “I just needed to let off some steam, okay? And Regina helped me.”

“Oh,” the Mother Confessor responds. “It just looked like…”

She trails off, so Regina decides to insert herself into the conversation. “Swan has the tools to be a great warrior, one day, but for now, she is raw.” Pointedly, she continues, “I have received many years’ worth of formal training, while you left your daughter to fend for herself on the streets. She is no match for me, but I assure you, we were merely sparring. Swan was never in danger.”

With a huff, the Mother Confessor retorts, “Well you’ll have to excuse me, Mord-Sith, if I have a difficult time taking you at your word.”

Regina and the Mother Confessor lock eyes, each glaring at the other, until Swan places herself between them.

“Well how about you take me at mine, okay?” she says. “I’m fine, Regina’s fine, everything is fine. So was there anything else you wanted?”

The Mother Confessor sighs, but lets her issues with Regina go, for the time being. She signals to the guards, and they quickly file away.

Once they’re gone, she says, “I understand why you might find a public feast overwhelming, but I have a simple meal prepared for you, if you would like. Also, the Blue Prelate would like to see you. And there is the matter of the Sword of Truth, as well.”

No one speaks for a long moment, after that.

Then Regina mumbles under her breath, “That one really needs to work on her delivery.”

She apparently was not sufficiently quiet, however, because her comment earns her a scowl from David and the Mother Confessor, and a laugh from Swan.

Regina finds herself strangely pleased at having elicited Swan’s smile.

“Yeah,” Swan agrees. “So all of that was too much all at once. Food now, and then you can explain the rest of whatever you said later.”

She’ll give this much credit to her parents—they sure know how to put out a really good meal.

Granted, Emma may not have the best perspective on such things, having gone from a simple life in Westland to captivity to only eating whatever they could catch while traveling with Regina. But Emma doesn’t think she has ever been so satisfied in her whole life.

Of course, if she dwells on that thought, it will only make her feel bitter.

So, she doesn’t think about it.

Instead, she’s faced with the prospect of having to focus on all that the Blue Prelate has just told her.

There’s something about the older woman that Emma doesn’t like.

Maybe it’s that Emma’s never been a big believer in religion. Maybe it’s that the Prelate is actually a tiny blue fairy, and there’s something strange about so much power being condensed into something so small. Maybe it’s the way that everyone listens to her as though she really does speak for the Creator herself.

Maybe it’s all hindsight, rather than first impression, once Emma realizes that she is the one who told her parents to abandon Emma in Westland; because of some stupid prophecy.

And the apparent contents of that prophecy is something else that Emma is definitely not going to dwell upon.

Whatever the real reason is, Emma isn’t sure that she trusts this Blue Prelate, leader of the sacred Sisters of the Light.

If the glare that seems etched onto Regina’s face is anything to go by, then it seems as though Regina feels the same way. Then again, Regina glares at practically everyone. Except for Emma, some of the time. It feels nice to be an exception, in that way.

But whatever Emma thinks of most of the things that Blue had to say, it doesn’t matter now. Because now, Emma has bigger issues.

Like, for instance, the giant, magic sword that supposedly is destined for Emma’s hand.

Emma takes a deep breath as she eyes it, held up in the center of the room, hovering within some sort of magic yellow light.

Maybe they’re all wrong, she thinks. Maybe Emma isn’t this “Savior” that they all believe her to be.

“Go on, Emma. Take the sword,” her mother urges. As if reading Emma’s mind, she continues, “Only the true Savior can withdraw the Sword of Truth from its containment; only the true Savior can wield it. That sword is your birthright, and in your hands, it offers us the chance to defeat the Dark One once and for all.”

Emma hears her mother’s words, but they don’t fully sink in, somehow. They don’t inspire her in the way that she knows her mother intended.

Instead, Emma feels her gaze naturally turn towards Regina.

Reflected in the magical light, Regina looks… Emma doesn’t know how she hadn’t really noticed it before, but there’s something about the way Regina looks, right in this moment, that nearly strikes Emma dumb.

Regina is beautiful.

Regina had been looking at the sword, but perhaps at the feel of Emma’s eyes on her, she turns to meet Emma’s gaze.

She nods, just once, and that’s all Emma needs.

Emma moves forward, walking purposefully up the steps to the raised platform above which the sword floats. No longer hesitant—either this will work, or it won’t, and there’s nothing Emma can do about it either way—Emma thrusts her hand into the magical light and grasps the sword by its hilt.

It feels warm in her hand, and with just a light tug, the sword comes free.

It is hers.

With a wide smile spreading across her face, Emma turns back towards Regina. Regina is already looking at her, beaming.

Emma’s heart rate ticks upwards at the sight of her.

Then, chaos.

The man appears, quite literally, from out of nowhere.

Emma whirls on him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world as she raises her new sword and assumes a defensive stance. She feels like, with this sword in her hands, she could do anything.

But the man is clearly not the kind of physical threat that must be fought with a sword. He falls to his knees and has just enough strength to raise one arm out towards the Mother Confessor. Quite piteously, he begs, “Mother Confessor, please forgive me.”

The Blue Prelate calls out for them all to stay back, and that’s when Emma notices the large, red blemishes that cover the man’s skin. More than simply being weak, the man appears to be suffering from some kind of sickness.

The man begins to shake uncontrollably, and Emma wants to help him, but has no idea what to do.

Before she can think of how to act, the shaking stops, and as the man expels his last breath, red smoke comes out of his mouth. The smoke rises into the air and hovers there, coalescing into the shape of a different man, one that Emma can now recognize as the Dark One.

The red smoke creature speaks with his voice as well. It intones, “The claiming of the sword has called forth my first victim. And for every day that passes until your so-called Savior submits to me, another one of your residents will be struck down with illness. Submit to me, or all shall perish.”

With that, the smoke disintegrates into the air, and they are left with a dead man on the floor.

No one says anything at first, until the Blue Prelate turns to Emma. “Savior,” she says. “Today you have claimed your sword. Now the time has come for you to earn your name. The prophecies have long spoken of this time, and your quest awaits you.”

Emma feels like her heart is being squeezed inside of her chest. No, this is too much, it’s all just too much, and…

Regina steps forward, coming to stand by Emma’s side. She faces Emma and, with just a light touch to Emma’s elbow, urges her to turn as well. It’s just the two of them, then, looking at each other.

“Well what do you say, Savior?” Regina asks.

Coming from the smoke creature, the word ‘Savior’ had been spat out with bitter venom; from the Blue Prelate and the Mother Confessor, the word spoke of a dutiful obligation.

But coming from Regina, the word is used only half seriously. There’s respect there, Emma knows, but at the same time, she can somehow tell that Regina is only using the word to mock everyone else.

Somehow, the way that Regina says it makes Emma smile.

There’s an eager brightness to Regina’s eyes, and Emma’s breath catches in her throat as Regina finishes, “Feel like going on a quest to save the world?”

So. Emma knows that all of this is a really big deal. She has a magic sword, now, and all the realms are depending on her to save them, or else the Dark One will kill them all, and plus there’s the whole issue of her son apparently being evil… Serious stuff.

But.

Emma finds that her mind is stuck on a different problem.

Because there’s no denying it. She has a thing—a romantic thing—for the woman who had kidnapped her (because she’d been ordered to), but then saved her life (because she’d wanted to), and she seems to understand Emma in a way that no one else ever has before, and she’s the only one who will actually tell her things, and, oh yeah, she’s also the most beautiful woman Emma’s ever seen.

And now they’re about to go off on a quest together, to save humanity.

Emma sighs.

She just knows this is going to get awkward.