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Regina is twelve years old the first time she hates her body.
(She’s never hated it before, not even when it betrayed her. When it would bruise and bleed and weaken so easily, when it would shiver and shudder in ways that made Mother tut and mutter pathetic under her breath. No, that wasn’t her body that she hated, that was something deep in her, something harder to get at.)
It’s her birthday, and she’s already not looking forward to it. Birthdays are always a trial. Mother hosts some big event and there’s only ever grown ups who don’t even talk to her – which she doesn’t mind – but she’s not allowed to leave either, or pick her own dress, or – as it turns out – eat any of her own cake.
“Why not?” Regina makes the mistake of asking.
“Why not?” Mother’s face is hard, though her tone is light and pleasant. To the visiting courtiers swanning around the prettily-decorated hall, they’re simply having a pleasant conversation by the buffet table. “Because I had that frock made for you one month ago and it already barely fits. You’ll never make a good marriage if you get fat, Regina. It’s bad enough we have to deal with that ugly scar.”
Unconsciously, Regina’s hand flies to her lip, where the scar is still a little swollen and sore.
“Sorry, Mother.” Regina mumbles, as Cora drinks away, drink in hand, to snatch some other noble for a talk.
For Cora, this is a Tuesday. For Regina, it’s the first time she remembered wanting to leave a function because the idea of everyone looking at her made her want to cry.
It doesn’t get better.
The older she gets, the more often Cora slaps her hand away from plates at the dining table, compares her figure to that of the other girls her age, observes her every dress fitting and makes cold comments from the corner. Regina bears it all silently and demurely as she is expected to.
As much as she hates it she begins to find some sad satisfaction in it too. Mother’s affection is faint and fleeting at best, but Regina learns new ways of snatching it, if only momentarily. She learns how to be hungry. She learns to turn down dishes and she’s never sure if the satisfaction that thrills through her after comes from herself, or her mother’s approving smile.
She hates herself for it, but she’s still mostly a child and she doesn’t understand why she’s so relieved every time her maid can tighten her corset another half inch.
(She’s useless at everything else, so she might as well be beautiful.
I just want you to reach your full potential, my darling. Cora tells her, with a calculated flutter of her hand through her daughters hair. You’re such a pretty girl. You’ve been given a gift, there. But a queen has to be perfect.
Regina doesn’t think to argue that she isn’t a queen, she’s a girl. She’s just happy Mother is being kind to her, just pleased she thinks she’s pretty at all.
But she still feels anxious every time she looks in the mirror.)
She’s fifteen the first time she hates her body for a different reason.
It’s ironic, that in only three years it’s shifted this much – but three years can do a lot to a young girl at the latter stage of childhood. Gone are her little-girl frocks. Now, Regina finds herself laced into a proper gown with layers of skirts and a corset that cuts into her already tiny waist (she is a child) and supports the weight of her newly full breasts. It’s for a ball her grandfather is hosting, and she’s somewhat nervous to wear it.
It makes her feel terribly grown up, but also uncomfortable. What if people think she looks ridiculous? What if Grandfather doesn’t approve? He’s terribly traditional and she knows he doesn’t like Mother anyway. And… It’s probably just her being pathetic again, but she’s not quite used to her breasts existing yet, let alone being so… visible.
Come on Regina, she scolds herself. Don’t be pathetic.
(The voice in her head has always been half her mother’s.)
Regina tries to keep her head lifted and her shoulders back all night but it’s difficult and she doesn’t know how to sit without her bodice digging in. And she can’t help noticing… Men. Everywhere. Looking at her.
It starts even before they enter the ballroom, just before they’re announced. Daddy is fussing with his cravat and Mother stares straight ahead, chin lifted while they wait for the footmen to open the doors for them. The footman is young, with acne on his chin and a nervous way of moving, and she keeps catching his dark eyes dart towards her. Her face, and lower, where her tightly-constrained breasts rise and fall with her every breath. It makes Regina feel small, even though Mother talks about attracting a man like it’s the best feat she could hope to accomplish.
Later, when the dancing has started, she is asked onto the floor more than ever before and not just by the few boys she knows either. By men. Strangers, adults. Every time it feels wrong and her eyes flick nervously towards her mother, seeking permission, but nobody seems to think anything of it.
So, though her heart races and her cheeks flush, Regina holds her head high as mother taught her, and smiles prettily and allows every one of them to lead her onto the dancefloor.
The latest – Duke John – is a vague ally of one of her uncles’, and she recognises him from years of meetings and events at Xavier’s castle. But he has apparently forgotten all about her. He drags her through a clumsy waltz, his large hands grasping too tightly at her waist and hands, his body pressing uncomfortably closely to hers: she can smell the ale clinging to his breath and his beard.
“Is this your first ball, my lady?” He asks, spinning her and drawing her even closer. “You’re doing very well.”
“No, I – We’ve met before.” Regina says, then blushes at her own rudeness. “My lord.”
He seems unfazed. “Have we?”
“Yes, my lord.” Regina smiles placidly as he twirls her through the next stage of the dance, then pulls her back rather more harshly than her dancing tutor does in class. His hands grip at her waist, slipping lower and lower. “At my grandfathers’ tournament last year. I believe you’ve negotiated with my father and uncles before.”
“Well. I suppose you’d have been just a girl then, hmm?”
Regina can only nod, confused.
“You’ve become a lovely young woman, Regina.” He murmurs, and hungry eyes fall to her chest unabashedly. “Very lovely, indeed.”
Regina doesn’t feel like a woman (and lovely doesn’t feel like a compliment). She feels like a child and she wants to go home.
As the dance ends, he holds her firmly at the edge of the floor, his hot reeking breath all over her. “Trust me, beautiful, you’ve made an impression this time. I’ll not be forgetting this dance any time soon.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Regina makes herself say, even as her cheeks burn and she shifts uncomfortably in his grasp.
He winks at her. “You run along, I’ve business to attend to. I’ll be claiming another dance later though, don’t you worry about that.”
That’s exactly what I am worried about, Regina thinks, scampering off gratefully to fetch herself a drink.
Her peace doesn’t last long though. As she’s sat near the edge of the room, sipping her iced punch, another lord finds her – younger than Duke John but still at least a decade older than her, with a short dark beard and arrogant eyes. A grown man.
“My lady.” He lifts her hand to his mouth as if it’s his right. His lips are dry and his fingers rough. “Forgive my boldness, but I watched your dancing and I felt the need to introduce myself. I am Lord Sigan, of Fabian’s district. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“My name is Regina,” Regina inclines her head. She’s tired of all this and doesn’t know why these men won’t just leave her alone. “My father is Prince Henry.”
He lights up, smirking. “Ah, a princess!”
“Oh, no,” Regina blushes, not from flattery but from discomfort. She knows she should be pleased to have gained his attention but she just feels cold and awkward, and she wants nothing more than to wrap her arms around herself. But she is a good girl, and a lady, so she just holds her chin high and smiles. “Father is the fifth son, you see.”
“Well, I’d say you’re far fairer than any of the true princesses here.” He comments, with a horrible smug twist to his mouth.
Regina doesn’t like that. The other princesses are her cousins, even if she rarely even speaks to them, and they’re all much older than her, women grown. But she feels it would be rude not to reply to a compliment, so she forces out a thank you, my lord and an uncertain smile.
Suddenly his hand is on her knee. It makes her jump at first – he chuckles lowly at her gasp, which makes her cheeks warm again in embarrassment, even as her skin is crawling. “And how old are you, Regina?”
The lack of title – the incorrect princess or standard lady – feels somehow dirty, crass. Regina tries very hard not to squirm away from his hand, or slap it. “Fifteen, my lord.”
“You look older.” He has the grace to at least look a little surprised. The surprise quickly melts back into something else, some expression Regina doesn’t quite understand yet: dark insistent eyes, slightly parted mouth. Low, slow voice. “Mature for your age, though, I can tell.”
“I –” Regina disagrees. Mother always says she’s childish and foolish. “Thank you. I don’t often hear such praise.”
“I’m surprised.” Lord Sigan murmurs, rubbing her knee absently. “Would you like to dance?”
“Oh, I –” Regina stares down into her drink. “Forgive me, my lord, but I doubt I’d be a good partner. I’ve barely had a rest all night and I’m a little tired.”
Sigan is undeterred; he just leans close, lazily snatching himself a drink from the ornate tray on the nearby table. “Then I shall keep you company while your rest.”
Regina smiles awkwardly, taking a big gulp of her drink. His hand lands on her knee again, this time inching higher, up to rest on her thigh. Across the room, Regina catches a glimpse of her mother, standing by the buffet in conversation with some old prince – for a moment their eyes meet and despite everything, Regina’s heart lifts at the icy approval in Cora’s gaze.
Later, when they’re on their way home in their carriage, Mother smiles at her. “It seems it was a productive evening for all.”
Regina is slumped against the carriage door. She doesn’t reply. If it weren’t for the jostle of the wheels over the unruly road, she would be falling asleep. She is so very tired, and her head throbs and her corset crushes into her ribs and she wants nothing more than to scrub the make-up off her face and fall into a soft bed.
“Regina.”
Regina sits up with a jolt of fear.
But Mother is not angry with her. Far from it.
“You did well tonight, sweetheart.” Cora tells her, and runs a hand lightly over Regina’s hair. Regina leans into her rare affection, desperate to savour it.
“I did?” She’s relieved. She thought she messed up – she said something incorrect over dinner, about politics, and all that happened at the ball was the dancing, the countless men. But apparently, that’s what Mother is talking about.
“The more of them that want you, the more power we have.” Mother shrugs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Regina thinks that’s wrong – the more men want her, the less powerful she feels, the more stupid and scared and embarrassed to just exist in her own body.
But she’s only a child, and she doesn’t know anything.
Soon, she will come to see Mother’s point.
At eighteen, she is engaged twice.
First, with cheap steel rings and the smell of fresh straw, soft torchlight in the stable and the whicker of horses, the frantic beat of her desperate heart against his as he squeezed her tightly, safely. Daniel, the love of her life. Daniel, who was pure and good and true, and never once stopped asking before he kissed her.
Second, with cold gold and diamonds in a palace that she hates, with an old man’s unfamiliar grip upon her hand. King Leopold announces his beautiful young fiancée to the kingdom. Snow White dances with glee, throwing handfuls of flower petals from her stupid little basket into the air and spinning. Regina is jealous of her. The stories get that part right. What they get wrong is why.
Regina has never been envious of the girl’s beauty – she’d have wrenched up and got rid of all of her own, at this point – if it meant she could stay a child a little longer. If she could wear whatever she wanted and throw roses and dance in the street without worrying about what it looked like, what thoughts her simple existence was planting in the heads of old men.
Her husband barely speaks to her. The wedding passes in a blur of fear and forced smiles and forced back tears and Daddy filling up her wine glass over and over again because he knows what’s coming and it’s all he can do to help. After the ceremony and the feast there is dancing and festivity, and Regina sits alone and tries to ignore how the king laughs with every nobleman in the room. He doesn’t even dance with her. She’s glad of that, though. She doesn’t know if she could pretend well enough to see that through.
But after, when the maids have come and gone and freed Regina from her wedding gown only to put her into her beautiful nightgown… She sits on the side of the bed shivering, her head swimming from drink and dread.
The King enters and Regina’s heart races. She wants to run away. To fling herself out the window. She wants someone to burst in and put a stop to all of this. But Mother taught her to be a lady. So she just stands to greet her husband and tries to stop the trembling in her hands.
“Wife.” Leopold greets. His is reeking of drink, his expression smug, self-satisfied. His heavy hands find her hips.
It’s all she can do not to shove him off. She stands there and tries not to cry while he runs his hands wherever he wants.
“So lovely.” He murmurs, and it is a curse.
And then he walks her over to the bed.
When he presses her down in all that softness, she bites the inside of her lip and closes her eyes. She tries to go away inside. To pretend she is somewhere else. Lying in the warm grass with Daniel. But it’s impossible, with the smell and weight of this old man looming over her, his careless voice in her ear, his dry hands climbing up her thighs.
“You are a very beautiful girl, Regina.”
But she doesn’t feel it.
Whatever her beauty is, it’s not hers. It’s not her. She’s just lying gripping the sheets forcing herself not to cry even as it burns and stings, while Leopold is touching her body, thrusting inside her body, panting in her ear and taking her. She understands that phrase then, with tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. Her body is just a thing. An item. And it definitely isn’t hers anymore.
If it ever was.
Nothing belongs to her in this castle, not even her own skin.
Instead, she belongs to it, to a spoiled little girl and a self-righteous old man, and her body is no different.
She is woken up according to their schedule. Maids come and dress her in clothes she barely has a say in, tighten her corset harsher than she would have done, apply her glamorous makeup on days she’d rather stay clean and fresh. She goes riding when Snow wants her to. She goes to court when Leopold wants her there. She goes hungry just enough to keep her figure, as Mother taught her. She smiles and curtsies when it is expected of her. She stares over Leopold’s sweaty shoulder and pretends she’s dead when he fucks her. She stands and smiles and is looked at. All day, every day.
It never occurs to Regina that this could be an advantage.
That her body, always a traitor, ever a commodity – could be utilized for her own gain rather than someone else’s.
Regina is used to the eyes of men on her by now – and some women, too. She knows she is desirable. Many of the noblemen and knights give her looks that her husband would hate them for if he was ever around long enough to notice. But Regina notices one of Leopold’s younger knights in particular. His name is Sir Alfred, and he’s handsome enough, with his blonde curls and stubble. He’s rather arrogant though, clamouring to prove himself above the other men, and she’s seen the Captain of the Guard scold him for ignorance once or twice.
Regina thinks of him what she thinks of all the knights – idiots. Spoiled boys hiding their flaws behind shiny armour and false chivalry. But she notices him because he notices her, and not just in the disgusting, appreciative way they usually notice her when they cross her path.
Sir Alfred often seems to be seeking her out, trying to start conversations. He’ll corner her at a ball, ask her to dance. She of course will decline – can’t risk her husband’s jealousy, not that he’s ever danced with her himself. Alfred seems be to constantly in her way, sitting beside her to watch the joust, walking a few paces away in the gardens. It’s annoying, and she wonders if one day Leopold actually will bother to pay enough attention to tell him off. But of course, she is still the queen and she knows her courtesies. She’s perfectly polite to him.
(As polite as she can be without the drama-hungry court starting nasty whispers about her being a slut or an adulteress.
The court have never liked her. She was primed to be disliked, in fact. They were all so in love with their precious Queen Eva, and how in love Leopold was with her. The memory of that strong, powerful, warm hearted woman haunts the dining halls and cloister rooms. Haunts Regina’s throne and her marriage bed.
To them, Regina is a poor, pale imitation – an insipid little child who’s scheming mother was a peasant and a witch, who once broke the poor king’s heart herself. Regina is used to frosty politician’s smiles and cruel side eyes from the women. She knows if she puts one foot wrong they will jump on her like sharks to blood. So she just sits in her assigned chair and lets them all ignore her. It’s better than the alternative.)
One day, Regina is tending her apple tree, harvesting fruit to send to the kitchen, when she realises she is late for tea time with Princess Snow. She sighs sharply and turns around, searching for a servant to hand the basket to when –
Sir Alfred is suddenly at her side, his handsome face marred with concern. “Your Majesty?” He asks. “Are you alright?”
“Oh, I –” Regina blushes, annoyed at herself. How can she explain that she’s afraid of being late for tea with a ten year old? Quickly, she needs an excuse. “I’m afraid I came over a little faint.”
“Are you well?” His voice is urgent, showy. Regina, cursing herself for getting stuck with the man, eases herself to sit on the little stone beneath the apple tree’s spreading branches. “What can I do?”
“Have a message sent to the princess?” Regina asks. “I fear I would not make very good company this afternoon and I’d hate to disappoint her.”
“Of course. One moment.” Alfred leaps to his feet and stalks over to a passing pair of servants. He says a few words and one of them hurries off in the opposite direction, her bundle of laundry passed over to her friend. Regina waits for Alfred’s return, wondering how to get away. She doesn’t know how to discourage a man without being discourteous.
“It is done, Your Majesty.” Alfred says and takes a seat on the bench beside her. Not too close for propriety of course, but close enough. His blue eyes land on her again, darting from face to body to face again. “Shall I fetch someone for you? Or would you rather I just wait here with you until you feel better?”
“I…” Regina weighs up her options. Now she’s pretending to be ill, she may as well get the most out of it she can. “I would appreciate it if you could help me back to my chambers, actually. I should lie down.”
“Of course.” Alfred ‘helps’ her to her feet and takes her arm, looking ridiculously pleased with himself as they leave the garden. “Should I send for the physician?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Regina doesn’t want him involved. He will surely report back to Leopold her lack of symptoms. “I’m just a little wobbly, that’s all.”
It’s strange, walking down the castle hallways on the arm of this handsome young knight and not her cold, elderly husband. She feels weary of him and his immaturity, but in truth, Alfred is a year or two older than her. They look a far more suitable couple than she and Leopold do.
At her bedchamber door Alfred lingers, to see her safely inside no doubt, but Regina doesn’t miss the way his quick eyes travel from her face to her backside. She stands in the doorway, knowing she ought to say something. She’s sick to death of all these courtesies. This castle is complicated and continuous.
“Thank you, Sir Alfred.” Regina says softly, and forces a small smile. “You are a true gentleman.”
“I follow the knight’s code.” Alfred says, and the proud jut of his chin makes that comment more insufferable and annoying than impressive. If she were not the queen and a lady, she would want to smack him.
“Well, regardless, I shall remember your kindness.” Regina says, and she watches uncertainly as his face takes on a new kind of glow, his eyes darting down to her lips for a moment, before he swiftly bows, turns, and leaves.
Regina closes the door behind him, a frown crossing her face. She wonders if that’s going to become a problem. She doesn’t realise yet, it’s the opposite.
It’s Rumple that brings it up.
He’s in one of his cruel moods. That’s how Regina’s come to know it, anyway – sometimes he is almost sweet with her, touching her face with surprisingly gentle hands and telling her what power lurks beneath the surface.
Other times, he is cruel. He doesn’t scare her anymore – well, not so much as he did – but he is taunting and vile, knowing exactly what to say to make her feel helpless with fury and tears, and his words haunt her for days afterwards, keep her up at night. (She has a feeling that is calculated too, to bring up whatever he wants to bring up in her. She loathes it. Feeling herself respond so easily to whatever he wants, not even knowing how or why.)
He picked a bad day for a lesson. She thinks that’s intentional too, somehow he knows – poofing into her bedroom in the early evening. It’s been a horrible day. It always is, after a night spent in the king’s bedchambers. She’s endured endless meals with the old man and his awful daughter, forced too many smiles. All she wants is to crawl into her own bed, but no.
The imp is in her room, walking around like it’s his, inspecting her things and goading her, refusing to leave even when she insists she’s not having a lesson tonight, she won’t do it.
“You can come back tomorrow.” Regina tells him as decisively as she dares.
“Tomorrow? Tomorrow? What good does that do me?” Rumplestiltskin questions, his voice a sharp mockery. “You’re forgetting your place, dearie. You want, I give. You need, I provide. You wanted me to be your teacher, well. These are my methods.”
“Please just leave me alone.” Regina sighs, frustrated. She wants nothing more than to crawl under her bedcovers and pass out. “I promise I’ll make up for it. I’ll do two more lessons this week. Just please not tonight.”
Rumple’s eyes harden. “Do you want to learn magic or not?”
Regina stares back at him. Does she? She still has doubts. There are still times she feels her Mother’s presence all too strongly in herself, in every flicker of light from her fingers, and wants to run away scared.
“Do you not want your freedom anymore, dearie? Do you not want your revenge?” Rumple goes on, stalking closer to where she is seated on the end of her bed. A horrible smirk crosses his mouth. The back of his hand brushes her cheek. “Or perhaps you’ve grown to like your husband? Hmm?”
Regina slaps his hand away. Her eyes find his, a dangerous glare. “Stop it.”
“Ooh, touchy.” The smirk deepens slowly, but his eyes stay cold. “Face it, Regina. You need me. Let’s be honest, you can barely use the meagre tools you do have at your disposal.”
Regina is in no mood for his stupid games. “What are you talking about?”
Rumple smirks again, his white teeth reminiscent of some stalking animal. He makes an offhand flourish with one hand, like she’s some annoying fly he is swatting away. “Nothing, dearie. Just that you’re hardly helping yourself.”
“What can I do?” Regina demands, and her voice comes out far weaker and more desperate than the fierce snarl she intended. Suddenly, all the tight-wound anger holding her up leaks out of her, and she finds herself suddenly very close to tears.
She wishes he would leave so she could collapse into bed.
“You are a very beautiful girl, Regina.” Rumple breathes, with a slight flourish on her name. Those words in that order make her flinch. How does he know?
His eerie eyes trail slowly, meaningfully, from her face down to her toes. Then a mischievous sparkle comes into his eyes. “Some might even say the fairest of them all.”
Regina is confused. An uncomfortable shiver prickles up her spine. “What?”
“Nothing. Just my little joke – another one you’ll get later.” He wiggles his eyebrows but the mirth is gone as suddenly as it came. When he sidles up to sit beside her on the bed she can’t help the way she cringes away, her breath jumping into her throat.
His voice is lower and flatter, more human than she’s heard it when he says, “Relax, dearie. I’m not such a monster. Not in that way, anyhow.”
It shouldn’t settle her, but it does.
“Anyway, let me offer you some free advice, as a man who has never had beauty on his side.” Rumple’s fingers, so oddly scaled and sheening gold in the dim light of her candles, brush the back of her hand. “You think you need magic, and you do. But magic isn’t the only thing that can get you what you want, dearie. In a minor way, at least.”
Regina’s brow furrows slightly. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Call it paternal instinct.” Rumple waves his hand dismissively. “The King… he treats you more kindly when you please him well, yes?”
Regina says nothing, just grits her teeth and digs her nails into her palm.
“I thought so.” Rumple hops to his feet and begins to pace and gesture while he explains. “You see, all these men in the palace; the knights, the noblemen, even the servants can be rather useful – and I’m sure some women too –” He smirks. “You have seen their eyes on you? Their lust? You’re not that stupidly naïve, are you?”
“No.” Regina swallows around her discomfort.
“Well. Have you ever thought about that?” Rumple’s eyes find hers. “There’s a whole army there at your disposal, if only you had the sense to use them. Oh, not for war, perhaps, not yet. But a queen can always use allies. Especially one such as yourself. For one day you will take power, and you’ll need people on your side when you do.”
“And how do you propose I get them?” Regina demands scathingly. “By whoring myself around the palace?” She blushes pink at her own harsh exclamation, staring down at her knees. “I don’t think the king would take too kindly to that.”
Rumple chuckles. “Oh, you wouldn’t need to go that far. Promises can be a powerful thing. Even when you’re only letting someone think you’re making them.”
Regina stares at him, hard eyed and heavy hearted, thinking back to all the promises he has made her. “Is that what you’ve done to me?”
Rumple lets out a strange, strained squeal of laughter. “Ooh! You are growing, aren’t you?”
Regina wraps her arms tighter around herself. He disappears in a cloud of smoke.
Rumple’s words haunt her, chase her through her sleepless nights, but she doesn’t let herself consider them. He was just saying more cruel things to rile her up. To get in her head and make her feel more reliant on him – as if he’s so all-knowing – like he always does.
Ironically, it’s Rumple that helps her understand, but not in the same way.
Regina has missed her last two lessons with him. The first time, Snow demanded she come for a midnight stroll in the private gardens with her, and she couldn’t get away for hours. The second, she was required to attend some stuffy formal dinner at Leopold’s side. (Insufferable, really, when she doesn’t speak a word and isn’t asked a thing the entire time. She just sits and toys with her dinner. She is purely ornamental. She is set dressing.)
Anyway, Rumple must be angry with her because she’s not heard from him since, though usually he would be poofing into her path and harassing her by now. It’s making her anxious – enough for her to want to write to him and tell him what’s happened, that she hasn’t really given up, that she still wants her next lesson. She pens the letter in a frantic scribble, folds it neatly and seals it with a plain blob of wax.
Thence comes the problem – if she sends one of the castle birds, they will know. Not only will it be obvious the queen is sending secret messages, but all of those birds are tracked. Regina scowls. This is when she wishes she had more control over her magic already. She could just send it to him with a snap of her fingers. Or better yet, transport herself to his castle in an instant. She goes about her day irritably, but she’s slipped the letter into her sleeve, just in case she finds a way.
Then she spots him – the glint of his golden hair in the distance. He’s standing alone, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Sir Alfred!” Regina calls on impulse, and he turns quickly at the sound of her voice.
“Your Majesty.” The young knight lights up at the sight of her and drops into a showy bow.
“I –” Regina moves ever so slightly closer, trying not to lose her nerve. “Would you mind doing me a favour? I hate to ask, but I do trust you so…”
“Oh.” He blinks, momentarily thrown. Triumph ghosts at the corners of his mouth. “Of course, Your Majesty. Whatever you wish, I shall see it done.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Regina smiles quickly, and casts her eyes down for good measure, if only so he won’t look in her eyes and see she’s lying. Her pulse flutters in her neck. “I – I wish to send a letter. But it’s a family matter and rather delicate, so I’d rather not be seen to send it myself. Public image and all.” Then, in a fit of boldness, she looks up at him with all the wide-eyed innocence she can muster and adds sadly, “You know how people talk about me.”
For a second Regina waits, uncertain, terrified she’s overshot –
Then Alfred simply clasps her hand with dramatic fervour. He nods as if he is taking on the boldest deed in history. Leaning close, he whispers, “Of course, Your Majesty. I understand.”
Regina’s lips wince into a still-awkward smile and she slips the letter discreetly into his hand. It feels dangerous, but she knows somehow this man will not betray her. He’s not smart enough to even consider it.
He nods. “I will go at once, Your Majesty.”
“Wait, Alfred –” Regina is glad she’s nervous and uncertain. Surely, it makes her seem more authentic. Blinking, she looks up at him for one moment, her breath short. She daringly places a hand on his forearm, just lightly. She lets her thumb brush his warm skin. “Thank you. I – just, thank you. I knew I could trust you.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” His lips are parted. His hand comes, for one second, to reassuringly pat hers. “You know, the courtiers… they only say cruel things because they’re jealous.”
“Jealous,” Regina says uncertainly, because she’s unsure what else to say. She wasn’t counting on him responding like this, with flaming pink cheeks and bright eyes and whispered compliments. Has she gone too far?
“What is there not to be jealous of?” Alfred explains. “You are the queen. You have everything. And you are, forgive me for my boldness, one of the most exquisite women this land has ever seen.”
Regina sincerely hopes none of her scathing thoughts are leaking onto her face. To avoid the chance entirely, she glances away and down at the stone floor, as if overcome with shyness. Internally, she rolls her eyes at them both. The charade she is performing and this romantic idiot who’s buying it.
“I shall post your letter at once, Your Majesty.”
“Please,” Regina hopes she’s not piling it on too thick. “Call me Regina.”
“Regina,” Alfred says, almost tasting the word, gazing down boldly at her.
He posts the letter. Rumple sends her a simple well done in response and it doesn’t make her feel proud, it makes her feel sick. In a way, she is stunned at how easy it was. All she had to do was smile and say her own name. Men are such fools, she thinks. Alfred did most of the work himself, building up whatever interactions they had to fuel his own self-importance. He doesn’t really love her, he just wants her, and he loves himself enough to build that up into some silly machismo-fuelled fantasy.
And Regina just… let him.
It’s frightening – the balancing act of it – but Regina finds something horribly exhilarating in it too, in this tiny manoeuvre of freedom she got herself, just by batting her eyelashes. It makes her wonder what else she could do.
It almost makes her hungry for more. (She’s never had a shred of power – of agency – in her life before. The effect is dizzying.)
After that, Alfred is hers.
He’s convinced she’s a little in love with him – Regina’s sure he’s invented this story of her as the tragic trapped queen and himself as the bold knight unable to ever receive her secret affections. Regina allows it because it means he does whatever she wants. All she has to do is sigh and simper and flutter her eyelashes and this stupid man does her bidding without a question asked. It’s almost ridiculous – it’s almost embarrassing.
A few months in, though, she feels his energy towards her beginning to cool – or rather, to fray. It seems he is getting restless, his baser desire for her outweighing his tragic fantasy.
In her panic, Regina improvises.
She engineers a meeting with him in the garden while everyone else is dining in the grand hall. The guards are all mostly drunk; the palace is celebrating some old lord’s birthday. Nobody notices when she slips off and corners him by the rose bushes.
He seems annoyed at her, snappish, reluctant to speak to her. But she somehow conjures up a shaky sigh and traces a thumb across the back of his hand. He looks at her with lust blown eyes and Regina finds the bravery to throw her arms around him as if she means it – and, if the gentle hands on her back are anything to go by, he buys it.
“Oh, Alfie.” Regina sighs, and for good measure, nestles her head against his shoulder, as if she’s breathing him in. He reeks of sweat from the day’s training. At least he can’t see her nose wrinkle. “You’re all I have, you know. I wish I could show you just how deeply I care for you but… I could never risk your presence at my side like that.” She pretends to hesitate. “If the King – if anyone knew how I truly felt – what I truly wanted… I fear we would both be in danger.”
“I understand.” He murmurs. “My poor queen…”
Regina smiles over his shoulder in relief, and triumph.
Sir Alfred is sent away a year later, to lead a military operation in a neighbouring kingdom. Before he leaves he steals a hungry kiss, and Regina allows it, knowing it’s perhaps the only way to secure an ally in another land.
(Sure enough, years later, when she calls on said military to support her in her hunt for Snow White – he is there.)
And so for years, Regina works.
She works to build up a network, an invisible court within the court. It’s difficult. It’s hard to balance with her reputation in the true court, especially when that’s always been less than ideal.
(That’s what happens when you marry an old, popular king, after the death of an old, popular queen. The queen’s closest friends and confidants will watch you stand in her place and sit in her chair and mutter at what a poor replacement you are, how young and vapid and useless. They’ll bring up your wicked, common-blooded mother. They will tut about your age and your beauty, how surely you are after the king for his money and power – because of course the king wouldn’t be after you for your body. He’s too good for that.)
But somehow Regina manages. She learns that certain tactics work best with certain people – for example, all it takes from the hulking, stupid guardsmen type is a press of your body as you pass by, a flicker of a glance over your shoulder, a tighter dress, a fleeting touch, a silent promise you will never fulfil. They’re some of the easiest.
The older noblemen are not too hard either. All you have to do is pretend to be stupid. Ask obvious questions and marvel at their wrong answers, flutter your lashes and whisper about how the kingdom needs good clever men like them, how desperately you need their guidance.
The younger ones are some of the hardest, surprisingly, because there’s a jumped up self-importance to them which, partnered with a lack of actual experience, makes them dangerous. You have to lead them on a little more, delicate touches, whispered words with a hint of double meaning you don’t actually mean. You have to make them believe you’re a little bit in love with them, before they could ever fall in love with you. But the problem is, if you give them too little for too long, they will become frustrated. You have to string them along just right.
(Regina doesn’t think any of them would dare take her without her consent, not when there are hundreds of guards who could kill them at one word from her only legal rapist, but for all the fears she has conquered, she is still terrified to risk it. She is still haunted by her husbands touch. She is still subjected to it whenever he feels the urge.)
Women, Regina finds both harder and easier. They’re more intelligent, and often they know what you’re doing. Sometimes they don’t care though.
She’s putting in the time with Baroness Eleanora, sewing together in her room, and as she leans close, subtly exposing her shoulders and cleavage as she asks her to check a stitch for her, the baroness gives her a hard-eyed once-over.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”
Regina startles, but smooths her features into passivity. “What do you mean?”
Eleanora rolls her eyes. She’s much older than Regina, a permanent fixture in court and a widow, though it’s well known she prefers the company of women. “You can drop the coy act. You’re not nearly as good as you think you are.”
“What?” Regina can’t help the furrow in her brows, the slight jump of defensiveness in her voice.
Eleanora chuckles, setting aside her embroidery. “That pretty mouth and doe eyes might work wonders on the men of the court, prating peacocks that they are. But you’ll have to do more to convince me.”
Regina draws back slightly and stares composedly down at her own embroidery. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come now.” Eleanora scoffs, and Regina feels her eyes on her as she pretends to examine her sewing. “There’s that lovely blush...”
Regina glares down at her embroidery again, not knowing quite what to do. She’s never failed in this way before. Nobody has ever called her out like this.
“Don’t look like that.” Eleanora chides, picking up her own needle and thread again. “I’m hardly going to go running to the king, am I?” For a moment there is silence. “Besides, you needn’t have tried so hard. I’m not going to give you land or soldiers, but perhaps one day, if you call on me, I may help you.”
“Why?” Regina asks, her voice hoarse in her throat. It’s a rare moment of honesty and it makes her heart race.
Eleanora shrugs. Her blue eyes unabashedly bore into Regina’s. “Because I think people have underestimated you for too long. I think they still do, even those fool boys who would have the moon on a string for you.” She scoffs. “Especially them. I know what it is to be underestimated. I’ve been around a long time, Regina. I’ve seen kings and queens come and go. I have a feeling you’re going to give us all quite a shock. And perhaps I want to be on your good side when that happens.”
And though she is still wary, still cautious, still a little frightened of what this woman’s knowledge could do – for a moment all Regina feels is overwhelming relief, and gratitude so strong it brings tears to her eyes.
That someone could see that in her.
Eleanora smirks.
Regina lets her kiss her too, before she leaves.
(Regina doesn’t even realise she’s actually attracted to women until Maleficent.
Until then, it is just a part of the work. But Maleficent is something else entirely. It’s her first real relationship since Daniel, or the closest thing to a relationship you can get when you’re the king’s wife and can only slip away to a dragon’s lair every few weeks lest someone notice. But Maleficent teaches her about magic and poisons, about power and revenge, and yes, about sex. Maleficent teaches her sex can be something beyond pain or bargaining – it can be fun, it can be nice.
Maleficent cradles Regina in her arms and shares her bottles age-old wine and speaks of ancient stories in that low, languid voice of hers and Regina wonders if maybe she’s falling a little bit in love.
But she doesn’t. She can’t. Love is weakness. Love is Daniel’s alone.
What Regina needs is power and freedom and revenge.
Still, she keeps coming back to Maleficent’s hearth and Maleficent’s bed and Maleficent’s arms, and yes, learns all the practical things that she can, but she soaks up the affection and tiny sparks of warmth that live there too. She grows a little addicted to the warmth of her lips, the gentle whispers the dragon breathes against her hair as she fucks her, the way she holds her afterwards and teases with rich words.
She stops visiting Maleficent so much after more years have passed.
Regina is more powerful now, her trysts with the dragon and lessons with the Dark One paying off – she can control herself and those around her with more skill and confidence. She is getting restless and needs nothing in her way. Nothing distracting her. Now, she has a plan.)
The Genie is her masterpiece, what she has been learning and working for all this time.
And it’s not even an effort.
From the first time the King brought him into the garden, Regina knew she could use him. She could tell by the look in his eyes when he was introduced to her, the way his gaze trailed back to her, despite Leopold and Snow monopolizing the conversation as always. And when he follows her outside after the party and breathes those words, the fairest in all the land, she almost breathes a sigh of relief, because she knows she has him.
And oh, she can use him. She has to use him. To finally get what she needs, to finally make it all worth it. She’s so close now.
(And if she fails, well…
There’s a snake for that.)
But of course, she doesn’t. She’s managed to perfectly let out all that demure vulnerability and elegant loneliness that made him deluded enough to kill a king for her.
And then she traps him deep in the mirror where he belongs for daring to think he could own her too.
After the king is dead, it becomes far easier.
She no longer has to worry about tarnishing her image by behaving improperly – everybody hates her now anyway. Those who hated her before simply hate her without pretence. They already call her the Evil Queen. What harm can the words slut or witch or harlot do to her now?
But those who didn’t hate her…
Gradually, Regina becomes more and more confident in the ways of securing a deal, of getting what she wants. When intimidation and threats are no longer enough, when hungry eyes wander down to breasts she often has on display for this purpose alone, she knows exactly what to do. How to move, how particularly to lower her voice and her lashes and just how much to allow before she makes her own demands in return.
She learns not to feel guilty about it either, not to feel dirty or sick, although sometimes her skin still crawls. (That only happens with a certain type of target though – someone old and male and powerful, and if they have a beard going grey all the worse – and so eventually she learns to use any other means necessary on the men who remind her of her husband. Deadly magic included.)
But it isn’t wrong. She’s simply using every weapon she has. That’s what Mother always taught her, isn’t it? Her body isn’t hers anyway and it’s certainly nothing meaningful. It’s just another tool, for power and persuasion.
You can get anyone to do anything if they want to fuck you bad enough.
It’s not the Evil Queen’s biggest power, and certainly not her deadliest. But it is a necessary part of her arsenal. And nothing more.
-
Storybrooke, Maine
That night, on the front porch, Regina sees it.
Just a brief flicker in Emma Swan’s green eyes – up and down, a flash of appraisal, approval, hunger – and suddenly Regina feels a little more confident, even if she’s still shaky and shaken by the abrupt arrival of her sons’ awful birth mother on her doorstep.
So she smiles her prettiest smile and offers the woman a glass of cider. Sits with her in her study and almost automatically crosses her legs just so, allowing the hem of her grey dress to ride up a little. She tilts her head invitingly as she talks.
It’s an automatic response more than anything, a reassurance and yes, a welcome flex of the old muscles after twenty-eight years frozen with no one to challenge or be challenged by.
She doesn’t think she really needs to. This woman will be gone by morning, out of town, Regina’s hair, and Henry’s life. But it’s good to have more than one arrow nocked just in case. Good to know Miss Swan has one weakness Regina can exploit just by existing in front of her.
But Emma doesn’t leave.
In fact, Emma stays and stays and keeps turning up like a bad penny, like the worst luck anyone ever had. It seems Miss Swan is far more stoic than Regina bargained for – though her eyes still flick down Regina’s body at odd times, though that spark of hunger flares in her every time they’re close enough to punch each other and feel the warmth of breath against fury-curled lips – Emma never once gives in to it.
Instead, she digs her heels – in those horrible boots – into Regina’s town and fights back, with chainsaws, sheriff’s badges, documents and harsh words and arrogantly cocked eyebrows that have no right to be as attractive as they are. It makes Regina furious. No one has opposed her in twenty-eight years.
(God, she has needed this.)
There’s a strange thrill in dressing for battle again, intentionally leaving an extra button undone on her blouse, selecting her more form-fitting skirts and feeling that smug confidence bloom when Emma’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, whatever cocky comment she was about to hurl, forgotten.
Once, in Granny’s diner, Regina stands up after threatening her and as she leaves, she sees through the window that the blonde has spilled her cocoa all over herself. She looks down at the pavement as she walks back to the office, pleased with herself. However good at clenching her jaw and ignoring her feelings Miss Swan pretends to be, she isn’t immune to Regina’s subtle warfare after all.
(There’s a moment in the graveyard with Graham, when both their fury reaches a boiling point and Regina lashes out, expecting – well, she doesn’t know. But Emma surges towards her and seizes her by the arm and hauls her forward. Regina is shocked at her sudden strength and the power of her body as the taller woman shoves her up against the cold stone wall of the mausoleum. The breath is knocked from her throat. Disoriented, for a second she thinks Emma might kiss her, or kill her, or ravish her right there and she’s not sure which she would prefer –
But then Graham drags them apart and Regina wipes the blood from the corner of her mouth and every dark emotion is rising up and choking her again.
She is not the weak one. She is not the one who gets affected. No matter how strong Emma Swan’s hands are, or how the echo of her touch is almost branded against Regina’s body.)
So the game goes on.
The sexual side of it is just an undercurrent, barely worth a thought beyond Regina’s smugness in selecting her lipstick every morning. She needs Emma out of town, out of Henry’s life. Blackmail and politics and manipulation are more visceral tools here, so they are the ones she uses.
Still. Regina sits herself invitingly on Emma’s desk, legs crossed perfectly so that her tight skirt rides up her thighs just enough to appear unintentional. She waits. When she hears the sheriff’s footsteps, her heart speeds up and she perfects up her posture, lifting her chin slowly to greet her and she walks in.
There’s a smug satisfaction when Emma stops short and briefly, her eyebrows raise, her lower lip falls – there’s that sudden lust Regina knows all too well – then her stony mask falls back into place.
Regina can’t help but feel a little disappointed. Oh well. She has plenty more at her disposal.
Emma stares at her, studying her. Regina remembers, for the first time, that this is a woman who has dealt with jail, who has worked as a bounty hunter. She wonders if she knows what Regina’s doing. She has to, surely. Regina’s cheeks heat up, but she plunges on, refusing to be cowed by this slip in her game.
When the curse breaks, Regina doesn’t know what to do.
About pretty much everything in her fucked and wasted life, but also, specifically, about Emma.
She expected the blonde to be the one leading the charge against her – reminiscent of her darkest nightmares – but instead, Emma is the one racing across town to pull her from the hands of the mob. To rescue her. (Regina has never been rescued from anything before. Everything has just happened to her and everyone has always let it.) But the saviour saves her again and again, insisting that she won’t let Gold’s wraith kill her, shielding her with her own body, helping her to her feet when her legs are weak.
She says it’s for Henry, and oh, that means more to Regina than anyone can ever know.
But she can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it, sometimes, as time moves on. She can’t help but wonder why Emma continues to protect her, continues to defend her, believe her against all odds. Invite her to parties. Give Regina soft smiles and civil conversations and everything else that she has always been denied, especially from heroes like her.
When they first met, Regina was threatened by Emma, yes, but never truly frightened of her. She just wanted her gone.
Now, Emma scares her.
Because Regina doesn’t know what she wants from her. Certainly not a quick fuck, not anymore. But surely not to share Henry’s precious time. So what then? And why is she insistent on being so kind to her, so – dare she say it – protective?
And if that is the case, why does Regina still catch that look in her eyes sometimes, trailing across Regina’s body or lingering on her across the room?
This is uncharted territory for Regina. And she doesn’t know what to do.
-
The years pass and they find their place with each other.
(Or maybe they never do, maybe they just pretend. What are they to each other, really? Friends? No. Regina’s never had a friend thoughtlessly throw away their own soul for her safety, nor look at her with such intensity. Family? Certainly. Bound by their child – and the understanding only the two of them can share, that he is everything, that he comes first. That understanding binds them together in a way nobody else can ever get close to, but it still doesn’t explain what the parameters of their relationship are.)
They take it in turns to go to the edges of the earth for one another.
They make each other laugh, one in a while.
They learn each other inside and out, every shred of darkness, and every bursting light too.
They share meals and shots and near-death experiences.
Every now and again Emma says something to her that would have made teenage Regina weep with longing. Things about fighting for her happy ending, things about believing in her, things about hope. But Regina is a much different person now and she doesn’t know what to make of it at all.
She doesn’t know what to make of how Emma touches her.
Emma never touches her for gain. (Hungrily, like those men at court, self-righteously like Sir Alfred, calculatingly and manipulating like her mother). She touches her for… What else is there?
Comfort, Regina supposes.
Emma places her hand on her shoulder and she feels the warmth of her through her blouse and it’s about comfort, connection, recognition. Emma touches her arm or grabs her wrist and it says, hey I’m here too or I understand or, sometimes don’t be stupid because you’re going to get yourself hurt and I’m not about to let that happen.
Sometimes, Emma will almost touch her but not quite, and in an odd way that affects Regina the most.
Emma’s hand will shoot out a few inches in front of Regina’s stomach and hover there, often holding her back from danger. It’s stupid, because Regina could quite easily shove past her arm, or indeed, fireball her – but she never does. Because that wordless display of care, that tiny instinctive act of protection makes Regina feel cared for in ways she has never been before.
Sometimes Regina is aware of Emma’s fingertips lingering absently a few inches from the small of her back, or close to her own hand. It’s not even as if Emma is aware of it. It’s probably just hero instinct, just another thing that makes her so intrinsically good. But it comforts Regina enormously because Emma is so gentle with her, so respectful in her own way, and no one has ever treated Regina like that.
Emma may not think it means anything, but it means everything
(Not just because someone is treating her like that.
Because Emma is.)
If there’s one thing Regina knows, it’s when somebody wants her. And Emma has always wanted her. Ever since that first night on her porch a million years ago. And Regina doesn’t think Emma stopped wanting her, so much as the wanting changed somehow.
What scares Regina is her own wanting.
The first time Emma kisses her, Regina is stunned, for more reasons than one.
They’re both exhausted and tired. It’s the middle of the night, after a difficult day, and static buzzes in the air. They’ve saved each other’s lives again today, for the hundredth time, and Regina can feel the electricity wavering between them more strongly than ever before.
Still, she’s shocked when Emma at last gives in and closes the space between them. Shocked, but relieved, like sinking into a bath after a long day. Like taking a breath after holding for years.
Emma is everything – fierce and gentle all at once, one hand lightly cupping Regina’s jaw, the other resting on her waist, before sliding around more firmly to the small of her back. Regina leans into her warmth, pressing against her, hungry for more. Her own hands are on Emma’s shoulders and then her neck, in her hair – she is warm and solid and smells of cold air and smoky magic, of battle. But her lips are soft, and they taste like home.
This feels like home.
When at last they break for air, forehead resting against forehead, Regina has to keep her eyes squeezed shut because if she opens them she’ll cry, and that’s no way to end an epic first kiss after a decade of wanting.
She’s not sentimental. She knows what she is and what she lacks. For too long, her body has been a tool, a weapon, an item at her disposal, for power and persuasion. Once, it was a target. And she promised herself she would never go back.
Until Emma touches her.
Emma touches her and suddenly her skin comes alive. She shivers and tingles and stares at the blonde woman with wide eyes and soft breath stuck in her throat and – Regina feels vulnerably, powerfully human for once.
When they finally – after too many years and realms and battles – fall into bed together, it’s like all those years of calculated sensuality evaporate. All her work, gone. Suddenly Regina might as well be a virgin again, wanting nothing but the feel of her mythic true love.
Because the king was her first, and he was hell.
Maleficent came next and taught her pleasure and fun, bound up with all sorts of delicious darkness and complication.
Everyone else was a means to an end. Much needed servants. Knights turned traitor by the precise press of her lips, the tilt of her hips. Courtiers and noblemen who gave her armies and riches and trade routes and very rarely, orgasms.
Graham, who made her feel duller and emptier and worse every time.
Robin, who was… well, underwhelming. He was supposed to be her soulmate, her every hope pinned on him, but when she laid in his arms in her vault listening to his breathing she couldn’t help but feel let down because surely a soulmate should feel like more?
Should feel like this, Regina understands now, with Emma’s hands on her and her mouth pressed against hers and all that golden hair brushing her cheeks and tickling her bare skin. It should feel like this.
Emma is hungry for her – this has been years in the making. Her hands are rough by nature. But she still hesitates before she does anything, still asks in a gentle, breathless voice, “Is this okay, Regina?”
And Regina nods, and kisses her. Her heart clamours in her chest.
Because for the first time, it is okay.
It is, it is, it is.
With Emma, Regina doesn’t worry about keeping her back arched and her stomach taut and what types of noises she should be making and when – she doesn’t think at all. How can she, with Emma Swan hovering over her, those strong bicep muscles flexing under her hands, those pale green eyes bright with hunger and adoration, golden hair streaming down around them.
Regina is just Regina, and for the first time, she loses herself in sex completely.
She laughs when Emma makes some poorly-timed joke. Holds back tears when she presses her lips to her stomach and murmurs that Regina is the most incredible woman she’s ever known. Groans and gasps and shakes when her body needs to, when Emma’s touch makes her; her fingers sliding in and out, her teeth pressing just so.
For the first time, Regina has sex and it is purely an act of love.
Life in Storybrooke settles down, and life with Emma is more than Regina considers herself worthy of. More than even her romantic childhood fantasies could wish up.
They have dinner together every night, Emma and Regina and Henry, all sat at the table – or sometimes on the couch if it’s the weekend and Regina is feeling lenient – and they talk about their day and laugh and the candles are lit and Emma does the dishes and the leaves of her apple tree whisper outside the window.
Regina falls asleep tucked into the curve of Emma’s body, with Emma’s arms slung casually around her, Emma’s soft skin against hers, Emma’s warm breath at her ear. They fight about normal things like laundry and work schedules. They help Henry with his homework and watch movies cuddled up on the couch. Emma brings her flowers sometimes, and when one is sick, the other makes them soup (or sometimes a magic potion).
This is life, this is love, this is family, as it should be.
And Regina doesn’t hate her body anymore.
How can she?
It brought her here.
It brought her them.