#I mean what. I mean Amma Mount That Man | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lala-kate · 7 years

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Frost

This is my story for @onceuponanadvent 2017. Many thanks to @lillie-grey--the best beta out there and also my friend and sister. I do hope you enjoy it and have a most blessed and wonderful Holiday Season!

You can read it here or on ff.net.

Knees sink into snow that nearly reaches his thighs, but he keeps moving forward, determination his sole emotion as mind-numbing cold seeps in through layers of fur from every angle. He is certain that his skin is now the same shade of blue as his eyes, but he refuses to dwell on that likelihood as he trudges continually upward towards a sky as white as the snow that paints its landscape. He ceased feeling his feet hours ago, but he knows that they work, so he persists, in spite of the blasts of snow pelting exposed skin with the ferocity of miniature daggers.

He must do this. There is no turning back, for this is for his son. All for his son. Every step. Every breath. Every blink when he would rather surrender himself to exhaustion’s alluring offer of rest rather than continue to fight winter’s punishing onslaught.

He cannot see how his beard sparkles, nor does he know how close he is to his destination. He simply knows that he cannot stop, for if he does, he will die. And if he dies, then so does his son, and his son’s life is what has brought him here to the brink of ice-encrusted nothingness, a wasteland where most men would have given up and turned back long ago.

He will not turn back. He cannot lose his little boy just as he lost the child’s mother.

He stops at the top of the slope he’s just conquered, trying to breathe air littered with miniature shards of ice. His lungs sting, and he winces, narrowing his eyes until they focus on what lies before him, his heart cinching inside his chest.

The tundra ahead is flat and treeless, marked by snow-covered figures that appear far too human for his liking. Does she store bodies here as well as souls, he wonders? Does she mark her territory with frozen corpses who had once been warm with life? Or are these sentinels in disguise, guardians of the goddess of eternal sleep? Could they be the remnants of men such as he, men who have sought to defeat her but were captured and placed under a spell? If so, killing her will be even more of a pleasure than it would have been only moments ago.

His fingers twitch, longing for the comforting weight of his bow.

The Frost Queen, they call her. The Thief of Souls who strikes when her victims are ill and releases them at her whimsy, if she releases them at all. Many of those she captures are condemned to eternal sleep, including the one healer of renown who could have most assuredly helped his son.

A head injury. Something beyond the skills of the holy man from his village. An injury too grievous for the red witch of the lake whom he’d sought out as days became weeks and his boy still refused to open his eyes. Only the Great Healer could help him, the witch had said, but the healer been asleep for as long as anyone could remember, her body frozen in time, her soul seemingly lost.

Perhaps today he can release her soul as well as the soul of his son.

Roland’s skin had become colder by the day, as his own heart continued to burn hot with anger in his chest. He’d lost a friend whom he’d counted as a brother because of the accident, his fury at William for allowing his five year old son to mount a steed far too spirited for most grown men still as fresh as if it had happened but hours ago. Some mistakes can never be forgiven, not if the consequence is losing the soul of a child. He fights back tears, knowing they will freeze to his cheeks within seconds if he allows them to fall, so he sucks them into his body, their saltiness stinging the still gaping wounds inside his soul.

He must control his anger and focus his rage. If his tread is light and his arrow true, then the lives of many will be restored and families released from the bonds of grief and uncertainty. That is, if the old woman is right. But if she’s wrong, or if he is caught…

He must not be caught. It’s that simple. And she has to be right.

The old woman had been the one to tell him of the Frost Queen, of how she captures the souls of the sleeping and keeps them captive in her frozen lair. The man she loved had died, or so the old woman had told him, so she collects the souls of those too weak to fight back to keep her company in her world of glacial solitude. He doesn’t know if this is true or not, nor does he care. He just wants his little boy to open his eyes.

He takes a step towards the frozen sentinels, his bow now poised for battle, an arrow pulled taut in his grip. He’d been warned of her traps, of a frozen lake that thawed whenever human feet dared to step onto its surface, plunging its victim into icy depths from which no mortal could escape. Of a deadly crossing, a valley between mountains which buried trespassers under an avalanche from which there would be no resurrection.

He’d bested the lake by donning the grizzly hide he’d purchased from the old woman with two copper shillings, one whose paws were still intact and allowed him to cross the lake on all fours with the lumbering gait of a bear. To his amazement, the ice held, and he reached the other side unscathed. He’d avoided the valley altogether by choosing to traverse the mountains instead. The journey had been perilous, and he’d nearly fallen to his death more than once, but he hadn’t. No-he had lived.

He still lives. He can still fight for the life of his son. And he will, whatever the cost might be to himself.

He now stares at the open landscape before him, noting that there is nothing to keep him hidden besides the blizzard-like snow and the eerie ghost-like figures, and he wonders if this is a final trap set by The Frost Queen to protect herself from exposure. He considers his options before dropping to all fours and rolling in the snow. His body protests, but his mind tells him that only snow can serve as camouflage for this final trek. So he covers himself in winter’s rain until his teeth cease to chatter and everything is numb save his will and his heart.

For his heart is his boy, and his boy’s soul lies just ahead.

The Queen of Souls be damned.

He forces himself to stand, his legs quivering, his gait unsteady, but he presses forward slowly, hoping that he blends into the landscape or that perhaps she isn’t looking his way. Is it possible for sorceresses such as herself to become complacent, to be lulled into believing that they’re untouchable by mere mortals or simply forgotten by mankind?

Such thoughts get one killed, he reminds himself, remaining as alert as he can when his limbs are most assuredly frostbitten and his senses as frozen as the ground.

He is approaching the first huddled figure, a gray and white monolith that appears more rock-like than human the closer he gets. It’s far taller than a man, and broader as well, and he sighs in a measure of relief as he presses his back into the cold, rigid surface, thinking that it seems as though he’s still undetected, wondering if this field of stones is simply that. Then snow falls from a part of the figure, and he sees something that makes his entire body shudder.

A hand. A hand sculpted out of rock.

He steps back, putting distance between himself and the figure as the realization dawns that he’s come upon some sort of statue garden. The placement of the figures makes sense, now, their regularity and sequence no longer a mystery to him as he surveys what lies ahead. Had this been another sort of garden once, he wonders, noting smaller shapes that resemble what could be the skeletons of bushes and shrubs now completely covered in snow?

Had life once bloomed here?

This part of the world has been frozen for generations, but he wonders for the first time if perhaps it hasn’t always been so. Had the earth iced over when The Frost Queen forsook her humanity? Does the cold somehow preserve souls detached from their bodies, or is it merely a fortress meant to keep mortals out?

A gust of wind strips the front of the statue nearly bare, and he moves until he’s staring at an homage to a young man dressed in the clothes of a commoner, his eyes and smile ironically hopeful as they face a barren world devoid of any semblance of joy.

At the base, a word has been etched into the stone, and he brushes off layers of snow until he can just make out what has been written.

Kaerr. Beloved.

He recognizes the ancient tongue and is thankful for his grandmother’s insistence that he be taught the language of his ancestor’s even when he’d believed its study to be a total waste of time. Being able to read the old language might just mean the difference between life and death for him today, so he breathes a word of thanks to his Amma and hopes that perhaps her spirit will stand with him as he fights to bring back the soul of her great-grandson.

He looks again at the statue, wondering how long ago it was constructed, wondering if the young man’s soul actually resided inside. Is this the queen’s lover, then, the one the old woman had told him about, the man whose death had broken her spirit and spiraled her into her unquenchable quest for souls? If so, it wouldn’t make sense for her to lock his soul into stone when it was the loss of it that spurred her into this treacherous existence. No, his soul would be free to hover near her, he reasons, to comfort her even after being torn from its body, to assure her of his love until it departed earth for other realms.

And if this man was her beloved, then who are the others figures hewn out of rock?

Curiosity mingles with determination as he turns away from the man and presses forward, cutting through snowy depths with a renewed surge of energy. He reaches the next statue and discovers that this one is shorter than the first. A woman? Or a child, perhaps? No, it’s too tall to be a child, but as he stretches up to brush off clinging snow, he sees an older face emerge, one of a man with round cheeks and a balding head.

Her father, perhaps? The wind answers his question, blowing snow away from the base of the statue where yet another word is carved in the ancient tongue of his people.

Pabbi. Papa.

The word hits him where it hurts as he hears it chanted in the sweet voice of his son, and he nearly falters, his knees threatening to buckle into the snow as he struggles with the need to weep and to remember. He himself had called his grandfather Pabbi, the one who’d taught him to hunt and track, to carve wood and start a fire, the man who’d raised him along with his Amma after his parents and brother had been slaughtered with the rest of his village by the king’s soldiers.

He stares back at the statue, trying to make sense of it all.

She’d called her father Pabbi, had chosen the familiar over the more formal term Fadir when memorializing a man who was clearly very dear to her. She--the Frost Queen--a woman devoid of all decency and bent on destruction. This evidence of her humanity does not fit with the image of her he’d burned into his psyche.

For this garden is a memorial, he deduces, an homage to those who have meant something to her, and he closes his eyes as confusion strikes him hard. He’s envisioned her as a sorceress devoid of feeling, an inhuman monster with no regard for human life. Yet would a woman without emotion erect a statue of her Papa, a man of means, it would appear, with eyes full of both sadness and wonder? Or her dead lover, a young man who seemed to come from a lower class than the man who’d given her life? There is more to The Frost Queen than he’s been told, a fact which fills him with both hope and dread.

He swallows before pressing on to the next figure, not even bothering to hide his progression as he reaches a distinctly feminine outline already half-stripped of it’s snow by the punishing wind. A young maiden looks over her shoulder as if she cannot decide in which direction she should go. Long wavy hair has been sculpted to forever be swept away by the wind, and large eyes hold both secrets and wonder now locked away with her in a frozen world.

Lata Nipt. Lost Sister.

Had this young woman died, he wonders, this lost sister of hers? Or were they separated for reasons unknown? She is looking away, as if she knows her path will diverge from that of her sister’s, and he questions whether or not she was a sorceress, as well. Does magic run in families just like stature, complexion and talents? Is this lost sister still living, perhaps practicing magic in another part of the realm, or was she a mere mortal like himself, a girl now long dead remembered only by a woman who collects the souls of others?

The lone statue remaining gives him pause.

He can already tell that it’s far smaller than the others, and he begins to tremble internally as he marches towards it, knowing before he even arrives that it’s a memorial to a child. Had the queen been a mother, he wonders? Had her own child’s life been stripped from her arms? Was it grief that compelled her to claim the souls of children like his own?

He reaches the stone and moves around to brush off the snow, his throat thickening at what he sees. It’s a fresh-faced boy around the age of eight or nine, smiling up at the sky and pointing to something only he can see.

Minn Hjarta Sonr. Son of my heart.

The child’s features are so buoyant, he almost looks alive, as if he could spring off the stone podium and bounce through the snow. He can nearly hear the boy’s laughter, can almost sense his hair being ruffled by the wind even though his mind knows that stone can neither laugh nor move. But here, in the queen’s lair, he believes anything can happen.

Is his son carved in stone somewhere he has yet to find? Has his name or description been etched into rock just as this boy’s had?

Roland. Sonr ór Rodbin.

He will not allow that to be his child’s fate, but as he stares into the face of the boy of stone, he cannot help but wonder at the depth of feeling that produced this statue. Son of my heart--which to his mind means that the child was not of her womb. These statues speak of a woman far different than the one described in legend, for these seem to identify her as a mother by choice and not circumstance, a lonely sister, a beloved daughter, and grief-stricken lover.

Perhaps The Frost Queen is not a woman devoid of emotion at all, but rather one consumed by it. Can he kill such a woman, he wonders?

He can if it will save his son’s life.

He reminds himself of her many crimes, of the fathers such as he who have lost children to the eternal sleep to which she curses them, of the great healer who could help none of them because her own soul was trapped in the ice. He reassures himself that to kill an evil queen is an act of a hero, not a villain, yet his footfalls feel heavier with each step forward, his heart thawing in realms where it should remain frozen.

He cannot afford to feel either conflicted or remorseful. He must steel himself to the task that must be done.

His feet hit something hard under the snow, and inches forward, realizing that he’s found stone steps long buried by winter. He looks up, only to be blinded by white light reflected off of snow, and he squints and shades his eyes, but it is to no avail. To move forward, he must step into the unknown.

For Roland, he breathes as he forces himself to climb. This is all for Roland.

The wind grows stronger the higher he climbs, and he leans into the steps, fighting nature itself as he struggles to go on. But move on he does, until he finally reaches the top of the stairs which opens up to the entrance to what appears to be a large, natural cave. He steps into its mouth and out of the wind’s fury, only then daring to look back to see just how far he has climbed. The reality of just how high his current elevation is nearly sucks the air from his lungs.

He is a man of the forest, not of the skies.

A torch comes to life as he steps closer to it, and he halts in place, shaking off snow as he forces sore, stiff muscles to move his bow and arrow to the ready. Either she knows he is here, or the cave is enchanted.

Or possibly both.

He steps forward, deciding that if she’s already aware of his presence, there is no need to hesitate any longer. He looks around him at every angle, seeing nothing but the cave wall as torches seemingly light themselves to mark his progression. His tread is light, his senses on high alert as the walls around him begin to narrow in scope, drawing him to an opening he will have to crouch low to get through. Doing so will mean lowering his weapon, and he spins around to see if anyone or anything has crept up behind him.

He sees nothing but eerie shadows cast onto the cave wall by lit torches.

He reluctantly lowers his bow and tries to bend his knees, wincing at how rigid they’ve become in the cold. His bones pop and crack as he bends over and moves through an opening about the height of a ten year old child, and he thinks to himself that if she hasn’t been aware of his approach until this moment, she certainly will be now.

The room into which he steps is eons away from the natural cave he left behind. It has been crafted into a great hall with high ceilings and wall sconces, lit by what appear to be ice chandeliers which hover magically in the air above him, attached to nothing at all. He wonders if one will crash down and kill him at once, but he passes under them unscathed, which allows him to see four majestic portraits that line the wall to his left.

They are of the same people whose statues he saw in the garden.

The first portrait is of the lost sister. In this rendition, she is older than she was in her statue and has become quite physically stunning, but a hard glint has taken root in eyes the color of crystal, eyes that contrast brilliantly with hair the color of a sunset. He wonders again at the story behind these two women, the queen and her sister, and whether or not this sister is now dead. He is almost certain that she is.

Does her soul reside here, in her portrait? Is she watching him with the same intensity with which he currently studies her, communicating in secret with her sister the queen, plotting his demise even as he plots hers? That thought jostles him into motion, and he continues down the hall’s expanse, his feet padding quietly on cold rock hewn into a smooth, level surface.

The lover’s portrait hangs beside the sister’s, and he pauses but a moment to look into the gentle blue eyes of a young man clearly besotted with an unseen woman. In the painting, he stands by a rather grand set of stables, but he is dressed for work, not for riding. He was a stable boy, then, a working man in love with a woman who moved in very different circles than he.

His own heart cinches as he remembers his wife, the daughter of a wealthy landowner who had defied her father and chosen a meaner and simpler life than the one into which she was born when she’d run away with him. How they’d loved and lived, embracing every second of a future they believed to be limitless, cut short with the birth of the very son he now seeks to save.

He moves forward, looking up at the father’s portrait as he walks past it. The man’s clothing reflects wealth but manages to not be pretentious, and he can’t help but respect that fact. Dark eyes peer down at him, almost as if they’re encouraging him forward, onwards towards a fate he can only hope to predict. If the old man only knew his purpose here, he would be trying to stop his progress rather than encouraging it.

For a moment, he feels convicted of his actions rather than justified.

This makes it particularly difficult to look at the boy’s portrait, the final painting hanging on the wall, but look he does, and he regrets it almost immediately. For the boy once again appears so full of life and joy, almost as if he could leap from the portrait and scamper through the great hall on legs meant to carry him on many grand adventures. He can almost imagine a mother figure scooping the child up into her arms, swinging him around as peals of laughter echo off walls currently devoid of life. He sniffs and shakes his head, remembering doing the very thing with Roland just before he’d fallen from the horse, just before he’d….

He must focus. The time for action has almost arrived. It won’t do for him to second-guess himself. Not now. Not when The Frost Queen lies ahead.

The great hall empties into a round chamber which is breathtaking in its beauty. For out of sheer rock and ice has been crafted what appears to be a throne room, one surrounded by great columns that cast shadows upon the floor. Scattered lights flicker from large torches, adding a touch of warmth to eerie blue lights which emanate from small alcoves carved into the walls above him. They remind him of the colored, floating lights he’s watched dance in the sky at night along his journey, lights that brought him comfort as he continued to trek through the cold.

Could those be souls, he wonders, his breath freezing as it hovers just above his lips? Is his son up there, held captive in this frozen fortress against his will? He pulls back his bow, his arrow ready to fly at the first sign of danger.

But there is none. He is surrounded by cold and silence.

A frozen podium glistens in the center of the room, and he squints as he studies the details of the imposing throne sitting atop it, one forged from iron and marble, he surmises. But he cannot find the one thing for which he came: The Frost Queen herself who has thus far remained elusive and far too quiet for his liking. The legend must be true--she must dwell here--for who else would create a castle here in the midst of this vast, icy wasteland but a villain keeping watch over her domain?

He steps towards the throne, scanning the room around him, his mind and body on full alert. A chill races up his spine, and he nearly laughs at the irony of it, that he could feel an actual chill when his body is practically numb from cold. Nevertheless, the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he turns around, searching the room from all angles until he’s stopped dead in his tracks.

“I assume you have come here for me?”

The voice is low and husky, and he wheels around to face her, having to drop the trajectory of his aim. A woman stands just in front of him, a petite and breathtakingly beautiful woman, one with hair the color of a raven’s wings and lips the color of blood. Her skin is nearly as white as the marble of her throne, but her eyes are black, dark, soulless depths into which a man could readily fall.

“I have come for my son,” he replies, startled by how loudly his voice echoes in this chamber. The blue lights above them swirl in some sort of dance, but he keeps his eyes fixed on her, his arrow poised to fly. “I believe you hold his soul captive.”

Her face shows nothing as she takes a step towards him, and his finger twitches, but he hesitates, knowing that if he kills her now, he’s uncertain of how to retrieve Roland’s soul.

“I guard many souls,” she states, assessing him as one would a prize stallion. “What makes you believe that your son is one of them?”

“Because he sleeps the sleep of the cursed,” he answers, fighting to keep his mind and voice steady. “Because his body is in a perfect state of preservation, but he will not awaken.”

She moves closer, blatantly examining him as if he is a curiosity that has her full attention.

“How old is your son?”

The question is unexpected.

“He is but five years old,” he answers, his shoulder beginning to twitch. “He should be running and exploring the world around him, not sleeping while his soul does your bidding.”

The blue wisps above them shimmer as they flutter, and he dares a glance upward, wondering if his boy can hear his voice.

“A child, then?” Her voice is soft, yet steady, her face devoid of emotion. “I guard many children here.”

“Guard them?” he questions. “Is that how you justify stealing them and holding them captive, by telling yourself that you are guarding them?”

Her opaque eyes flash for a mere second as her hair billows in a breeze he cannot feel.

“I am no thief,” she returns. “In fact, you are the one who dared to sneak into my palace and stand here now threatening me with a weapon. It would appear you are the thief here.”

Ire straightens his spine.

“Reclaiming my child hardly makes me a thief,” he hisses.

“And is that all you’ve come here to do?” she asks, the challenge that has crept into her voice now unmasked.

“I have come to rescue my son,” he answers. “And I shall do whatever it takes to do so.”

“Even if it means killing me?”

He pulls his arrow back a fraction, his skin alight with trepidation.

“Even if it means killing you,” he says, gazing back at her without blinking.

Her eyes narrow before a slow smile creeps across her face.

“You’ve made it further into my kingdom than any man,” she states, beginning to circle around him with a grace that borders on feline. “I’ll give you that, Thief. Most are killed or give up before they ever reach my garden.”

“I am not most men,” he replies, watching her eyes flicker in what resembles admiration.

“Apparently not,” she concurs. “For here you stand, arrow poised to kill me so you can claim your prize.”

“My son is no prize,” he argues, fighting back emotion that would put him at her mercy. “He is all that I have.”

A hint of sadness flits across her features, and he knows she’s thinking of the boy in the portrait, the one whose statue identifies him as her child by choice. He then swallows, dares a step towards her and adds, “He is my heart.”

She steps back as if he’s burned her, and her eyes flash back at him in anger.

“Attempting to use my own feelings against me?” she asks, resuming her walk around him. “That won’t work, you know.”

“So you have feelings, then?” he retorts. “I wasn’t sure if you did or not.”

She stops mid-stride just right of his shoulder.

“And you believe I do not?” she questions, seemingly unfazed by this assumption. “Do you believe this so you will have no compunction in killing me?”

“What makes you think I have any in the first place?” he tosses back, turning his stance to follow her circular path.

“Because you haven’t killed me yet.”

Her words are spoken matter-of-factly, and he flinches at their truth as he draws his bow taught.

“That is simply because I am unsure what will happen if I do,” he asserts. “Because my primary aim in coming here is to retrieve my son’s soul, and if I kill you--”

“You don’t know what will happen to him,” she cuts in, stepping close enough to lay her hand on his arm. “You’re afraid you will lose him forever.”

He flinches at her touch, tightening his grip even as she steps right into contact with his arrow.

“You can put your bow down, Thief,” she says, raising a brow in his direction. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“And I can trust you because…?”

“Because if I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now,” she states, her tone straightforward.

“Are you so lonely that you find even my company welcome?” he queries, lowering his arm with a measure of reluctance.

“And what makes you think that I’m lonely?” she asks, removing her hand from his sleeve once his bow rests by his side. “Or that I’m so desperate for company that I’d welcome yours?”

“Isn’t that why you plunder the souls of the sick?” he questions. “Because you were crushed by the death of your lover?”

Her face flinches a fraction.

“Do you really believe that plundering the souls of people I’ve never met will take away my grief?” she counters. “If so, then you’ve obviously never lost anyone whom you loved.”

His fingers tighten around his bow.

“I lost my wife,” he says. “The woman I loved. I lost her when she gave birth to our son, the very son whose soul you took from me!”

He’s trembling now, and she lays her hand on his arm again. He draws back, but she doesn’t react, only stands as still as a statue as the blue lights continue to flutter overhead.

“And you believe I deliberately took your boy’s soul from you?” she asks. “To somehow replace the man I loved?”

“No,” he admits with a shrug. “But perhaps you took Roland to try to heal the loss of your own son.”

She flinches and steps back, the spot on his arm she’d been touching suddenly cold in her absence.

“No one could ever replace him,” she says, her tone low and menacing.

“Not even the multitude of souls you hold here?” he asks, gesturing up towards the lights. “Do you continue to take what doesn’t belong to you until you finally find one who eases your pain?”

She laughs at this.

“My pain can never be eased, Thief,” she practically spits. “It’s part of my curse.”

His breath stills in his chest, as if frozen.

“Curse?” he asks “What curse?”

She steps back before turning her back to him, circling her throne without setting foot upon its pedestal.

“The curse I’ve been living under for centuries,” she finally replies, turning her gaze back to him. “Do you honestly think I’d choose to live like this if I had another viable option?”

He’s frozen, completely taken aback by this turn of events. Is she teasing him--trying to throw him off his guard so she can swoop in and kill him or convince him to change his mind?

“What sort of curse is it?” he asks, pausing to clear his throat.

“The sort of curse that imprisons because you care too much,” she returns, fully facing him now. “The sort that exploits the greatest of all human weaknesses.”

“Greed, you mean?” he asks, feeling rather foolish when she chuckles at his guess.

“Love,” she corrects. “Love is the greatest weakness. We are all made most vulnerable when we love someone.”

He breathes in and out, amazed to find he doesn’t feel cold anymore.

“Take yourself for example, Thief,” she continues, moving back in his direction. “You’ve traversed the vast Northlands, braved a treacherous lake, survived an unstable passageway, and dared to invade my gardens and my home. You did all this for what? Or for whom, should I ask?”

He swallows, finding no moisture in his mouth.

“For your son,” she answers for him. “Because you love him. Because his illness has rendered you so broken and vulnerable that you would risk all that you have, even your very life to bring him back to you. That is weakness, Thief.”

She begins to walk away from him.

“I would call it strength,” he counters, his argument making her stop in her tracks. “Love empowers us to overcome obstacles and to fight off demons we’d simply run from otherwise.”

She saunters up to him, so close he can smell a scent he can only describe as winter emanating from her pale skin.

“Is that what I am to you?” she questions, daring to reach out and stroke his lower lip. “A demon to fight and conquer?”

He actually chuckles at this.

“No, my lady,” he answers, registering her confusion at the title he’s bestowed upon her. “You are far too cold to be a demon.”

Her touch lingers, warming him in the oddest of manners.

“Right you are,” she states. “And it’s Your Majesty.”

He smirks, and she steps back.

“Where is my son, your majesty?” he asks, watching as her gaze flits upward towards the blue lights. “If you tell me and release his soul into my custody, I shall be on my way.”

She raises a brow in his direction.

“He’s just there,” she replies, pointing towards the ceiling. “Safe and sound.”

“Safe?” he echoes, shaking his head in frustration. “You claim to be keeping him safe here in your frozen palace? Safe from whom, exactly?”

Her eyes grow coldly distant just before she answers.

“From death, Thief.”

He can’t breathe for a moment, his confusion at her response overwhelming every thought in his mind.

“Your son,” she continues. “Did he simply fall asleep one night and fail to awaken, or did he grow ill before losing consciousness?”

He swallows audibly, the sound reverberating in his head.

“There was an accident,” he replies, blinking back tears. “He was thrown from a horse, hit his head on a rock…”

“And never awoke,” she says, completing his sentence for him.

“And never awoke,” he repeats, meeting and holding her gaze. “But that’s because you took his soul from him. How can he wake up if his soul is trapped here?”

“Has it ever occurred to you what would happen to him if his soul were returned to his body right now?” she asks. “At this very moment?”

He pauses, thoughts tripping over themselves as his tongue seeks to form words.

“He’d wake up,” he replies. “He’d get out of bed and run around our cottage, ready to climb trees and take on the next big adventure he sees outside our window.”

She shakes her head sadly.

“Has his body recovered then?”

He freezes, not knowing what to say.

“For if his body hasn’t recovered and his soul is sent back, it is all too possible that it will decay along with his physical form,” she explains. “That if his brain decides to bleed or to stop instructing his lungs to breath, he will simply die, and you will lose his soul forever.”

He forces moisture down his throat, blinking back words he cannot accept.

“So his soul is supposed to linger here with you?” he hisses. “Until his body heals on his own?”

“Or until a skilled healer can treat him,” she says. “Then and only then can his soul be reunited with his body without risk of certain death.”

His laugh tastes bitter as he shakes his head harshly.

“Then we have a problem, for you see, the one healer of renown in our province has lost her soul to you, as well.” He takes a step closer until they are nose to nose, and he is struck again by how small this queen actually is. “Perhaps you should release her soul to me, as well, so she can live again and heal my boy.”

Her eyes falter but a second.

“The White Witch?” she questions, her tone softer than before. “Is she the healer you’ve been seeking?”

He nods as he looks up at the lights.

“Release her soul to me,” he commands. “I beg you. Even without her and Roland, you have plenty of others here to keep you company.”

She turns away from him and walks towards her throne. She extends one palm from which a pale, silver smoke emerges just before a drop of blue light flitters down from the ceiling, dancing on her hand like an enchanted flame. She turns back to face him slowly, extending her palm in his direction as she breathes in loudly enough for him to hear.

“Here is your son. Take him and be gone.”

He gazes at the light, stepping towards her without thinking, cupping his hands as he holds them out in her direction. Is this really Roland’s soul, this dancing swirl of light she offers him so freely?

“And the healer? The White Witch?”

“I can only release your son into your custody, Thief,” she states, her voice tinged with iron. “The healer is not yours to take.”

“But you said,” he begins, half-afraid of taking Roland from her grasp. “You said that without a proper healer, he will die.”

“I said that he might,” she counters, her patience wearing thin. “I’m not a seer, Thief, only a guardian of souls.”

“And if that’s not a chance I’m willing to take?” he fires back, his hands clenching into fists. “If I’m not willing to gamble on returning his soul only to lose him forever?”

“I don’t see that you have any other options,” she replies. “You can either take your son’s soul with you, or leave him here with me. I promise you that I guard my charges well, Thief. I protect them as fiercely as any mother would. But the White Witch stays.”

“I’m not leaving here without her,” he argues. “If she can help my Roland, then there are others she can heal, as well.”

“You’re quite presumptuous,” she states, extending the light in his direction.

“I’m only taking you at your word.”

She stares at him, her eyes almost begging him to walk away.

“Just go, Robin of Locksley,” she breathes. “And take your son with you.”

Before he can reply, the blue light flies into his hands from hers, and he stands dumbstruck in amazement as childlike joy washes over him like soft layers of fur. This is Roland, he can sense his son’s spirit, and he brings the light to his face as tears break free and sting his cheeks on their downward journey.

“Roland,” he whispers, laughing at the sound of his own voice. “Son. I’ve missed you so much.”

The flame practically leaps from his palms as if responding to his words. He looks up to thank her, but she’s stepped away, her back to him now as she raises one hand in dismissal.

“My lady,” he begins, correcting himself at once. “I mean, Your Majesty. Thank you. Thank you for my son.”

She nods but does not look at him, her spine erect, her stance rigid.

“Please, if I may ask one more thing,” he continues. “The healer. Please release her, too.”

She turns towards him then, her expression almost unreadable.

“I cannot do that,” she states, her words hitting the floor like small rocks. “If you want the White Witch’s soul, you’ll have to kill me to get it.”

His breath sticks in his chest as he clutches Roland’s spirit ever closer to his chest.

“I don’t understand,” he begins. “You just gave me my son’s--”

“Not all souls can be released so easily, Thief. Hers is bound here by powerful magic, and all magic comes with a price.”

He dares a step towards her.

“And the price for her release is your life?” he asks, trying to fit puzzle pieces together in his mind. “Why is that? How is she connected to you?”

She hesitates, her eyes betraying nothing.

“That is none of your concern.”

She turns away from him, making her way towards an exit that has magically appeared in the stone wall.

“Stop!” he yells. “Wait! Please, Your Majesty.” She freezes in place without turning around to acknowledge him. “Won’t you tell me why only your death can release the White Witch?”

“Why do you care?”

Her question echoes in the tall chamber, and the blue lights still in the ceiling above. She turns, then, her eyes appearing more brown than black now, her stature seemingly smaller than it had been but seconds before.

“Just kill me and be done with it,” she challenges. “Or take your son and go. But please, stop wasting my time.”

He cannot explain why her fate suddenly matters or why he feels the need to move towards her until they’re standing face to face, but he’s drawn to her now, as if she holds a piece of his soul, as well. Blue lights dance above them, hovering over her like an eerie protective mist. Her souls, he thinks, not captives, but rather fragile lives that she guards until their bodies can mend. His mind races in time with his pulse as questions tumble over themselves until clarity begins to take root.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

His question startles her, and she steps back, but he follows and reaches out for her with one hand while keeping Roland’s spirit safe in the other.

“I don’t know what--”

“You’re the healer,” he interrupts, seeing more as words form in his mouth. “The White Witch. Your body sleeps because your soul is here.” His hand moves downward until it stills where her heart should beat, pausing before flattening itself just over her ribs. There is no pulse.

She blinks, trying to keep her face impassive, but he knows he’s struck a nerve, so he pushes onward, stepping into her secrets. “Why would you do that--separate your soul from your body, when you of all people would have the ability to heal yourself of any ailment or---”

He stops, remembering the statues and the portraits, the truth hitting him hard all at once.

“It’s because of them, isn’t it?” he asks. “The statues--the people in the portraits, people you loved and lost--a lover, your father, a sister…”

She breathes in, her skin becoming more translucent even as they speak.

“And your son,” he concludes, raising his hand to cup her cheek. “This is somehow about him, isn’t it?”

She is trembling now, and he knows it’s from pent up emotion rather than cold.

“Tell me?” he asks, and she hesitates, closing her eyes as she breathes in and out.

“I couldn’t save them,” she finally whispers, her words cascading like ice crystals across the room. “No matter how badly I wanted to.”

The lights flicker, almost as if the souls above them give a collective gasp.

“What happened?” he questions, noting that the spirits begin to burn brighter as she opens her mouth to speak.

“My lover, Daniel, he died because he dared to love me,” she confesses, her tone fragmented. “Because my mother believed that I deserved better in life than becoming the wife of a stable boy, so she tore his heart from his body while I was forced to watch.”

His stomach cinches.

“Your mother was a sorceress?” he asks, watching her nod before the words are out of his mouth.

“A very powerful and destructive one,” she confirms. “One the world is far better without.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his touch steady, even though his insides are not.

“I vowed then and there that nobody would ever die in front of me again, not if I could stop it. That I would dedicate my life to healing and preserving life rather than to destroying it.”

“A noble decision, indeed,” he states, confused when she laughs bitterly.

“A decision my mother would have none of,” she continues. “And when my father finally stood up to her and tried to protect me from her vengeance, she killed him, too, just crumpled his body before my eyes as if he were nothing more than a rag doll.” She pauses, and he remembers the warm brown eyes from the portrait that seemed to beckon him onward in her direction.

“Once again, I could do nothing. I was powerless against her.”

“That is not your fault,” he says.

“Perhaps not,” she returns. “But he died for me, because he loved me, just as Daniel did. Love is weakness, Thief. You would do well to remember that.”

“Love is strength, Your Majesty,” he counters. “Your father loved you so much that he gave his life to protect you, and I am quite certain he would not want you to blame yourself for the actions of your mother.”

“My mother used his feelings for me against him,” she argues, her entire body shaking. “She thought that she’d finally broken me when she killed Pabbi, that I was finally ready to be taught and molded into her image, to come into my own as a sorceress and ruler, but I ran away from her instead, leaving my older sister alone at her mercy.”

Her eyes fall to the stone floor as her forehead creases in agony.

“Mother grew impatient with her, eventually, and banished her into another realm. I’ve no idea what’s become of her, and I can’t help but wonder if things would have been different for my sister if I’d stayed. I do know that she blamed me for her fate.”

“Lata Nipt,” he breathes, and she nods, her chin trembling. “But you must not hold yourself responsible for the actions of your mother, Your Majesty. It was she who banished your sister, not you.”

“I should have stopped her,” she utters, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Or at least tried to have.”

“And you might have been banished, too,” he states. “Or killed. And you would have never become a healer who helped people when nobody else could.”

“A healer who could not heal the one person who mattered most.”

Her tone is broken, and it whirls around him like ashes tossed into the wind.

“Hjarta Sonr,” he murmurs, a piece of himself cracking open at the expression of raw pain staring back at him. “Your son.”

She nods and attempts to pull away, but he holds on to her, praying to whatever gods are listening that she will stay and explain everything.

“Tell me about him,” he implores, squinting as the blue lights dim and winter’s silence surrounds them. “About your boy.”

“I found him,” she begins, her words forming an icy mist between them. “In a basket by a lake when he was newly born. I searched for his mother in the nearby villages, but to no avail, so I took him home with me and raised him as my own.”

“Son of your heart,” he states, watching as she nods.

“He was my heart--my everything, actually,” she confesses. “He began to learn the healing arts when he was old enough to understand, and he would accompany me on long journeys when I was summoned to someone’s sickbed. I placed protective enchantments around him, ones that would make him immune to the contagious illnesses we would treat.”

“What a gift to give a child,” he interjects.

“It should have been,” she counters. “But one disease took root inside him regardless of my precautions, one that infected his very bone marrow and poisoned his own body against him. This was a disease I could not treat.”

He knows of such illnesses, and his heart hurts at the thought of one eating away the life of a child.

“He became weaker and weaker, and I did everything in my power to help him,” she states, her tone hollow, her eyes weak. “But nothing worked. So I went to see the only person I thought could help him.”

“Your mother?” he asks, almost dreading her response. She smiles ruefully before shaking her head.

“No,” she continues. “I went to the man who killed my mother, a dark wizard of great renown.”

“The Dark One?” he whispers, chilled to the bone as she nods in assent. He shudders as tales of this dark one begin to swirl through his memory, prompting him to gaze around the cavern as if evil could be here lying in wait. She nods again, and he holds her tighter, tempted to draw her into his arms and shelter her from all of the pain she’s endured.

“The very one,” she affirms. “I begged him to give me the life of my son, and he told me that there were ways to spare the soul even if the body is too weak to sustain it.”

He gazes at her, the blue lights growing even dimmer until only a soft glow illuminates the room.

“I needed time,” she continues. “Time to learn how to heal his body, time to focus on finding a cure for this disease.”

“So you allowed the Dark One to separate your souls from your bodies,” he surmises, his tone hushed and reverent. “Your son’s so he had a chance to live, and yours so you had a chance to save him.”

Her eyes round at his understanding, and he swallows as a mixture of pain and awe take root.

“As the years went on, I began to take other souls,” she states, her voice almost numb. “Those whose bodies I knew could be healed with the proper treatment but who could die without it. I brought them here where I could watch over them and…” She pauses, looking directly into him before she continues. “Where they could keep my Henry company.”

Anger and gratitude war within him as Roland’s soul flickers in his palm, releasing a measure of peace he hasn’t felt since the boy fell from the horse. He strokes her cheek, amazed at the warmth lingering beneath his touch.

“Have you found a cure?” he asks, almost dreading her answer. For if she had, she would most assuredly not still be isolated here in her self-imposed prison.

“No,” she admits. Her shoulders slump in defeat, her expression crumbling before his very eyes. “I can heal the body of every other soul in this room, but I cannot help my own son. What sort of mother does that make me?”

“A selfless, passionate, and dedicated one,” he returns. “One who would give up her own life for that of her child, just as your father did for you.”

She sniffs yet otherwise remains motionless.

“And as you are willing to do for your Roland,” she states, smiling ruefully as he nods. “At least your son has a chance to live,” she continues. “The only life Henry has left is here in this frozen cavern with me.”

He looks up towards the ceiling at the myriad of lights that hold back utter darkness.

“Which one is he?” he asks. “Which soul is your Henry?”

She blinks repeatedly before opening her palm and closing her eyes, her lips whispering words in the ancient tongue he can barely make out. Then a light above shimmers before practically skipping through the air into her hand, swirling once around her face and tickling her cheek until she smiles. The love in her eyes when she opens them again nearly buckles his knees, and he wonders if his eyes looked the same to her when Roland alighted upon his palm. Henry’s light seems smaller than the others, he observes, and he gazes at it curiously, wondering at why the very soul that led her to this existence was half the size of his own son’s.

“Hello, Henry,” he breathes, wondering if the spirit can hear or understand him. But the light flickers as if in acknowledgement, and he smiles, wishing he could see the boy in his physical form. She cradles the light in her hands, drawing it to her chest as she closes her eyes once more, and he knows she’s sensing his essence just as he can sense Roland’s.

“What happens to these souls if their bodies die, Your Majesty?”

Her eyes narrow as she inhales.

“That depends,” she answers. “On what sort of life they lived.”

He nods, forcing himself to continue down this line of thought.

“What of people like my Marian?” he asks. “Those with good hearts and noble souls, those who spent their lives trying to do what was right and make the world a better place?”

Her face softens a bit.

“They move on to the next realm,” she states almost wistfully. “To a place of peace and contentment.”

“So they are happy?” he presses. “My Marian is happy?”

He feels Roland’s spirit tickle his hand, watching as it practically flips as if trying to answer him.

“Yes,” the queen replies. “She is happy. You need not worry about her any longer.”

His throat constricts, and he swallows as best he can.

“And children?” he questions, his tone so low he can barely hear it himself. “Do children also move on to this realm of peace?”

He hears her breath catch as her eyes practically catch fire.

“Yes,” she responds, taking a step back from him. “Children are innocents. There is no question that they pass on into the peaceful realm when they...when they die.” The words harden as soon as they’re spoken and hover like icy shards between them. “You cannot ask me to give up my son when you are not willing to give up yours.”

He hurts all over as he considers her predicament, staring from Henry’s beautiful soul to the face of his mother, awash in layers of fear and anguish.

“How long have you been searching for a cure?” he asks, his bottom lip trembling. “How long have you and Henry existed like this?”

She looks at the ground, seemingly unwilling to speak.

“Your Majesty--”

“For centuries, Thief,” she answers, her words darting from her lips in precision. “We’ve been here for centuries.”

He lowers his gaze as he clutches his own son closer.

“And will another century of searching allow you to find a cure?”

She leans in closer, so close he can nearly see through her being.

“I already told you that I am no seer,” she returns, wearing hostility as a desperate shield.

“But you are a healer,” he interjects. “And you know your craft better than anyone. In your best judgment, is there a cure out there that can be found?”

Her eyes fall again, and he waits her out, knowing just how difficult his questions must be for her to process.

“I cannot say--” she begins.

“If it were my son with this illness,” he cuts in. “If Roland had this disease, would you have brought his soul here, or would you have let him die?”

The eyes that finally look back at him are creased and broken, and he knows the answer before it ever leaves her lips.

“I would have let him die,” she admits, her tone barely more than silver puffs of air.

He inhales sharply, absorbing her confession.

“Because--” he prods, feeling Roland ease closer to him as if wrapping invisible arms around his neck.

“Because there is no cure,” she hisses. “Because I am not skilled enough to heal him, and because this life in between is no sort of life for a child.”

Her legs give out, and she collapses onto the floor in a heap. Henry’s spirit flits up to her cheek again before coming to rest on her shoulder, and Robin can picture her holding the child in the portrait against her breast, his head nuzzling in where blue flame now hovers.

“You have come to kill me, haven’t you?” she asks, gazing back at him with eyes now red from grief.

“I did at first,” he confesses, the admission bitter on his tongue. “But I do not wish you to die any longer.”

She draws her legs into her body, her skirts covering her petite form, and he kneels down before her as Roland hops onto his shoulder in a manner nearly identical to Henry.

“Letting go of him will kill me,” she states. “More assuredly than any arrow ever could.”

“Have you ever considered that holding on to him is killing you both?” he dares. “Little by little? Day by day? Until one day there is nothing left of either of you except for memories?” Her expression betrays her, and he sees this is something of which she is aware. “That’s why his light is so much smaller, isn’t it?” he questions, wishing he didn’t have to ask such things of her. “Because he is fading away from you?”

A tear actually falls down her cheek, and he closes his eyes before reaching forward to wipe it away. It glistens in the blue light cast by their sons and the others in the room, others she herself has stated that she could heal if she agrees to leave this place and save her own soul.

“I’m losing him,” she whispers, the words shattering like fallen icicles. “Regardless of what I do, I’m losing him. He is the purest and most beautiful of human beings, and there is nothing I can do to heal his body!”

Henry’s light nuzzles in closer, as if he knows exactly what she just admitted and hates to be the source of her pain.

“What would Henry want you to do, your majesty?”

Her eyes narrow into slits.

“Damn you, Thief.”

“What would he tell you to do?”

“Stop it, Locksley!” she commands, standing again on wobbly legs. “Shut your mouth and leave this place forever!”

“What does Henry want?” he presses, taking a step towards her until they are again nose to nose. “You’re his mother. Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I don’t want to hear it!” she fires back, her head shaking back and forth in denial.

“But isn’t it his life, Your Majesty?” he dares. “Shouldn’t he be given the final say in his eternal fate?”

Her arms drop to her side in defeat, her face devoid of all emotion save despair. He remains motionless as Henry’s spirit flickers to his mother’s ear and brushes against it, circling around her several times in what Robin realizes is an embrace. He watches in reverence as the child’s soul then begins to fly upward before descending to his mother’s shoulder again, repeating the gesture several times before there is no question of what he wants her to do.

“Set him free, your majesty,” he suggests, approaching her as he would a frightened doe. “Set both of your souls free. It’s what Henry wants for himself and for his mother.”

She is weeping now, the sobs of a lost soul, and he gathers her into his arms before he can think better of it, holding her close, breathing her in. Then he feels something strange as smoke fills his arms in her place, and he’s surrounded by a cyclone of silver and purple, one that fills his nostrils and lungs and forces him to close his eyes. His last conscious thought is that he hopes with everything he has that Roland’s soul has survived whatever just took place.

When he opens his eyes, he is lying in his son’s bed.

Roland lies beside him, his small body warm and breathing, but his eyes are still closed. Robin sits up too quickly and feels all the blood rush to his head, making him dizzy and cold all at once.

His soul. Where is Roland’s soul?

He stands and scans the room, reaching up to his shoulder where he last remembers the blue light hovering, feeling nothing but his own skin, and he wonders for a moment if it was all a dream, if the last months of his life have been spent here in slumber beside his boy rather than on a quest for his recovery.

The queen. What has become of the queen?

A noise from Roland startles him, and he looks down in wonder as his boy slowly blinks open his eyes. His own fill with tears as his son’s dark brows crease, and a small hand reaches out for him, one he takes immediately and presses to his lips in gratitude.

“Papa,” the child mutters, and Robin weeps in earnest now, sitting back down on the bed and scooping up his child to his chest. “You found me.”

Small fingers stroke his beard, and he laughs through his tears.

“Of course I did,” he replies. “You’re my heart, Roland.”

Henry’s portrait flashes brightly in his mind, as does the inscription on the boy’s statue: Minn Hjarta Sonr. Son of my heart.

By the gods, he hopes she is alright.

He holds the boy closer, so close he wishes he pull him inside his own skin, and he wonders if Roland’s body is healed now, or if it’s waiting for the healer, the one healer who said she could make him well again.

What happened to the queen and her son? His heart is nearly sick with dread and the need to find out.

There’s a knock on his door, and he kisses Roland’s temple as the rapping sound is repeated. He lays him back down in the bed reluctantly, careful to cover him up with quilts and furs, determined to never let the child even catch a chill again.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, rubbing a hand through his hair as he pads into the front room and opens the door.

What he sees before him sucks the air from his lungs.

It’s her--the queen--but she’s pure flesh and blood now, her skin still pale but with pink undertones, her lips red, but not overly so. She is dressed in travelling clothes rather than a gown of royalty, her black hair plaited and hanging over her right shoulder, her expression hesitant and unsure. She carries a satchel in one hand and a walking stick in the other, but those fall from her grasp as he reaches out to touch her, to ensure that she is real before pulling her back into his arms where she fits as if she belongs there.

“You’re alive,” he mutters into her hair, feeling something snap into place as her arms slowly encircle him in return. They hold onto each other as he feels her weeping into his shirt, and he pulls her closer, lets her properly grieve the boy she’d set free.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes into her hair. “For what I said, for pushing you like I did. It wasn’t my place.”

“No,” she agrees, her words muffled against his tunic. “It wasn’t. But you were right.”

“I was an ass,” he says, holding her closer. “I should never have--”

“You’re a father trying to save his son,” she interrupts.

“And you were a mother moving heaven and earth for hers,” he states. They stand in silence as a lark sings just outside the window.

“I let him go,” she manages, her words wet and disjointed. “It’s what he wanted. You were right--it’s what he’d wanted for a long time.” She pauses to sniff and rub her lips together. “He was tired, so very tired, and I ignored it because...because I couldn’t let him go.”

“But you did, and he’s happy now,” he assures her, feeling tears prick his own eyes. “Free and without any pain, watching over you now instead of the other way around.”

She wipes her cheeks with her hand.

“He was always watching over me,” she says. “Even when I couldn’t see it.” Her lip trembles, and he reaches out to cup her cheek, gratified that she lets him. “He would have suffered pain if I’d brought him back with me, and I couldn’t...I couldn’t do that to him.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” he says. “No loving parent would condemn their child to a life of constant pain.” She nods but doesn’t answer, so he waits for her as she cries and sniffs until she’s steady enough to talk again.

“I miss him.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

She nods and presses her lips together as he drops his hand from her cheek.

“We’ll come with you,” he says, watching her eyes round in surprise. “Roland and I. We’ll accompany and help you as best as we can as you journey to heal the bodies of those whose souls you once guarded. That is, if you’ll allow us to.”

“How did you know?” she asks, sniffing again. “That that’s what I’m doing?”

“Because it’s who you are,” he states. “A healer.” She wipes her eyes again and exhales through her mouth. “That’s who you’ve always been, Your Majesty.”

He sees the side of her lip twitch.

“It’s Regina,” she mutters. “And you don’t have to come with me, Thief.” He smiles at the familiarity of her barb, even as a tear trails down his cheek.

“I know,” he says. “But it’s the least we can do after what you sacrificed for us.”

She swallows hard and breathes in slowly.

“I was holding on to him for myself,” she says. “If I’d been honest, if I’d been willing to let him go centuries ago…”

“Shhh,” he interrupts. “None of that. There is no limit to the extremes we will go to for the sake of our children.”

She nods, and he aches at how fragile she is, knowing he would be the same way if their roles were reversed.

“Take me to Roland,” she commands, squaring her shoulders. “So I can make certain his body heals properly.”

She steps back outside to retrieve her satchel and walking stick and follows him into Roland’s bedroom. The boy sits up and smiles when he sees her, stretching out his arms in her direction as tears begin to stream down her face again.

“Majesty,” Roland beams, and she sits on the bed and gathers him close, clasping onto the boy as if her life depended on it as the child wraps small arms around her neck. Tears sting Robin’s eyes yet again, and he lets them fall freely as the pair before him lean back far enough to touch each other’s faces. “You’re here. You came to help me like you promised.”

She nods, and he grins, flashing dimples Robin had feared he’d never see again. If only Henry could smile up at his mother the way that Roland was doing now.

“Of course I'm here,” she says, shaking her head as if to settle overwhelming emotion. “We've got to get you all better.”

“Like Henry’s all better now?” Roland asks, his face perfectly sincere in the way only a child’s can be. She gasps at his words, and Robin sits beside her on the bed, touching her arm in support.

“I saw him in my sleep,” Roland continues. “He feels good again, and he says that your sacrifice saved him, whatever that means.”

She nods through fresh tears, and a part of him breaks open, wishing he could take away her pain and grieve in her place.

“Thank you, Roland,” she manages. “Thank you for telling me.”

“When will I be well enough to play with him?”

He touches Roland’s arm, searching for the right words to explain Henry’s death.

“Henry is well again, Roland, because he is gone from this world,” Robin begins. “His body was too sick to hold onto his soul anymore, so his mother let him go. I know this is difficult to understand, but he's whole because he's no longer bound to a body that was hurting him.”

The boy’s face scrunches in confusion as he shakes his head.

“No he’s not,” Roland argues. “His body got well. Some sort of true love’s magic fixed him...at least that’s what I think he said.”

Robin and Regina stand at once, looking at each other in confusion as hope dares to come out of hiding.

“Roland,” Robin begins, “Are you certain this is something Henry actually said to you and not just something you dreamed? You’ve been asleep for a long time, son.”

“Papa, Henry is my friend,” the boy states as if this fact explains everything “I know what he feels like, just like I know what you and Majesty feel like. And I know what he told me. He told me that he's well.”

Robin wonders about souls touching without physical constraints, and it make sense that they would feel rather than see each other. He remembers feeling Roland as his boy hovered in his palm, knowing beyond any doubt that it was his son he held so precariously in his hand, sensing how different Henry’s soul felt even though the boy’s spirit never actually touched him.

“Where is he?” Regina asks, bending over towards Roland. “If Henry’s body is well, where is he, Roland?”

“I'm not sure, but I know he's not far,” the boy states. “He says that you're connected, Majesty, so you'll always find each other, no matter what.”

A pair of tears chase each other down her cheek.

“He used to say that to me,” she states in wonder. “That families find each other, that they're connected in ways beyond what we can see.”

“He sounds like a wise young man, indeed,” Robin says, just as another knock raps at the door.

His head jerks towards the sound before he gazes back at Regina in wonder, his mouth falling open as Roland points towards the door and smiles. She runs as if her feet have sprouted wings, stopping only as her hand grasps the handle and she looks back at him in raw uncertainty.

“What if it’s not him?” she asks, every part of her body trembling. Her fear is so palpable, he can almost smell it.

“Then it isn’t,” he says, stepping towards her to touch and hold her arm. “And we shall move on with our lives, just as we were planning to do. But Regina--what if it is? What if it's your son?”

She smiles then, a breathtakingly beautiful sight that seals his fate to hers forever as she nods and flings open the door. There, on the other side stands her heart, a smile encompassing his freckled face as he reaches for his mother and she envelops him on sight.

“I knew you could do it, Mama,” the boy breathes, clinging onto her with everything he has. “I always believed that you could.”

No tears have ever been sweeter.

Time stands still during the moments that follow as families reunite and souls reconnect, and a sheen of reverence covers the small cottage as the four of them cling to each other in a realm now warm with promise and hope. Hands touch, hearts connect, and as the sun dips behind the hills that surround and protect them, a lone blue iris stubbornly pushes through the snow that lingers beside Henry’s statue, signaling that spring has indeed come once again.

#outlaw queen #Hood Mills family #regal believer #once upon an advent #Regina Mills #Robin Hood #Henry Mills #Roland Hood #Laura writes #Frost

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