#ch perrault

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Puss in Boots vintage enamel pin (1.2″). The writing reads “Ch. Perrault * Puss in Boots”.

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[liebgotts-lovergirl]

Fire On Fire: Chapter 25

(Ch. 24) ... (Ch. 1)

II Gallery II Symbol Guide II

Summary: "Friendship isn't a big thing– it's a million little things."

A/N: Here it is, y'all! 💖

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @brassknucklespeirs @mccall-muffin @lieutenant-speirs @emmythespacecowgirl @holdingforgeneralhugs @parajumpboots @hxad-ovxr-hxart @sleepisforcowards @indigo-luvers @ax-elcfucker-blog @chaosklutz @mads-weasley @vibing-away @eightysix-baby @ithinkabouttzu

Contemporary: November 20th, 1944. Resistance Safehouse, Signy-l’Abbaye, France.

She had been told that her confinement in the dilapidated cabin was for her own protection but Alix was almost certain that the real purpose was to drive her mad enough that even if she were to be captured, she’d have nothing useful to say. 

And it was working, the agent thought as she flipped aimlessly through Wuthering Heights for the umpteenth time. 

She was going to go out of her mind.

No one in the OSS knew where the leak had come from meaning that everyone was now under suspicion, so the only conceivable solution had been to tuck Alix away somewhere verifiably secure until the source was discovered. 

Her sole contact with the outside world came in the form of visits from Captain Nixon, who was the very picture of maladaptive coping mechanisms as he collapsed into a beaten-in armchair by the fireplace with a drink in-hand. 

"Any word on Jen– I mean, Agent Perrault?" Alix inquired hopefully but her handler shook his head.

"Not since the last time you asked. Sorry to say but I wouldn't get your hopes up." 

He gave a sympathetic grimace before reminding her gently,

"MIA usually means captured or dead." 

"'Usually'," Alix insisted doggedly. 

"But not always. There's still a chance she's alive somewhere, waiting it out." 

Her case officer's expression was strained but he said nothing, opting to take a swig of his drink instead of discouraging her any further. 

There was a beat of comfortable silence between the pair and Alix picked at the shoddy couch-cushions beneath her leg with a chipped nail. 

She desperately wanted to ask about Joe but she knew better. 

She would play it cool.

"So what'd I miss? How is everyone?" she inquired casually but her handler let out a snort.  

"You mean, how's 'Joey' ?"

One of the many downsides of being friendly with an intelligence officer, Alix thought ruefully: They Know Too Much. 

 "A loose cannon, that's how he is," Nixon answered himself before taking a gulp of what was undoubtedly whiskey in his flask. 

"He's worried as Hell about you and he's taking it out on anybody within arm's reach. Not to mention, he keeps trying to weasel SITREPs out of me like your status and location aren't strictly Classified." 

The captain shook his head with a grudging, mirthless smirk.

"Have to say, I admire his tenacity but I swear to Christ, I'm half-tempted to put a rush on your paperwork just so I can get some goddamn sleep and Dick can have his best interrogator back. Liebgott's no good to anybody like this and don't we all know it."

Joe was worried about her? 

Alix didn't know what to say. 

Why should he be? 

Shouldn't he be relieved that he didn't have to tie up their inconvenient affair with a neat little bow?

But her conflicted musings were interrupted by the crinkling of cardboard. 

Nonchalantly fishing a small, rectangular snack box out of his pocket, Nixon tossed it over to her with an exaggerated sigh of reluctance. 

“From Muck again,” he elaborated as she caught it, as if she didn’t already know. 

Skip had made it a habit of saving his fruit bars for her. He had told her case officer that it was because he was bored of apricot but Alix knew for a fact that was a lie.

It had started long before that.

╔══ •🖤🖤•🖤🖤•🖤🖤• ══╗

9 Months Ago: February 5th, 1944. Aldbourne, England.

“Hey Doc, is it normal to lose feeling in your legs?" Alix wheezed as she and the rest of the company made the final trudge up the hill to their makeshift campsite. 

"Because I think mine have died." 

“Lucky you,” Don groaned from behind her as he plopped down onto the dirt.

“Mine feel like they're on fire.”

"Mais ya, Pyro," Roe answered as he settled across from her on the ground, swiping some sweat off his forward with his sleeve. 

"We jus' did an all-night hike an' on empty stomachs, no less. Perfectly normal to feel numb, I reckon." 

"Enjoy it," Penkala advised as he took a seat on the empty patch of grass next to Eugene. 

"After the Charley horse I got in Mile 9, I'd welcome some numbness right about now."

From a little ways away, Alix saw Skip Muck– their other best friend– shifting from foot to foot anxiously as he waited in line to speak to Captain Sobel.

As the only NCO in their friend group, it was Skip's job to report their times on each excursion. 

Alix was reasonably confident in their speed– especially on nighttime hikes which were a lot less grueling than in the blistering heat of the day– but Muck always did his best to pad their times anyway to avoid anyone getting in trouble. 

That was just the sort of person he was and Alix was eternally grateful.

The blond mimed dramatically shooting himself with his finger-gun as he waited for the unfortunately long-winded Mike Ranney to finish handing in his group's times and she let out a small giggle behind her hand.  

"Wonder if he'll be done by noon," Don snickered, voicing her own thoughts and Alix shrugged.

"We can dream," she joked as she began to unbox her breakfast unit. "But I'm too famished to wait any longer." 

"Agreed," Alex Penkala chimed in and the usual bartering began. 

"Hey Penk, I'll trade you my Pork & Eggs for your cereal bar," Alix piped up hopefully but the brown-haired trooper sat forward and squinted, his green eyes skeptically taking in Alix's offering.

"That's what that's s'posed to be?" he asked, seeming genuinely horrified. "Are you sure?" 

The Italian's weak nod was the only confirmation he needed to cement his decision.

"Nie, sorry," Penkala answered, partially in Polish and partially in English. 

Alix sighed but at least he had the decency to look somewhat apologetic. 

"Maybe another day?" he added as the spy turned to the friend seated on her left side. 

"What about you, Mal? Pork and eggs for half your biscuits?" she offered but Don jokingly shielded his crackers in response. 

"Fat chance," the redhead quipped. "These are getting drenched in coffee, soon as it's done."

"I'll remember this the next time you ask me for a Wrigley's," Alix teased before turning to the medic across the way, whose dark blue eyes were already fixed on her. 

"How about you, Gene? Up for a trade?"

She held up the tin with a hopeful smile so the medic could view the breakfast ration within but he shook his head apologetically. 

"Uh…'fraid I gotta pass on that," he responded, shooting her a sympathetic grimace as he eyed the tin. 

"It don' look fit for human consumption."

Roe wasn't wrong. 

The medic's prepackaged block of oatmeal had to be soaked in water from his canteen until it was an almost slop-like consistency the color of wet cement but it still looked better than the culinary monstrosity sitting before her in her own tin. 

Using her fork as a poking stick, Alix lightly prodded the chalky egg yolk, hoping to find an angle at which it might at least look a little bit appetizing but found none.

The blocks of pork were so solid that she could hardly get her fork through them and she found herself thinking wistfully of home. 

When she was home for breaks in Chestnut Hill, Penny would make the most incredible Irish breakfast known to man every morning – the fluffiest golden eggs, the most mouthwatering sausage accompanied by the scent of sizzling bacon and bread so fresh that you could hear the melodious crackle of the crust. 

Just the thought of it was making her stomach growl but her musings were interrupted when Doc Roe reached out from across the way and plunked 4 of his 8 biscuits onto her tray with a shy smile. 

"Ya can have 'em for free though, if ya want 'em, che– er, Pyro," he corrected quickly with an awkward cough before adding, "Hope they help." 

Alix beamed back at him. 

"Gene, you're a real peach, do you know that?" 

The tips of the medic's ears turned bright pink and he replied with a "De Rien" so soft that she barely heard it. 

Taking a bite of one of the biscuits, Alix let out a sudden yelp of pain as one of her molars connected with the rock-solid bread. 

"Cazzo! I think it chipped my tooth!"

"That's why you soak 'em first, genius," a familiar voice bubbled from behind her and Alix turned to greet her other best friend. 

"Well well, look what the cat finally dragged in," she remarked playfully as she scooted to make room for Skip in their little circle. 

"Christ, Skipper, did you get lost?" Don piped up in-between mouthfuls of soggy cracker.

"Nope, can't afford to," the blond replied with his trademark glowing grin and unflagging positivity, even as he settled cross-legged into the dirt. 

"Somebody's gotta keep you two outta the nuthouse." 

Eagerly pulling his breakfast unit onto his lap, Skip began sorting through the goods and Alix peeked over his shoulder.

It seemed like that day, only Skip had anything actually worth eating: a Dromedary Bar.

As he slowly peeled back the cellophane, the blond took a second to admire the tropical fruit concoction in his hands and Alix's stomach rumbled enviously. 

"Hungry?" he inquired as he began to worm the bar out of its packaging and Alix sighed wistfully. 

"Starving." 

Flicking out his pocketknife, the blond sawed the bar into two neat halves before scarfing his portion down and gallantly offering the second to his friend.

"You're a saint, Skipper," she proclaimed with a grateful grin as she eagerly wolfed down her half of the sweet treat. 

"Nah," he chuckled modestly, wiping his juice-stained hands off on his ODs. "Just looking out for family."  

“Bon Dieu,” Eugene had marveled from his seat across from them, shaking his head in quiet bemusement at the pair who had both already finished their sections of the bar. 

“Remind me not to let y’all near my mama’s beignets when she send 'em!”

That had been the moment when Joe passed by. 

It had started off innocuous enough, just another paratrooper admiring the scenery with his friends, those beautiful russet eyes roving the English landscape around them when they met hers and Alix’s heart thudded in her chest.

The electricity of the unspoken seemed to crackle in the air between them like a lightning storm, so much heat in one glance that it made her cheeks flush like a wild rose. 

For a brief second, a conflicted expression flashed across his face and Alix remembered the thought in her mind clear as day: 

Two months. 

It had been two months.

Joe looked as if he wanted to say something but before he could get it out, one of his best friends– Popeye, she remembered– had distracted him, babbling on and on about their future return to civilization in the coming days. 

Alix had never seen Joe appear less enthused. As he was being led away to where the rest of his friends were sitting, he took one last look over his shoulder at her, as if trying to commit her features to memory, as if gathering strength to stay away.

But why?

Two months, Alix remembered thinking sadly as she had watched the handsome paratrooper disappear. It had been two months since-

╚══ •🖤🖤•🖤🖤•🖤🖤• ══╝

The sound of snapping fingers dragged Alix from her memories like a vaudeville cane and when she looked up, she glimpsed a half-concerned, half-amused Lewis Nixon staring back at her from his spot in the armchair.

"Welcome back," he remarked and Alix let out a snort of derision, shrugging off his bemusement as she silently grappled with her thoughts.

Why did the memory of seeing Joe all those months ago make her brain burn? Why did that cryptic phrase echo in her mind: Two months. Two months since what?!

Shaking her head to clear it, the spy focused instead on lifting the ration box's lid and delicately unwrapping the cellophane in her lap.

“Jesus Christ, Nix, nice of you to save me some," she commented dryly, inspecting the remains of a crumbled chocolate bar with a cocked eyebrow.  

“Consider it repayment for making me your goddamn mailman,” Nixon deadpanned and Alix rolled her eyes. 

“Well if I was allowed outside, I wouldn’t have to have a mailman, now would I?”

“Not this again,” the intelligence officer groaned, holding up his hands in an exaggerated display of helplessness.

"I'm sorry I said anything!" 

But it was too late; the floodgates had opened and Alix was already launching into her spiel. 

“Nix, it’s been weeks,” she griped, slamming a free hand onto the moth-eaten sofa cushion beside her for emphasis. 

“I can’t take much more of this shit! I’m tired of twiddling my fucking thumbs while there’s a war going on out there!” 

“You’re preaching to the choir," her case officer said dryly, picking at a twig stuck to his fatigues. 

"As soon as your new cover's been backstopped, you'll be the second to know, I swear. So give it a rest, okay?" 

A beat of silence ensued and Alix wished fervently that she'd been allowed a radio so she could listen to music. 

But alas, a radio signal was too dangerous.

There was no swing jazz on Earth that was worth being found by the Gestapo.

"Have you heard anything about my next assignment?" she probed curiously and the flicker of recognition in his eyes told her he had. 

"That's 'Need To Know'," he replied evasively, casting a glance onto the worn-in floorboards. "And you don't, not yet." 

Alix huffed impatiently and strained to reach the knife set by her shoulder on the side-table.

Flexing her fingers around the grip, she gave it a leisurely throw just behind Nixon's shoulder at the faded red target on the wall with a THWACK causing him to duck in alarm.

"God, Runt, could you not do that please?" her handler snapped as Alix sent another sailing over his shoulder, the blade whizzing through the air and sinking into the target with another THWACK! 

"It's unsettling."

"Is it?" Alix cocked an eyebrow with a smirk, flinging her last knife at the target, the sharp metal sinking into the center with one final, satisfying THWACK! 

"My apologies." 

"You don't sound very sorry," Captain Nixon grumbled. "But you're going to be in a minute."

Digging into the canvas rucksack he'd placed on the floor earlier, the officer retrieved a hefty stack of paperwork and handed them over the coffee table to her.

"More notes, to be typed into complete reports by 8:00 tomorrow morning. And that's an order." 

"Enjoy it while it lasts, Nix," Alix commented sardonically over her shoulder, as she rose from the sofa and crossed to the faded black typewriter resting on the kitchen table.

"They can't keep me cooped up here forever. Soon, you'll have to type up your own fucking notes when I'm in the field again." 

"Well you're not there yet, hotshot," Nixon snorted derisively, the corners of his lips quirking up into a grudging smirk. 

"So get to work.

[angsty-prompt-hole]

Character Introduction: The Main Gang

WIP: A Hero’s Call

The main gang is the second group of protagonists, all of whom are slowly introduced at different points in later parts of the Dimension Jumpers saga. The group consists of Lucent “Mallory Perrault” Ran’kai, Kralik Windwalker, Sierra Reaves, Rodney Miller, Jackson Merrick, Isa Lee, and Scissura. Drawn together by the common threat of Chaos and his cult, they have to both navigate their own personal problems and attempt to reconstruct the history of the people who became dimension jumpers before them, all while trying to keep Chaos from killing them all.

Lucent Ran’kai/Mallory Perrault: A warrior refugee from a war-torn planet of ice and snow, who has been a war prisoner for the better part of two years. It’s hard for her to adjust outside of the world she had known since she was fourteen, and her traumatic past has left her vulnerable to all sorts of manipulations. She is prone to misunderstanding people and meeting all situations with violence, and Kira has her work cut out for her when Lucent randomly appears in her living room one day.

Kralik Windwalker: An exiled troublemaker hopping between worlds, always looking to cause mischief. His mischief-making gets him in hot water when he meets the Dresden Crew, however, but soon enough he discovers that maybe his days of running are over. Will it last, though, when he can’t even bear to face the darkness within himself?

Sierra Reaves: The daughter of interdimensional bounty hunters, she inherited her Mark from her mother, and with it the powers of the dimension jumpers. She and her boyfriend Rodney come from a world of powerful demonic forces, and after a battle with Satan himself, she ends up half-demon and with acidic blood. A taker of no shit, she sometimes can’t fathom what forces drove her and Rodney towards the rest of the Main Gang.

Rodney Miller: The middle child in a family of demon hunters, and the only survivor of a demonic attack that took the rest of his family, Rodney is serious and incredibly talented, despite what his habits may indicate. After an adventure to Hell with his girlfriend Sierra to avenge the death of his family, Rodney thought he could finally get some peace. At least, until Kira Shade showed up on their doorstep.

Jackson Merrick: Jackson was taken in by an interdimensional biker gang called the Bloodhunters after he ran away from his abusive home. There, he ended up falling in love with a man named Edrisa and gaining his dimension jumper’s Mark. After a shootout left Edrisa dead, Jackson’s grief activated a deeply hidden power: the power to bring the dead back to life. Fearing what the gang would use his powers for, he ran again until he came across Isa Lee in another world. Of everyone, he is the most resistant to being drawn into whatever fate has planned for the Main Gang, but only because it endangers him and Isa.

Isa Lee: The daughter of a human man and a Queen of one of the faerie courts, Isa’s life had been one of lies and trickery, until the day she got her Mark and gained the powers of a dimension jumper. She used this power to hide herself away in the forest, where the fae couldn’t find her and where she could live as she pleased, away from the politics of her mother’s court. After running into Jackson in the woods, she saw they had a common bond, and she invited him to live with her. A healer at heart, she could never live with herself if she let any of the others get hurt.

Scissura: A shapeshifter from a jungle planet who harbors a deep vitriolic hatred of the dimension jumpers due to the actions of one of their predecessors, which ended in her having to share her body with the entity known as Red. She heads a group known as the Guardians, who take missions in other worlds as bodyguards and protectors of the innocent. She views her powers as a curse and is livid when Kira accidentally ends up at her doorstep. Unfortunately for her, her group’s fate rests on being able to stop Chaos and his armies from destroying everything.

[onceagainto]

Cuentos de Antaño, de Ch. Perrault.

“Una hoja de otoño, para un regalo oto_ ñal. Cuando camines éste, como otros otoños pisando hojas secas, cuída_ te de no equivocar tus pasos y no resbalar. El suelo está hú_ medo en esta época del año ... te lo dice alguien que por no mirar el suelo resbaló. Mientras halla hojas secas y el camino esté mojado, no dejes de mirar el camino. ¡Feliz día! y feliz otoño. Marisa

30-IX-91″

Enviado por m.

[stormbornluna]

WE ARE THE WINX

@stxrkova @reginalapis @atimefordragons

TA DA~~~ tried my hand at some graphics, colouring them was fucking hard, and I don’t wanna talk about Celene’s hair (why do you have to pick silver hair every time C???). I tried to make Astrid’s hair blonder, but the psd kept making it pinker //sighhhhh/// photoshop is hard. TTwTT 

[dixvinsblog]

Contes et légendes : Les vœux ridicules de Ch. Perrault

Contes et légendes : Les vœux ridicules de Ch. Perrault

Si vous étiez moins raisonnable.Je me garderais bien de venir vous conterLa folle et peu galante fableQue je m’en vais vous débiter.Une aune de boudin en fournit la matière.” Une aune de boudin, ma chère !Quelle pitié ! c’est une horreur! ”,.S’écriait une précieuse,Qui, toujours tendre et sérieuse,Ne veut ouïr parler que d’affaires de cœur.Mais vous qui mieux qu’âme qui viveSavez charmer en…

[arco-rc]

CLÁSICOS [ Classical Studies‎  |  Hispanic Studies‎ | Others ]

Entendemos por clásico lo que debe tomarse como modelo debido a su calidad superior o perfección (remite a la cultura grecolatina). Clásico, dentro del ámbito más específico de la Estética y la Historia del Arte, denomina una "categoría histórico-estilística", frecuentemente asociada en el par clásico / barroco, también clásico / romántico, que sin embargo quedaría subsumido en el anterior.

1.«El Quijote». Miguel de Cervantes. La primera novela moderna, maestra de narradores. Junto a «Las Novelas ejemplares». 2 y 3. «La Ilíada». Homero. El imaginario humano al completo está tejido en esta obra, que escenifica el combate que todos nosotros sabemos que es la vida entera. Junto a «La Odisea». El poema épico por antonomasia, el origen de toda la literatura posterior, la divina pirámide de la literatura.

4. «La Divina Comedia». Dante Alighieri. Este genial poema comenzó a escribirse hacia 1306 y relata el viaje de su autor por el Infierno, el Paraíso y el Purgatorio. 5. «Hamlet». William Shakespeare. Una de las piezas más representadas. La ira, el amor, la venganza... se concitan en la desdichada historia del príncipe de Dinamarca. 6. «Frankenstein o el moderno Prometeo». Mary W. Shelley. Publicado el 11 de marzo de 1818 y enmarcado en la tradición de la novela gótica, el texto habla de temas tales como la ética, la moral científica, la creación y destrucción de vida y el atrevimiento de la humanidad en su relación con Dios. De ahí, el subtítulo de la obra: el protagonista intenta rivalizar en poder con Dios, como una suerte de Prometeo moderno que arrebata el fuego sagrado de la vida a la divinidad. Pertenece al género de ciencia ficción. 7. «En busca del tiempo perdido». Marcel Proust. Siete novelas forman esta obra imprescindible del siglo XX donde el escritor francés bucea en su memoria. 8. «La Eneida». Virgilio. Compuesta en el siglo I a. C., sobrepasa su condición de encargo del emperador Augusto para alzarse como una magistral epopeya. 9. «Ensayos».Michel de Montaigne. Recluido en la torre de su castillo, el autor renacentista se preguntó: «¿Qué sé yo?». La respuesta: crear un género clave de la Modernidad. 10. «Madame Bovary». Gustave Flaubert. Novela cumbre del realismo decimonónico, aúna un soberbio retrato psicológico con un perfecto fresco social. 11. «Cumbres borrascosas». Emily Brontë. 12. «Edipo Rey». Sófocles. 13. «Tragedias» y «Comedias». William Shakespeare. 14. «Las mil y una noches». Anónimo. 15. «Los orígenes del totalitarismo» Hannah Arendt. 16. «Casa sin amo». Heinrich Böll. 17. «De rerum natura». Lucrecio. 18. «La vida es sueño». Calderón de la Barca. 19. «Epopeya de Gilgamesh». Anónimo. 20. «Ulises». James Joyce. 21. «Antígona». Sófocles. 22. «Fedón». Platón. 23. «La Regenta». Leopoldo Alas «Clarín». 24. «Cien años de soledad». Gabriel García Márquez. 25. «Cancionero». Petrarca. 26. «Poemas». Emily Dickinson. 27. «Léxico familiar». Natalia Ginzburg. 28. «Ana Karenina». León Tolstói. 29. «Lazarillo de Tormes». Anónimo. 30. «Guerra y paz». León Tolstói. 31. «La vida del Buscón». Francisco de Quevedo. 32. «El mar, el mar». Iris Murdoch. 33. «Ficciones». Jorge Luis Borges. 34. «La montaña mágica». Thomas Mann. 35. «Poesía». Antonio Machado. 36. «Fedro». Platón. 37. «Trilogía Los mercaderes». Ana M.ª Matute. 38. «El hombre sin atributos». Robert Musil. 39. «Carta al padre», «El proceso» y «La metamorfosis». Franz Kafka. 40. «Las metamorfosis». Ovidio. 41. «Pedro Páramo». Juan Rulfo. 42. «Decamerón». Boccaccio. 43. «La Celestina». Fernando de Rojas. 44. «La tempestad». William Shakespeare. 45. «El laberinto mágico». Max Aub. 46. «Crimen y castigo». Fiódor Dostoyevski. 47. «Rojo y negro». Henri Beyle Stendhal. 48. «Emma». Jane Austen. 49. «Azul». Rubén Darío. 50. «Vida y opiniones del caballero Tristram Shandy». Laurence Sterne. 51. «Soledades». Luis de Góngora. 52. «Una habitación propia». Virginia Woolf. 53. «El amor en los tiempos del cólera». Gabriel García Márquez. 54. «Hojas de Hierba». Walt Whitman. 55. «Baladas líricas». William Wordsworth. (Junto con la obra de escritores como Coleridge y Keats). 56. «El corazón de las tinieblas». Joseph Conrad. 57. «El cantar de los cantares». Anónimo. 58. «Fausto». J. W. Goethe. 59. «Trece teorías de la naturaleza humana». Leslie Stevenson. 60. «Los papeles póstumos del Club Pickwick». Charles Dickens. 61. «Casa de muñecas». Henrik Johan Ibsen. 62. «Nada». Carmen Laforet. 63. «Traidor, inconfeso y mártir». José Zorrilla. 64. «Metafísica». Aristóteles. 65. «Fin y principio». Wislawa Szymborska. 66. «Cordero blanco, halcón gris». Rebecca West. 67. «Fuenteovejuna». Lope de Vega. 68. «Discurso de Onofre». Carlos Castilla del Pino. 69. «La señora Dalloway». Virginia Woolf. 70. «Fábulas». Esopo.

Mary W. Shelley, con «Frankenstein», ocupa uno de los puestos relevantes entre las escritoras, seguida de las hermanas Brontë, Emily Dickinson, Natalia Ginzburg, Iris Murdoch, Ana M.ª Matute y Carmen Laforet.

71. «Una temporada en el infierno». Arthur Rimbaud. 72. «Moby Dick». Herman Melville. 73. «Cuentos completos». Antón Chéjov. 74. «Coplas por la muerte de su padre». Jorge Manrique. 75. «Cuentos». Jacob y Wilhelm Grimm (y «Cuentos» Hans. Ch. andersen). A los que habría que sumar la lectura de «Romper el hechizo. Una visión política de los cuentos folclóricos y maravillosos», junto a «El irresistible cuento de hadas», ambos de Jack Zipes. 76. «Cuentos judíos». Isaac B. Singer. 77. «La siesta de M. Andesmas». Marguerite Duras. 78. «Nocturnos». E.T.A. Hoffmann. 79. «El peregrino ruso». Anónimo. 80. «El Abencerraje y la hermosa Jarifa». Anónimo. 81. «Santuario» y «¡Absalón, Absalón!». William Faulkner. 82. «MIAU». Benito Pérez Galdós. 83. «Cuentos de antaño». Charles Perrault. 84. «Hermosos y malditos». F. Scott Fitzgerald. 85. «La Cartuja de Parma». Henry Beyle Stendhal.

La mitología clásica, la hebrea, la nórdica (y hasta la sumeria, con «Gilgamesh») están presentes en la lista.

86. «Cuentos» (y «Poesía»). Edgar Allan Poe. 87. «Poesía» (y «Niebla»). Miguel de Unamuno 88. «Noches áticas». Aulo Gelio. 89. «El año de la muerte de Ricardo Reis». José Saramago. 90. «La Biblia». Varios autores. 91. «La Teogonía». Hesiodo. 92. «Cartas a Lucilio». Séneca. 93. «Medea». Eurípides. 94. «Elizabeth Costello». J. M. Coetzee. 95. «El idiota». Fiódor Dostoyevski. 96. «La fragilidad del bien: fortuna y ética en la tragedia y la filosofía griega». Martha C. Nussbaum. 97. «Orgullo y prejuicio». Jane Austen. 98. «Poesía». Cátulo. 99. «Cantar de los nibelungos». Anónimo. 100. «Esperando a Godot». Samuel Beckett.

[mitch--douglas]

MERRY MITCHMAS || dougie’s holiday gifts

@alexander-donovan

Alex’s gift is, of course, very practical: a pair of black tactical gloves, with grippy palms.

I’ve already given you the timeless gift of training me in the near future -- no returns, refunds, or exchanges, by the way -- but I thought you might find use for these as well. -- Mitch

@littlealliep

Allie receives a mug with a cartoon unicorn emblazoned on the side, along with the words “I’m fucking magical.”

Pardon the unicorn’s french, but I saw this and immediately thought of you. Can’t imagine why. Merry Christmas, Allie-gator. -- Dougie

@annie-perrault

Annie will find an ornate carved wooden box sitting on her pillow, roughly 5 x 5 x 3 in. in dimension. There are a handful of Echo chip copies inside, with various musician and album names penned on meticulously. One chip is a mix Mitch made for her himself, unmarked but with an assortment of his favorite songs.

A few modest additions and a container for your collection. Try not to make fun of me too terribly for my musical tastes. Much love -- Mitch

@cambieandrews

A carefully rolled print of Jules Chéret’s Loïe Fuller at the Folies-Bergère can be found propped in Cambie’s chair in her office, tied with a length of silver ribbon.

I know I could’ve given this to you at the Delma party, but I got impatient. There isn’t enough space on this small card for me to be able to express just how lucky I feel to have you in my life and to call you a friend. I’ll have to stick to briefer sentiment, but I think it says it all: I’d be lost without you. Love -- Mitch

@dot-speckter

Dot receives a skein of soft wool, dyed a striking royal blue.

Thought this would be a good color on you -- I look forward to seeing what you do with it. It’s been a good year, Dottie, and I’m proud of you. Much love -- your soppy trainer.

@rhyslikespopcorn

Rhys will find a boxed wooden train set on his desk in the corner of the daycare room, and while some pieces seem to be missing, what’s there is in remarkably good shape.

I’m realizing this gift is maybe more for your kids -- I owe you! -- but hopefully you get some enjoyment out of it, too. -- Mitch

@rozayakovlev

He’s managed to procure Roza a Lisa Frank notebook with eye-bleedingly rendered dolphins.

It’s a little beat up, but I didn’t think that’d stop you from getting some use out of it. Yours in comically overtheatrical dueling -- Mitch

Calysets

Every dorm room in Calyset will get a modest gift basket’s worth of assorted candy and silly party favors. None of them have a note as to who it’s from, but seeing as it’s been a habit of Mitch’s over the past few years, it’s likely not difficult to guess.

[foxofthedesert]

RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch. 13

Chapter 13 – The Burning Room (Ao3 Link)

"I won't give up until I'm dead or you're awake. I swear it on my love for you..."

Red awakens with a hoarse gasp.

As awareness returns, she dimly notices that she is completely engulfed in flames so high that they lick at the charred ceiling above. Everything is burning, including her lower extremities, yet she remains miraculously unharmed. No blisters form upon her pristine skin, her eyes remain free of debris, and her lungs function perfectly in spite of the searing smoke flooding them with each breath. It's so odd and horrifying and fascinating that she stares blankly at the flickering orange and yellow lights painting the ceiling until sensation abruptly returns.

A scream tears loose from her throat as she tries to move, desperate for liberation from the searing torment engulfing the lower half of her body. Only her limbs are unresponsive as if she's been paralyzed from the neck down. A prisoner in her own body, she is trapped in a terrifying hell she can't even begin to describe. Even the pain of being mauled by two packs of rabid wolves cannot compare to the unrelenting agony of being burned alive.

Is this how Regina's victims felt? The disturbing thought only sends her spiraling further into the grips of a panic that has seized her muscles and clogged her pores and dulled her ability to soundly reason.

Meanwhile the roaring inferno drowns out nearly all sound save the words she'd heard that jolted her from slumber. They echo around the chamber until the garbled voice starts to become more and more distinct. Recognition dawns, and with it renewed a surge of hysteria.

"Regina! Regina!"

A burst of white hot flames lick up her legs as she shouts for her wife who is begging her to hold on, to not give up, to keep fighting. No matter how hard she tries, Red can't quite remember what she's supposed to be fighting against. All she can feel is a blistering torment she imagines might resemble how it would feel to be tossed headlong into a swelling volcano about to empty its molten rage upon some poor, unsuspecting village. It is so intense that her heart is hammering against her ribs with a force that could crush a stone and she can hear the hot blood rushing through her veins.

Screaming in spite of the fiery ash saturating her throat and lungs, she makes a second, more concerted effort to move. Still nothing happens. Again and again she struggles to force her limbs to obey until she's openly weeping and begging for their compliance. They stubbornly refuse every increasingly desperate command. Hopelessness settles into her chest, taking up residence alongside the unending pain consuming her from the waist down.

She is nearly on the verge of passing out when she feels the ghost of a kiss against her lips, so achingly familiar, so tender and loving, that it cannot be mistaken. Regina. And just like that her limbs are loosed from whatever was holding them captive. At last free to move, she wastes no time scrambling away from the ring of fire hemming in her in. Miraculously, once she's made it to safety, the flames licking up her legs evaporate into harmless puffs of cloudy white mist. The pain recedes and she can breathe again without a raging inferno invading her lungs.

Slowly, her senses realign and with their return comes clarity. They had been so askew from the bone piercing agony that she's not quite sure how she managed to scurry the ten feet she covered before collapsing breathless onto her back. Relief so palpable she can almost taste it washes over her as the scorching agony coating her legs subsides to a sharp discomfort and then eventually dulls into a muted ache. Her chest heaves to draw in air, huge gulping mouthfuls that have her soon coughing roughly as her body tries to expel the red hot debris congesting her airway. Before long, she's curled up on her side hacking uncontrollably.

Once the fit ends and some measure of awareness returns, she shuffles onto her left hip into a half-seated, half-reclined position. Left arm propping her torso up, she surveys her surroundings. The ring of fire circling her is hedged in by an even larger flaming wall that divides what seems to be a spacious room. Vaulted cathedral ceilings cap the space, of artistry that she imagines would be unparalleled were it not obscured by roiling clouds of smoke and thick layers of soot. Currently, she's occupying the center of one side with around another ten feet of space all around between her and the three walls she has access to. Well, would have access to if there wasn't an impassable inferno barricading her from reaching them. Strange as it is, she finds herself longing to have something to lean against now that she knows she can't have it.

Regina also remains frustratingly out of reach. As the pain subsided, so too did her wife's voice, which has faded to the point Red can no longer make out what is being said. It's as if the more conscious she is in this place, the further away Regina gets. Panic gnaws at her throat as several questions flood her brain all at once.

Where is this place? What, exactly, is this place? For that matter, when is this place? And most importantly, how the hell did I get here?

No answers are kind enough to present themselves, not that Red expected anything different. She's always had to do things the hard way, and now she's landed herself in a pickle yet again. Sort of like that time some years back she'd taken on that humongous, unruly grizzly that was getting a little too presumptuous around the local village.

The residents call the place Longmeer after its gruff founder. It's a cozy little place she likes to frequent on her occasional roving excursions during Wolf's Time. It reminds her of her youth spent in Perrault and helps to keep her grounded in her roots. Most of the townsfolk know her by name now, and for more than how she successfully lobbied Regina for some infrastructure upgrades to be made in her hometown. Before relocating further west, Granny was the last of countless generations stretching at least five hundred years to be born there. Naturally, the granddaughter she'd raised all by herself who became their new Queen is somewhat of a celebrity.

Red likes the attention, honestly, if only because she knows these people, especially the most poor among them, are working an angle she can actually appreciate. The nobles back at court all want to curry favor with her to get on Regina's good side, but the residents of Longmeer fawn over her because they see her as a symbol of hope. She is living breathing representation that upward mobility in a society designed to maintain the status quo is actually possible. In her they see a chance, however faint, that they won't have to remain confined to their assigned social strata or mired in poverty for the rest of their lives.

Since marrying Regina, Red has tried her best to fight for the plight of her folk at every opportunity. She likes to think she's made a difference, however marginal, though at first she was convinced she was beating her head against an unforgiving wall. Regina was sympathetic to her cause although by and large the nobles were not. Resources, Regina explained as patiently and kindly as she could, are finite and often scarce, which is why those who keep the wheels of industry and power greased get the lion's share. That is the harsh reality of how kingdoms operate to stay afloat in a world where unremitting chaos is always one natural disaster or famine or disease or war away. The peasantry props up the merchant class which fuels the nobility that supports the monarchy. The monarchy, in turn, exists for the expressed purpose to secure the stability of a realm both internally and externally against forces that would seek to tear it apart. That truth was a bitter pill for Red to swallow that went down with a large heap of bile. She still struggles at times reconciling herself to the fact that her greater duty as a monarch is often directly at odds with or has to come at the expense of the hard working, salt of the earth peoples from whence she emerged.

The villagers in Longmeer do not seem to begrudge her this frustrating conflict of interest. They often take time out of their busy days when she visits just to tell her that her efforts are not as futile as they seem. She is actually doing some good for them. In the five years since she was crowned, taxes have been cut by a third and the percentage of their products allocated to the crown has been slashed in half. Municipal services have been improved across the board and many of the rough and tumble roads in the region – if they could be called that, most of them are hardly more than poorly carved footpaths – have been significantly upgraded.

Progress is being made. It's just not enough for her. Were it possible, she would give those people the riches of the whole world. To that end, she occasionally laments to them over the slogging forward momentum, and that she wishes she could do so much more than her annoyingly persistent lobbying that achieves relatively small gains. There are, of course, those malcontents who see her as a derelict disappointment who is squandering a golden opportunity to bust up the traditions that keep peasants poor and nobles rich. But most never hold those perceived failures against her. On the contrary, they seem truly grateful that even a fraction of their burdens have been alleviated. That gratitude, more than anything, is why Red keeps going back. She needs a reminder every now and again that there are people out there for whom a little means a lot.

The nobles at the palace are in every way the opposite. They engorge themselves on every available consumable resource from clothing to precious metals to food while everyone else lives hand to mouth. It sickens her to the point she attends functions out of spite for the sole purpose of teaching them a lesson she is well aware won't take. When the Queen only partakes of measly portions, many of the nobles will follow suit merely to save face, not wanting to show up their monarch in front of their peers. So that's what she does. And as satisfying as it is to watch the overly privileged, overly rotund pricks nibble on broccoli and asparagus, it's difficult to deny herself when she eats like a horse on a good day. At least in Longmeer she doesn't have to feel bad about her healthy appetite since she pays for her enormous meals with gold from her own pocket. And at least Regina doesn't try to shame or chastise her over such infantile behavior.

To her credit, over the course of their marriage Regina has shown increasing receptiveness to the plight of the commoners.

"It's the curse of being married to one," she'll say whenever someone points it out, often Red herself. "And I'm happy to bear it."

Anyway, to get back on topic, Red was a right mess after driving that ravenous grizzly away from Longmeer. Her snout was dripping blood from a well-placed swipe of a fat paw sporting claws the size of human fingers, her hind leg was missing a hunk of meat at the hip, and her neck sported several puncture wounds the size of massive canines. Honestly, if her wolf form hadn't been growing since she fell in love with Regina, she probably would've been killed in the encounter. As it was, she passed out before she could reach the safety of the village, where she could then return to two legs for emergency triage. The villagers also knew what she was and would have been more than glad to nurse her back to an ambulatory state so she could get back home before Regina lost her shit.

Unfortunately, she didn't make it that far. When she woke up, hurting all over and groggy like she'd downed an entire keg of ale, she was still in the woods and had been missing for an entire day. Thankfully, her crazy fast healing kept her from exsanguinating on the cold forest floor dozens of miles away from home. As it was, she limped into town and hitched a ride with a friend she'd made, a rascal with a heart of gold named Flynn Rider.

Gods, Regina was unhappy about that incident. For so, so long. She ranted and raved until that bulging vein in her forehead looked like it was about to burst. Since this wasn't the first time something like this happened, she sequestered Red to the castle for three interminable weeks. The only reason Red didn't fight the dictate was because she felt she'd earned the extreme punishment. Regina is a strong woman, the strongest Red has ever known, but she couldn't hide how terrified she'd been. For three days after Red limped home, she refused herself the release of sleep in favor of making sure Red kept breathing through the night. And for at least a week more she refused to let Red out of her sight longer than five minutes.

But this current predicament? This is far, far worse. Not only does Red have no earthly idea where she is, but she knows instinctively that she is trapped someplace that is unnatural and from which she likely will never be rescued by conventional means. Magic has her clamped within it's greedy iron vice, and it will never let her go of its own volition. She can feel the corrosive power in her bones and smell the tempestuous energies in the sulfuric air.

Sulfuric air. Something about that particular phrase has the back of her mind tingling with familiarity, as if she's encountered the scent before. And then it hits her. The witch. The garrison's destruction. Robin's death. Regina's palpable anxiety over the month that followed. Her own fear over the threats that had been so spectacularly leveled against her wife. Who will protect Regina without her there?

Suddenly the gravity of the situation slams into her like a runaway carriage. She has to get out of here. Right now! She has to! It's a matter of life and death. Not for her but for Regina, and that makes the situation all the more dire and her panic all the more acute.

Heedless of the danger, Red springs toward the circle of flame, only to reel back when it flares upward twice as hot as before. So hot that she can feel her eyebrows singe as she approaches. Her skin starts burning before she can get close enough to touch it.

With a cry of pain, she flails back, falling hard on her ass. She lays there, motionless, unable to move, as if all of her energy has suddenly been drained out of her in one fell swoop. She laughs bitterly as a lonely tear carves a winding path down her soot-matted cheek. A crazy woman is trying to kill her wife, slaughter their people and destroy their kingdom, and she's stuck here in hell with no discernible avenue to freedom. Regina is going to die and there's nothing she can do about it. The realization sucks what little strength remains in her right out.

Fear begins crawling up the length of her body in the absence of her vitality. It slowly clambers up an inch at a time until settling menacingly over her chest. She can almost see it, as if the magic of this place gives her vision into the nether where invisible monsters reside. Monsters with dripping fangs and beady eyes and talons that can pierce flesh without leaving a mark. Dread, it's faithful companion, follows behind, equally as gruesome, and Hopelessness the most terrible manifestation of them all joins the fray not long after. Beasts of no name they are that exist solely to torment their victims, and Red is their latest quarry.

Helpless to fight again their vicious, unremitting assault, she surrenders to despair. She cries and cries and cries, drawing little consolation that there is no one to hear the miserable sounds that wrench free from her lips with every breath. Her sole companion is the seemingly infinite inferno imprisoning her. The harsh licking of the flames provide a sinister accent to her suffering, as if they are feeding upon the anguish pouring out of her in great heaving torrential waves.

How long she remains mired in a dejection that clings to her like a second skin, she can't begin to fathom. Time in this place has no meaning that she can ascertain. There are no windows through which to judge the position of the sun, nor is there a nifty mechanical time piece handy like Geppetto makes for her to consult. The magic here has all of her senses out of whack, so that even her normally reliable internal clock has been rendered useless.

What she does know is that her throat, already ravaged by the smoke she's inhaled, is a track of burning raw flesh. Her eyes are so dry that it hurts to blink. Lips parched and cracked are lanced by jolts of pain with every minute movement. The incessant crackling of the flame wall irritates her sensitive ears and exacerbates the dull, pervasive ache that has taken up residence inside her head. Her hair is greasy and unkempt and disgusting, and she feels in general as if she hasn't bathed in months.

And then for the first time she recognizes a knot curling deep in her stomach, which is craving water and food that does not exist here, nor does she imagine there to be any available outside this hellish place. Unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger only deepens her misery. With no relief in sight, she dreads the coming hours. At least she might not be crying again any time in the near future �� a macabre fringe benefit to her state of dehydration if there ever was one.

Idly, she wonders if there is any outside of which to speak. One thing is certain, with magic at play, anything is possible. It's just as likely that the chamber is located in the middle of one of the lush rainforests she's read about in Regina's books as it is that it's suspended in some sort of phantom dimension between the physical and spiritual. The latter possibility is one she could never have imagined to be real had she not personally witnessed Regina hide things in such an invisible pocket. Only small items could be stored with that particular spell, as the energy requirements to form more than a tiny breach into the plane between life and death are more than any single magician can muster. If that is where this place is, whoever constructed it had to have been either powerful beyond imagining or part of a much larger group of magic users. A coven, or two or three, of witches perhaps. Whatever the case, she isn't keen on meeting the person or persons responsible. Werewolf or not, she'd be mincemeat in the face of such a formidable foe.

Exhausted from her fit of self-indulgent sorrow, Red curls up into a fetal position on the floor, squeezes her eyes shut, and begs for unconsciousness to claim her. Sadly, it refuses to oblige. Yet another torturous aspect to her confinement, it seems, is an inability to sleep. Will she be forced to stay awake forever here with no reprieve from the suffering? If so, her initial assessment of her unenviable predicament seems woefully optimistic. Still, stubborn as she is, she continues to try, if for no other reason than she has nothing better to do. Passing the time within the familiar confines of her own mind seems a viable alternative at the moment to staring blankly into the dancing flames.

Hours pass. Maybe. Maybe it's minutes. She cannot be certain here. All she knows is that she has run through a dozen scenarios involving Regina unsuccessfully confronting the warped witch who has it in for her, each of them more grotesquely detailed than the last. If she does ever make it out of here, will Regina still be alive to greet her?

Abject terror grips her heart. Unbeknownst to her, that paralyzing fear for Regina's safety will join the unending conflagration that surrounds her as a second, ever-faithful companion. In a place from which there is no escape, it seems to her a fate worse than death.

[marco-roman]

Ch. Perrault: "Había una vez un rey tan grande, tan querido por sus súbditos [...], que bien podría decirse que era el más feliz de los monarcas..." (1983: 83).

[foxofthedesert]

RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch 8

Chapter 8 – A Bitter Draught

An uneventful month meanders by after the destruction of the garrison at the border. In the interim, Regina has spent her nights much the same way. Tonight no exception is made to the routine that has played an integral role in maintaining an even keel through the undulating seas portentous of a tempest about to blow in from the southeast.

The entire morning was spent embroiled in mostly monotonous meetings, one after another spanning a broad assortment of topics ranging from lumber industrialists bitching about deforestation protocols to a presentation chock full of charts, graphs, and illustrations given by an appallingly boring magistrate from the southerly regions regarding the 'dire threat' posed to her local waterways by wildlife run amok. Apparently overzealous beavers and moles alongside unusual upsurges in foxes, deer, and other agricultural and animal husbandry endangering critters pose as severe a threat as a witch hellbent on the kingdom's destruction – an elucidation for which Regina was ever-so-thankful. The highlight of the morning, and the entire day really, was a girl's chorus from the vicinity of Perrault who visited just before midday to finalize booking them for a gala to be thrown in Red's honor. Regina was so besotted with their cherubic enthusiasm for celebrating the upcoming birthday of the Queen they all adored that she allowed them to lunch with her.

Unfortunately, the proceeding afternoon and evening hours sapped all of the positive energy of that delightful hour. Drafting budget proposals for the council to review was not her idea of fun, nor was reviewing the repairs to the western wall nearing completion after a series of delays. All the same, those things had to be done lest the nobles had cause to question her commitment to the kingdom's financial health and the citadel's security. So after seeing the girl's chorus off, she sequestered in her office, hunkered down and scribbled figures until the wrist and fingers of her right hand ached. Several hours later, she emerged only to spend the next two meticulously inspecting stonework and newly dug rainwater management culverts in the midst of an autumn chill rolling through the area.

By the time Regina trudges up the corridor to her bedchambers, she is weary to the marrow of her bones. Pausing at the door, she fondly recalls how Red had returned from a similar visit to the western wall the month before. Coated in sweat and mud, Red had stank something awful but was nonetheless the picture of simple satisfaction at having broken Queenly protocol to help the workers haul rocks, mix mortar, dig trenches, and pour concrete to fill said ditches so that the new section of the wall had stable foundations. Regina's nose turns up at the memory of the smell wafting from her filthy wife, but then she melts at Red's happy smile at having exhausted herself in hard, honest work that paid objective dividends she has personally witnessed. The wall is now twice as strong as it was before repairs were undertaken. Several times during her review, she was approached by workers and offered thanks for Red's unnecessary but greatly appreciated aid.

I'm just glad it was her that pitched in with the grunt work and not me, Regina thinks, smirking down at her pristine clothing. If Red wants to break her back getting down in the mud with what she insists will always be her sort of folk, she can have at it. As for me, I'll be staying clean and dry. Like mother said, 'That is what servants are for, Regina, and we pay them well enough for their labor. Your job is to ensure that labor is not done in vain.' She wasn't right about a lot, but that's one point I'll agree with her on.

There is a part of Regina that cringes at how snobbish that sounds. Fortunately for her, it is not big enough to make any notable impact upon her conscience. The last time she let the stark disparity between the haves and have-nots bother her, she was a young and criminally naive fool who believed in concepts that will never harmonize with reality – such as the idiotic assumptions that love will always triumph over hate and good over evil. Daniel's death was a slap to the face curing her of those delusions, one that she has yet to recover from and probably never will when five years of marriage to a hopeless romantic has only made a tiny dent in her condescending streak. Besides, if Red can put up with her occasionally sneering down her nose at the common man, why should she be bothered to change any more than she already has? And it isn't as if she is the same callous tyrant who constantly abused the impoverished lower classes during the Dark Days.

Since she fell in love with Red and that hopeless idealism her mother tried to destroy flickered back to life into a quaint but undeniably extant ember, the plight of the rank and file has conclusively improved. There is still destitution, yes, as there always will be in a world as cruel as theirs. But there has been steady upward progress. Salaries of workers all over the citadel, and indeed all over the country, have reached record highs under her audacious agenda to redistribute some of the gross wealth being hoarded by the nobility. The program has not boosted her popularity among the effected noble houses, although even the hardest hit among those most wealthy individuals cannot argue with the wholesale economic benefits produced by a proletariat that is increasingly awash with disposable income. Merchants are especially reaping the harvest of this marked upturn in consumerism, and their nearly universal support of her measures has offset any intransigent defiance from the excessively privileged aristocracy.

So no, Regina does not feel bad for still being a bit of an arrogant, pompous, egotistical asshole. And why should she when Red admittedly finds that side of her...oddly arousing? The answer to that question is self-evident.

As Regina loiters outside in the hallway, the manifesting temptation to provoke Red's attraction to her nasty side is quite potent. Yet as enjoyable as the lengthy, highly energetic romps with her wife invariably are, she is not really in the mood tonight. Unusual as that is, all she wants is to settle in for a relaxing evening in the company of her favorite person in the universe. Red's consistently reliable warmth and devotion is more than enough to take her mind off of the sinister looking storm clouds always a nagging pace ahead of her stride. Storm clouds that thunder the ominous promises of the witch that murdered Robin in front of the whole court and wiped the garrison at Tamerlon off the map.

Prior to entering the chambers, she preemptively sets a number of wards over their door to match those she applies to her wife's person each morning since that terrible day they watched helplessly as one of their dearest friends died. She cannot be too careful since the witch threatening her life also made that lewd comment about Red. Expressing an intent to kill her is one thing, but implying untoward intentions toward her wife is another altogether. So Regina ignores Red's limited amount of snarky griping about her paranoia as she carefully applies the wards, and does not feel a bit bad about doing so. There is no length to which she is unwilling to go to prevent such an indignity being visited upon the only person she has ever known who deserves to live a free, peaceful, and happy life.

Thus far there have been no assassination attempts, much to Regina's equal relief and consternation, which is why she has not immediately recalled Mulan from her task shoring up the southern border with Drakkenhall. It also comes as no great shock since there have been no further sightings of the witch, though she wishes that were not the case. Were there actionable intelligence, she could be out there doing something about the threat. As is, her frustration only grows with each passing day and it feels more and more like the introductory theatrics at the garrison and with Robin were a pot of water hung over a lit fire. Now whatever malefic brew is being prepared has been left to simmer, and once heated to a rolling boil, the concoction will be poured out, no doubt inciting mayhem within the kingdom. To Regina, the waiting is far less preferable to the attack sure to unfold any day now. At least in open conflict she can retaliate. Right now all she's done is sit on her ass, hands tied behind her back, powerless to strike out at an enemy who has yet to reveal herself save through veiled taunts. Psychological warfare is being conducted, and having it waged upon a person of action such as herself is beyond aggravating.

The only comfort through the interminable period of peace before the storm is her nightly ritual with Red. Relaxing together before bed, sipping the finest vintage, and talking about their days helps to unwind the massive knot of frustration that is her entire body and mind of late. Somehow, Red is able to stay calm whereas Regina's self-control is fraying at the edges, and when they are together that inner serenity soothes her irritated nerves as if seeping in via emotional osmosis. After the destruction of the garrison and Robin's death, she's been constantly itching for a fight that refuses to present itself. Red, though, is eerily composed, able to go about her daily business without thoughts of their close friend's abrupt demise hindering or entirely paralyzing her. Whether she's just being brave for Regina's sake or has simply stowed away her grief until the current crisis is over remains uncertain. Regina is too selfish to ask which is the case. Right now she needs her wife's unshakable devotion, quiet strength, easy-going companionship, tender reassurance, and dependable affection – perhaps more so than she ever has.

"Hey, hon! You look beat," Red greets upon Regina's entry.

"I am," Regina says. "It was a long day."

Approaching from where she was perched at their vanity, reading the latest in a long line of epic romances gifted to her by Belle, Red offers Regina a compassionate smile. "I heard. Lots of meetings, huh? And drafting the yearly budget proposal on top of that. I don't envy you."

Regina hums her acknowledgement. Red had spend her day in the town that sprung up beneath the looming shadow of the castle almost immediately after construction was completed some two centuries ago. Referred to now as Eisentor as much due to the easily defensible layout teeming with choke points around the base of the mountain as to the massive steel-reinforced gates, manned around the clock, that bar entrance to the sinuous access road carving a path up to the precipice upon which the Dark Palace sits. In Eisentor, Red is a regarded as somewhat of a fixture, as she can be found there as oft as permitted by the many duties incumbent upon a sovereign.

Today Red paid a visit to the bakery Regina once spied upon and learned of the shifting opinion of her people regarding her rule. Red does not say anything to indicate where she went, nor does she need to; Regina can see the burn marks on her fingers and forearms from greedily plucking hot pastries out of the oven because she was too impatient to wait for them to be safely removed. Ennis and Hanna, the baker and his wife, permit Red to have her run of the place. The indulgence isn't surprising since Red is their Queen, although Regina does not think that factors into their overly kind allowance. Red has a way with people that disarms them almost instantly then has them reduced to so much putty in her palm within a few more minutes. The proprietors of the bakery, all four of them, did not last even that long before they were not only letting Red have her pick of the fresh-out-of-the-oven goodies but were letting her design – and hand-make! – her own confections. The first time that happened Red came back home with flour on her face and dough on her dress, which was a costly garment to have produced. Fortunately for her, the gingersnaps dipped in white chocolate she had baked were delicious. Had Regina known Red had a talent for baking she might not have resisted bedding her quite so long as she did.

In any case, Red's day was far less strenuous than Regina's, thus the reason for her being extra sympathetic. Which she most certainly ought to be as she probably had Ennis and Hanna's absurdly attractive children pawing all over her while she was flitting about their establishment like a butterfly perfectly at home in an environment that decorum would expect her to avoid appearing too comfortable in.

"As well you shouldn't. How are Rina and Alfred, by the way?" Regina asks, unable to keep the venom out of her question. She is still uncomfortable with how much time those two funny and kind, extremely gorgeous, and very single siblings spend around Red.

"Doing good," Red says, smile shifting with longsuffering affection for Regina's irrepressible jealous streak where those two are concerned. "You don't have to keep saying their names like a dirty word, by the way. They're just friends who know I don't have eyes for anybody but you."

"Maybe so, but I'd still feel better if they both got married already," Regina grouses, mood souring further when Red chuckles at her discomfort. "Yuck it up, buttercup. Mock my concerns. But answer me this, what are two highly attractive and eligible individuals like them doing unmarried in their mid-twenties? Huh?"

"Waiting for the right person just like I did," Red calmly answers, ever the diplomat. "The see what I have and want it for themselves. And you know what? I don't blame them one tiny iota. Everyone should be as lucky as me to have found somebody like you."

Eyes dancing, Red sidles over to Regina and pulls her into an embrace without permission. To Regina's frustration, she allows the uninvited move, even appreciates the motive behind it and the comfort it gives her. Ten years ago, she would have incinerated anyone who dared such boldness. Instead she melts into the embrace and accepts the kiss pressed gently to her lips.

You've turned into a pathetic sap, Regina. But who can blame me? These arms are the safest, most loving place in the world. And those kisses are worth all the gold in the kingdom. I may be a sap but at least I'm a happy one.

A chuckle reverberates through Red's chest as Regina loops her arms behind Red, hands joined at the small of her back. "You've been jealous of Rin and Alfie for years for absolutely no good reason. How many times do I have to remind you that neither of them are interested that way in girls?"

Regina pulls away, brows arched. "I thought the same once. Before Leopold's death, I held to my mother's puritanical view of same sex attraction. And then I..." she trails off before mentioning her introduction to Maleficent, not wanting to put Red in a bad mood as well.

Red does not care very much for Mal. Never has really since their introduction almost seven years ago. She insists it is because of the ancient hatred her kind harbors for the race of dragons. One of few historical contributions Anita made to her daughter's thirst for knowledge about her roots was an oral tradition passed down for untold generations which holds that the dragons created werewolves and then enslaved them as a labor force they then exploited mercilessly to erect their great castles and earthworks, some of which exist to this day. That enmity is apparently ingrained into werewolves, which might explain why Red is on constant alert whenever Mal is around for the week or so she visits two or three times per year while her daughter Lillian is with her father. It might, that is, if were not for the scathing glances Red often cast at Maleficent, whether Mal was paying attention or not, only occurring when Regina was present. Among other trustworthy sources, Iris has informed Regina that Red acts perfectly normal when alone with Mal, and that they even seem to get along rather well without Regina between them as she oft is to the keep the peace. Obviously, Red's loathing for Mal is just her own jealous, possessive streak rearing her ugly head – and it is a her, as there is no question the source is the wolf, who thought of Regina as her mate long before her human half did.

So, while it is true Mal was her first foray into the boundless pleasures of a woman's intimate touch, naturally she avoids speaking such a truth aloud to prevent any consequential effusion of blood. A fight between a dragon and the most enormous werewolf on record would not only result in one of the participants being seriously harmed, but there is no telling what damage those two would cause around the citadel tussling in their bestial forms. And as much as Regina enjoys Red acting irrationally possessive and territorial, she does not want her pleasure to come at the expense of innocent bystanders. Or worse, at Red's. Strong as Red is in her fur, could she really take on a dragon as big as a small castle and escape the encounter unscathed? Regina doesn't think so, and thus keeps her trap shut.

Plus, if Mal hurt Red...? Well, then Regina would have to hurt Mal, and she really does not want to do that. She has precious few friends as is that accept her for who she is and not who they want her to be. Mal is one of those, and the oldest at that. It would be unspeakably tragic if Regina lost their deeply embedded camaraderie because she was no better than Snow White at keeping a secret, even if it was her own and not that of another.

"Well," she amends after clearing her throat, "then I learned differently. Such revelations can sneak up on you, as you well know."

Red nods, nibbling her lip bashfully. Unlike Regina, Red had no prior sexual experience with another woman when they became lovers. Her innocence in the matter was as precious as it was exciting. And not only in that aspect, but Red was a virgin as well, having never been brave enough to breach that momentous threshold with Peter before his horrific demise at Red's unwitting...paws. Those crucial details made their first time a priceless gift twice over, so lovingly and trustfully offered by Red and accepted by Regina with all due reverence. Regina will never forget a single detail of that night. Every delightful moan Red let loose, every delicious shudder of the taut muscles in her flawless body, the keening encouragements as Regina's lips, tongue, or fingers discovered all the right spots she never imagined could make her feel so good, and even the whimpers of pain as her maidenhood was delicately torn – all are recorded for posterity within the vault of Regina's memory. Honestly, if she hadn't already known, simply being allowed to observe Red's first time while caught in the throes of some euphoria induced out-of-body experience would have convinced her she was indeed a bisexual woman with a clear preference for the fairer sex.

Getting to be Red's first in two distinct facets almost made her regret giving away both of hers, one to Daniel – a secret Leopold kept for her, one of his few commendable kindnesses to her during their marriage – and the other to Maleficent. Almost. But then she remembers Maleficent breaking her in, how the older dragon had made sure she felt immense waves of almost unbearable pleasure before being allowed to attempt reciprocation, and then how she was expertly guided in the particulars of bringing a woman to orgasm. Under Mal's diligent tutelage, Regina became an expert in her own right and was thus able to impart her wisdom to Red, who proved as eager a student as she once was.

The point, however, is that their fateful encounter on the mountain pass when Regina was hunting down Snow was the first time Red ever experienced attraction to a woman. The intensity of their connection, as she confessed to Regina during their initial and somewhat awkward dinner, had taken her completely by surprise. The fact of the matter is that when confronted by the right circumstance or person, attractions can spring up previously thought absurd if not downright impossible. And if it happened to Red, it could also happen to the baker's offspring. Even Alfred and Rina's preferences are as stated, they would not be unique in questioning them for Red's sake. More than one noble lady with a husband has let slip that they would be receptive to overtures from Misthaven's junior Queen. Hell, Regina herself has been propositioned by seemingly heterosexual women. As unlikely as such as turnabout is, it is not outside of the realm of possibility.

And so even if Regina knows she is being silly, knows that Red is being sincere when insisting she is a one woman gal, that she couldn't be happier in their marriage, and that there is no one else who could ever stir her heart or her passions the way she can, Regina cannot help but feel these irrational surges of jealousy. They aren't Red's fault by any means. No matter how much she has matured emotionally since meeting Red, she is still an inherently possessive woman who finds the concept of others wanting what is hers utterly infuriating.

And Red is mine, dammit. Mine!

"True," Red says, rubbing reassurance into Regina's back between the shoulder blades, like she can sensing Regina's troublesome thoughts. Which is not unusual. Damn werewolf senses. "And maybe they are attracted to me," Red goes on. "Just a teeny tiny bit. If so, they aren't the only ones, and that's not me being boastful. I've had to deal with roving hands and leering eyes since I first grew breasts and developed a figure that didn't more resemble a twig than a girl. That's partly why I made Gran teach me how to shoot a bow and Peter to swing a sword. But that also means I have a lot of experience ignoring that kind of unwanted or unrequited attention. At least the eyes, that is. Hands get slapped."

"Or cut off," Regina growls, remembering one time when a drunk stumbling through town groped Red's chest. On instinct, Regina drew her sword and relieved the man of the offending appendage. Red was not pleased.

"Let's not go there," Red says, nose wrinkling as if remembering the same thing. She then shakes her head, clearly finding the direction their discussion was heading odious. "In fact, let's just drop this topic altogether and meander over into safe waters."

Regina nods curtly. She had not liked the subject any better than Red. "Agreed." Silence then descends in the absence of a topic, not pleasant although not exactly unpleasant either.

"Have you heard anything else from Mulan?" Red asks a moment later.

Knowing this avenue of discussion is in many ways more stressful than the one they'd just been on, Regina indicates towards the plush sofa pushed against the far wall right next the bay window. "Let's sit first." Red's agreement comes by silently allowing Regina to grab her hand and pull her over to the sofa. Only once they are both seated, hips touching, Red leaning into Regina's shoulder, does Regina finally give a proper answer. "Yes, I have heard from Mulan," she says, as Red listens intently, Regina's tightly clutched hand sandwiched between her own in her lap, legs crossed, body angled inward toward Regina. "I received a letter yesterday. There have been no further attacks in Drakkenhall since the two last month. She seems to believe this lull in activity is indicative of an imminent strike. Called it the calm before the storm."

"And you agree with that assessment?" Red asks, looking every bit as worried for Regina's safety as she had the night after they buried Robin.

"I trust Mulan, so yes," Regina says, her tone betraying her own concern. "Also, I have heard reports from my spies of troubling rumors spreading through the lowlands between Snow's realm, Stefan's, and ours. Rumors of armed men being spotted in the dense forests, never long enough to identify numbers before disappearing into the shadows like ghosts. All attempts to scout out these interlopers have come back empty-handed. I'd ordinarily regard them as poppycock, but the locals have long claimed there are secret tunnels criss-crossing the region, remains of ancient works built during the Great Ogre Wars an age ago. Perhaps there is some truth to these rumors and some clandestine force is gathering right under our noses. Or this information can be dismissed as of no consequence because they are ludicrous. Frankly I'm not sure which is the case, though I am inclined to side with the latter over the former."

"Is there not anything we can do to find out for sure? Maybe send some troops to check it out?" Red asks, voice hitching with trepidation that has nothing to do with fear for her own safety or having to don the armor of war. Red is a fearless fighter, has proved so on many occasions. But the thought of sending her people out to battle, to fight and die on her behalf against an enemy whose strength is unknown, is to her an intolerable one. And, more than anything else, she is ever-aware of the witch's threat on Regina's life.

"Not with our forces already stretched thin since the corps stationed nearby was redeployed to Mulan's command on the border." That decision had come a week after Mulan's letter announcing two more villages on Stefan's side had been obliterated by their elusive magic-wielding enemy. It hadn't been an easy one to make, as those troops had standing orders to keep a close eye on Snow and Charming's realm. And if there was any chance those two self-righteous morons might be up to something nefarious, the time to instigate those plans was right now when Regina's eyes were elsewhere. "Best to address the foe we know for a fact is operating in Drakkenhall than to waste resources on what may or may not be a real threat. If you'll recall, we made that decision together," she points out, and not unkindly.

Regina is spared Red's response by a knock on the door that she answers by straightening in her seat before bellowing an affirmative command to enter. Iris strides in seconds later, a little behind schedule, looking slightly harried. In her hand is a silver tray holding two large bell-shaped wine glasses that each contain a generous portion of the castle's finest vintage.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Your Majesties," Iris says, sounding as atypically out of sorts as she looks. "I bumped into someone in the hallway, a redheaded woman I'd never seen before, and nearly lost the tray and it's contents." Her fair face darkens almost imperceptibly. "I stopped a while to question her. Turns out she's new, just got hired onto the custodial staff. Anyway, that's no excuse. I bet your pardon once more, my Queens."

"It's alright, Iris. No harm, no foul," Red says, demeanor warm and accommodating for the maid she would insist is not just that, but her friend.

Both Regina and Red accept their wine with smiles and thanks, though Regina's response is slightly strained by Iris' explanation as to her tardiness. She knows of no new hires amongst the staff, but that is not unusual since Red encourages her to trust more in those to whom she has delegated responsibility instead of micromanaging everything as she is apt to do. Iris, to her credit, says nothing about Regina's reaction except to inquire whether she can be of any further service other than the delivery of their nightly wine.

"No, thank you, Iris," Regina says, still sitting primly while in company other than family or friends as Red nervously worries the surface of her glass. As fond as Regina is of Iris, she cannot seem to lose the distinction between servant and friend ingrained into her from a child by Cora. "You may go." When Iris gives a curt curtsy then immediately begins to leave, Regina feels Red's eyes cut into the side of her head. She sighs. "Wait." And when Iris halts to turn back, adds, "Take the rest of the evening off and don't bother coming in until the afternoon tomorrow. I'd like a lazy morning for once. Both of us could use one, I think."

"Definitely," Red says, looking much more pleased than she did a moment ago. "Have a wonderful evening, Iris. And give John our love, won't you?"

"I will, my Queen," Iris says with effusive gratitude that makes Regina feel a bit better than it probably should. "Thank you both." Whereas Regina nods politely, Red offers Iris one of her big, toothy smiles that could light up the whole castle if she stood in the right place.

With Iris gone, Regina sinks into the cushions of the sofa and blows out a breath. "I'm sorry about before. If I sounded upset or harsh, that wasn't my intent."

Red softly squeezes Regina's hand that she has still yet to surrender. "I know. And I wasn't going to argue. I agreed with your suggestion just like you said and nothing since has changed that. I'm just concerned is all. A witch burning villages in Drakkenhall, rumors of strange men lurking in the lowland forests. I don't like the feel of this one bit."

"Me either," Regina agrees, then takes a sip of her wine. The full texture and smooth flavor go down easy, warming her from the inside out. "Believe me, I wish that underhanded she-devil would just come out swinging already. I'm sick of the games. The waiting is intolerable."

"I know what you mean. There's a tension in the air all the time now. I hate it. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Only when it does, I can't help but feel I'll wish it hadn't."

"As much as I agree, we can't afford to think that way. Negativity breeds defeat, and I'm not about to let this uppity sorceress, whoever she may be, beat me on my own turf. When it comes to fighting fire with fire, I don't lose, darling. You know that."

"Ah, my heroic Midnight Queen!" Red sings, using the title she'd given to Regina long ago. "There is no foe in heaven above or Hades below with whom she will not stand toe-to-toe and prevail."

"Damn straight. And don't go forgetting that any time soon." Smirking, Regina tips her glass to Red, who clinks hers against it with an airy laugh.

"As if I could," Red says after they both take a luxurious drag of their wine. "You're not exactly timid or humble about your martial prowess. Never seen anyone best you with sword or spell, and we have a lot of good fighters and magicians in our arsenal."

Head swirling pleasantly from the alcohol, though it has hit her a little harder and faster than usual tonight, Regina grins darkly. "I just look forward to defending my undisputed title in both against the bitch who killed our friend."

"Hear, hear," Red says, then raises her glass. "To justice for Robin."

Approving of the gesture, Regina raises her glass as well, smile fading into an expression of iron resolve. "To justice for Robin. May it come swiftly and violently. And preferably at the business end of my sword or your furrier half's maw."

"I'll drink to that," Red says, and then they take another gulp of the delicious vintage Iris delivered.

The rest of the evening passes with amiable conversation and a few easy silences that see them leaning against each other while basking in their mutual adoration. They also sneak in more than a few kisses, most of them chaste, though a few get heated, one so much so that Red winds up in Regina's lap before they come to their senses. All too soon, however, the wine collides with Regina as if a sledgehammer descending upon a brittle clay pot, obliterating her senses. Vision blurring, hearing obfuscated, heart suddenly pounding in her ears, she rises unsteadily and nearly collapses straight into the floor.

"Wow," Red says, helping her to stay upright. "That wine sure hit you hard. Weird. Didn't do anything for me." Regina thinks, but is not sure, Red pulls a suspicious face. "Musta just been 'cause you're tired. Let's get you to bed so you can sleep it off."

Regina does not remember much else that comes next except for being wrangled onto the bed, her clothes stripped down to the underwear, and Red's wryly chuckled comment as she is tucked in, "Good thing you gave Iris the morning off. You'll be sleepin' late for sure." Then sheets are pulled up and tucked around her shoulders and all at once, before she can even manage to part her lips to speak, the lights go out.

Once the irresistible darkness claims Regina, she remembers no more.

[foxofthedesert]

RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch. 3

Chapter 3 - Motherhood, a Frightening Prospect

Regina awakes to a twitching at her side. Groaning in protest, she shifts slightly, shoulders brushing against the soft, wavy hair tumbling down her bed partner's back. Red is sleeping soundly, facing away yet pressed as close as her body will allow, her back flush to Regina's arm and firm rear nestled against her hip. The soothing contact is further enhanced by the cozy heat radiating from a werewolf whose skin is often akin to a small furnace. Good thing, too, as the room has grown chilly in the absence of a roaring flame, the fire they refueled and stoked before retiring having petered out to dull orange embers.

Yawning so hard her jaw creaks, Regina rubs at her bleary eyes as she sits up slowly, careful not to wake Red, which is not an easy feat seeing as Red's heightened senses are capable of picking up a pin dropped on carpet from down the hallway. Fortunately Regina has a lot of practice at this, so with smooth movements that barely jostle the mattress, she maneuvers her torso upright and then props herself up by extending her arms out behind her, splayed fingers facing the headboard and palms flat upon the downy mattress. Once firmly anchored, she casts a weary, and wary, glance about the room – an old habit from the Dark Days when she had ample reason to entertain notions that some suicidal assassin might infiltrate her chambers in the night to stick a knife in her throat while she slept. That never happened, of course, but vestiges of the old paranoia remain, only now she is less concerned over her own safety as Red's.

Regina heaves a sigh of relief. Tonight there is not a hint of movement outside of her own within their chambers other than the steady rise and fall of Red's chest as she breathes. The only sound Regina can detect is the faint crackling and popping of the dying fire and a brisk autumn wind scratching and howling at the window panes of the great bay window jutting out of the northrn wall of the castle. With no cause for alarm to be found, she relaxes her study of the intimately familiar environment.

The chambers are still shrouded in shadow, sunrise not due for some hours yet, though she can make out details through the darkness. An antique dresser is pushed against the wall opposite their huge four-post bed, boasting storage enough to accommodate the undergarments, casual and sleepwear, and various sartorial accessories of two women – one of whom owns more clothes than the combined possessions of many modest villages. Upon the surface are an array of boxes containing their personal jewelry, some large and some small, along with an assortment of perfumes and oils, the latter of which are mainly for skincare, though a few are for Regina's hair, which requires more attention than Red's ridiculously perfect mane. Next to the dresser is a vanity, a tall adjustable ovular mirror held atop an oaken desk, padded chair with intricately engraved surfaces pushed beneath. Every night they are able, they brush one another's hair at that vanity, one hundred fluid strokes given while holding the other's eyes in the glass as they talk about the happenings of the day or the plans of tomorrow or their various hobbies and interests outside of ruling a kingdom that is growing nearly beyond the scope of comprehension.

To the left of the vanity and dresser is a long arched corridor leading to the balcony overlooking the eastern courtyard, the same balcony Regina once plummeted over and would have died had she not been 'rescued' by the most incompetent fairy to ever flit across the skies of Misthaven. To the right is the long wall common to the hallway of the Royal Wing, surface lined with paintings, three commissioned by Red and the others by Regina, all of which depict things or people they don't wish to forget. A portrait of Daniel is there amongst them, description of him supplied by Regina's memory, along with an image of Peter as he was remembered by Red. Red's grandmother Is also honored with a spot upon that wall, depicted as seated in a rocking chair, glasses perched low on her nose as she weaves a patchwork blanket. A painting of Perrault, Red's hometown, is also to be found there, portrayed as if viewing the quaint village from a vantage point upon the young, modest mountain range nearby. There is other art in the room as well, lush carpets from halfway across the known world, uniquely decorated drapes crafted from material Mulan called silk, figurines of horses and wolves upon wall mounted shelves, marble statues of Artemis and her fellow Olympians in the alcoves of the arched hallway leading to the balcony, and, of course, the most precious of all, the Crown Jewels – a magnificent collection of opulent golden diadems, tiaras, scepters, and ornate rings to adorn fingers and ears. Unless worn by one of Misthaven's Queens, the Crown Jewels remain on display against the inner wall within glass cases that are protected by defensive wards Regina painstakingly designed to resist virtually all forms of dismantling.

After ensuring her most favorite piece – a diadem called The Midnight Crown – is undisturbed, Regina settles back down in bed. As she heaves a long, tired sigh, Red whines in her sleep, not so much distressed as irritated by Regina having disturbed her, and then scoots even tighter against Regina's side. Honestly if Red were to get any closer, she would be on top of Regina. Not that such an outcome would be unpleasant.

There was a time Red's subconscious need for proximity was bothersome. Over the years spent as Leopold's wife and Snow White's step-mother, Regina developed an acute allergy to physical contact initiated without her consent. She had endured groping fingers and invasive appendages more nights than she cares to recount, and by day the constant, irritating pawing of a child she was forced to care for against her wishes. Upon seizing the crown, her lovers were privately taught through threats and acts of violence alike that she was in control of their trysts, while in public those foolish enough to so much as disturb the fabric of her dress without permission were met with swift reprisal. Many wayward digits were either broken or altogether removed before people learned to keep their grubby hands to themselves. Soon enough, no one dared to so much as breathe in her general direction and that was precisely how she liked it.

Looking back at those days, the polar shift in her tactile response is remarkably dramatic, or at least it is within the confines of the bedroom. Seven years of sleeping next to her beloved werewolf has made her almost as dependent on nocturnal contact as Red is. Those rare nights she has to sleep alone are intolerable. It's hard to get any rest at all when she's tossing and turning endlessly, sporadically reaching for an uncommonly warm body that is painfully absent. The silence of the night becomes increasingly oppressive as she strains to listen for the rhythmic sound of Red's breathing or the cute little noises she makes when she's dreaming. Sleep elixirs are a requirement whenever one of them has to travel, thus necessitating the other to stay behind to run the kingdom, and those provide a few inadequate hours at best. Although the herbal aids are sufficient to keep her functional, waking bleary eyed and run down is an unwelcome reminder of a mode of existence she has mercifully left behind.

Before Red assumed possession over half her bed and all of her heart, she was used to existing on very little sleep. Recurring nightmares plagued her to the point she was afforded only a handful of hours on the best nights and as little as an hour on the worst. By the time Red was sharing her bed on a regular basis, she had long since adapted to functioning on unhealthy portions of rest. But now she does not need to settle for paltry scraps. Red's proximity is a pacifier that quells those old terrors that once kept her awake until the wee hours of the night. She is still plagued by nightmares, as she always will be, but they are blessedly infrequent and far less intense. And while she still does not sleep more than six hours per night, those hours are more regenerative than they have been in over a decade.

Nightmares were not the only reason she once had trouble resting, either. Sharing a bed with Leopold had created a sense of claustrophobia that transformed them into isolation cells designed specifically to physically, emotionally, and psychologically torture her. Back then, crawling in under the covers next to her much older husband was a nightmarish scenario consisting of roiling nausea triggered by a clawing fear running up the length of her spine over whether or not the king would be in the mood that night. At the time, she was powerless to refuse his advances, as it was a privilege of his position to demand use of her body at his convenience. There was nothing in all the world she hated more than the feel of his hands on her flesh or the weight of his heft resting upon her, suffocating her as he destroyed with one grunted thrust at a time what little light she had left in her soul in the wake of Daniel's death. When the torment was over and he rolled off her, passing out soon thereafter, she could do little else besides curl up into a ball to mitigate her trembling. She would then either lay there for hours numbly or cry silently so as to not wake the callous brute back up.

Upon ridding herself of Leopold's loathsome presence, the first order of business was to torch the royal bedchambers, bed included. She watched the room burn from the courtyard below, secure in the knowledge the flames were contained by her magic. It was quite a spectacle. The grand windows had all burst from the heatwave, raining down glass onto the crowd gathered to witness the symbolic event. The purpose behind the act was not merely a method of purging any reminders of her late husband, but of declaring to the entire kingdom that she had no intention of suffering any further mentions of him. The message was clearly written by flame. If the nobility wished to keep their wealth and position, Leopold White's memory and name were to be regarded as he was, forever dead, reduced to ashes that were soon enough swept away and disposed of in the refuse pile behind the stables. A fitting end, she thought, to the possessions of a beast.

Sadly, while her efforts produced immediate results and made her very happy for a week or so, her insomnia continued on unabated. Even years after she procured new furnishings for her bedchambers, she never felt truly at ease sleeping in a bed. Which is why she kept a luxurious chaise lounge handy. Before Red came along and upended her life in the best way possible, she rarely ever slept upon the spacious bed she'd custom commissioned upon assuming the throne, preferring instead the relatively cramped confines of the lounger. There was only room for one upon the narrow but cushioned piece of furniture, which helped alleviate her anxieties at having the weight of another body nearby while she was most vulnerable. Normally whenever she enjoyed a tryst, she would simply force her lover out after she was finished with them, but on the rare occasion she let them remain in her chambers until the morn, she would abandon them in lieu of curling up on her lounger. She didn't want to risk dredging up sickening recollections she was desperately trying to keep buried.

Red changed all of that. With her relentless patience and devotion, she transformed their bed into a refuge, a sanctuary free of past torments that Regina could retreat to when feeling overwrought. There, securely wrapped in strong arms and her high-strung demeanor disarmed by an easy smile, consolation could be found whenever she was distraught and rejuvenating rest when she was so weary she could barely hold her head upright.

Red has always been hyper-aware of her state of mind. One of the many benefits of being a werewolf is possessing an innate, unique insight into human behavior. For instance, she can smell subtle changes in pheromones and detect the slightest irregularities in breathing or the most minute shift in the rate of a person's heartbeat that indicate the onset of rage or joy or arousal. Those supernatural senses make her the best bodyguard – and lover – Regina has ever known. At least a dozen times now Red has intervened to prevent violence that would have claimed multiple lives; five of those instances one of the lives might have been Regina's. It is equal measures comforting and unnerving that she no longer needs to utter a single syllable for Red to suss out her mood. And although that unnatural perceptiveness is occasionally irritating, mostly she is grateful that her capriciousness hasn't driven Red away.

The value of having someone who knows and understands her so intimately without being disgusted by the darkness festering in the depths of her soul is immeasurable. Rather than exploit the knowledge, Red wields her insight with all the skill of a surgeon and the tenderness of an angel. Whenever Regina is feeling unworthy, Red is there to offer earnest affirmation; when dispirited or depressed, Red pours out endless waves of affectionate encouragement; and when Regina gets so angry she can barely make sense of her own thoughts, Red's calm assurance never fails to eventually soothe the rampaging beast. The love of a simple peasant girl has elevated the marriage bed from something that once was a hideous dungeon into a beautiful sanctuary.

What Red has managed to do, and without really trying, is nothing short of miraculous. Having sanctified what was once desecrated and redeemed what was formerly condemned, she has transformed the defiled place into a haven of peace in the midst of the worst storms life can throw at them. Now that Regina has acclimated to this blessed refuge, she can not imagine inhabiting it alone. She needs Red's supernatural strength, feminine softness and familiar warmth next to her with a fervency that should be, and sometimes is, frightening.

Inhaling deeply to take in the sweet, earthy scent of her wife, Regina basks in her good fortune. It's on mornings like this that she opens herself up to the potential existence of deities. Her father is to this day a devout practitioner of the monotheistic religion of his country, but her mother had only believed in what the senses could interpret and the mind could comprehend. To Cora, magic was a natural element simpletons could not fathom and was therefore no proof of any higher order to the universe. By carrot and by stick, she drilled that skepticism into her daughter.

Regina did not think to question her mother's wisdom until she met Daniel and was introduced to the concept of love. How could anything so potent as to overwhelm the human heart and soul originate by natural means? The drive for procreation could explain physical attraction and the compulsion to provide stability for any offspring was surely responsible for emotional bonding. But when her lips touched his the first time, she knew the forces at work in her heart and soul were beyond what any textbook or learned scholar of a groundbreaking branch of science could rationally explain away as the mere product of brain chemistry. In that very instant she realized it was True Love and no one could have convinced her otherwise.

True Love is a power no ancient wizard or vaunted intellectual has ever been able to adequately explain. The origins of that mystical energy are as mysterious as those of magic itself. There is no other force known to man that can break any curse, instill a faith and hope that cannot be extinguished, and which can inextricably link two people via tethers time or distance can never sunder. So many have tried to study it, to bottle it, to break it down and scrutinize it's inner workings, only to fail miserably at every attempt. With the recent advent of telescopes by astronomers across the sea, the secrets of the cosmos are slowly but surely being unfolded. Medical advances have provided detailed schematics of the human body. Those in more advanced worlds, it is purported, are even beginning to understand the mechanics of the infinitesimally small substrate that exists beneath the surface of the material world limited human senses can perceive. And yet True Love remains stubbornly esoteric to science and incomprehensible to men.

In her youth, Daniel persuaded her this was proof that there is more to reality than what can be explained in a billion years of intensive study. Something greater, he had passionately argued, thrives beyond this plane, something that possesses consciousness, intelligence, and willpower to affect change wherever it sees fit. He called this entity – or entities – the gods according to the traditions of his ancestors. And while she was unwilling to project her own definitions upon this force, her doubts of its existence were daily fading into obscurity. One stolen kiss at a time, she was starting to believe in a higher power.

Daniel's death all but crushed that brief flicker of revelation. Her mother succeeded where the Pantheon failed in preventing Prometheus from instilling the secrets of the flame within her all-too-human heart. Perhaps that was a secondary motive for her mother's dreadful actions that fateful day in the family stables. Perhaps it was more than just Cora's lust for power and her scheme to gain it vicariously through her daughter that precipitated the cold blooded murder of the most gentle, loving person – aside from Red, of course – that Regina has ever met. She had made the critical mistake of questioning the worldview she had been painstakingly programmed to subscribe to, a worldview that had shaped her mother's every decision for longer than she had been alive, and that could not be permitted to continue for even a second. Whatever the impetus for the deed, it nearly ensured she would never again so blindly place her faith in intangible concepts that only fools followed.

Only she hadn't counted on a leggy brunette with a heart even bigger than her smile to revive those old questions. Meeting Red that day on the mountain pass was no coincidence. No certifiable evidence existed to verify that, but she is nonetheless convinced there were forces at play beyond the limited corporeal plane humanity inhabits – forces no mind, however brilliant, could begin to comprehend. Call it fate, destiny, or a god of some irrelevant designation, something inspired her to listen to her heart for once and pursue Red every bit as much as it guided Red to leave Snow's side and consequently save the life of an undeserving tyrant. It sure as hell wasn't any rational thinking on her part that propelled her feet down that narrow pass, risking her death for another glimpse of the creature who, through only a brief exchange, arrested the fullest extent of her interest. The internally memorialized evidence compiled over years that have since rolled by did nothing to alter that view. If anything, she is more convinced than ever that her mother was wrong. About everything.

Red is here with her because she is meant to be. While their love unquestionably involves an element of choice in that both of them could have walked away from the pull being exerted upon their hearts that day on the mountain, it was also predestined, written in the stars, spoken by the bones, and read in the tea leaves that they should meet and be given the opportunity to choose correctly. By whom or what the encounter was arranged is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things. All she cares about is the exceedingly precious gift so undeservedly bestowed upon her, a gift she has no intention of ever taking for granted. To do so, she is sure, would evoke a wrath she would have rightly earned.

Few ever experience such a love once in a lifetime, not to mention twice. And that the second is even greater than the first puts her in rarified air belonging to the grandest of legends and mythologies. If she squanders this heaven on earth that is Red's love, there will be no escaping the fiery judgment that will greet her in the afterlife. This degree of happiness is not meant for mortals, yet she is bathed in it each and every morning. Sometimes she is unable to breathe for how unspeakably grateful she is. Grace has, in the form of one slumbering angel, provided her deepest craving out of life, and there is no power in all of creation can take it away from her without a fight.

Overwhelmed by an onrush of adoration, she softly winds a fingertip down the muscled plane of a gently curved back. Her contentment intensifies into a silly smile when her touch produces a tiny whine of protest from Red, who then flips over to her other side. Now facing Regina, the junior Queen of Misthaven breathes a deep sigh. As she does, her nose scrunches up adorably and she snuggles her head deeper into the pillow. Long, dark lashes flutter briefly only to grow still once more.

Reaching out with as little movement as possible, Regina tenderly tucks a strand of silky brown hair behind Red's ear. "I love you," she whispers. "More than I you'll ever know. More than I can ever express in words. Every moment with you is blessing my heart can hardly contain. I wish an effective method existed to properly translate how much you mean to me so that I could tell you how I truly feel. I suppose I'll just have to take it on faith that you know, and hope the way you love me is evidence you understand because you feel the same way."

That Red cannot hear any of this does not matter when there is a burning need to say the words. Her love for this incredible woman is the one defining thing more pertinent to her being than her own selfish desires, and with the darkness of the night to shroud her, she feels a freedom to express herself that she wishes could extend in the light. Decorum and a need to appear indestructible in public prevent her from addressing Red the way she wishes she could. When unwelcome eyes are watching, it is often more than she can bear to be so close to her wife yet unable to touch her or hold her or simply say those three little words for no other reason than to receive one of those glorious smiles no one else can replicate. It is only here in the safety and seclusion of their bedroom that she can indulge her every affectionate whim, and she does so whenever the compulsion hits.

It hasn't always been that way. There was a time she valued her revenge more than love. She used to spend all of her time plotting to kill Snow White, the source of her every torment. It was Snow who caused Daniel's death, which in turn lead to her being married off to an elder king at the tender age of seventeen. It was Snow who spent her days yammering on about how glad she was her hero became her new mother while Regina gritted her teeth against the urge to scream. Each night, she chewed the inside of her lips until they bled to block out the anguish of being mounted by an old man she despised. Snow's betrayal had cost her everything, and after Leopold's death, her every waking moment was a lucid fantasy revolving around the day Snow would turn eighteen, after which the wretched brat would become fair game.

The day after the Princess's eighteenth birthday bash, not a single moment was wasted before setting in motion a plot she spent months contriving. Through a series of clever payoffs, she manufactured a paper trail that made it appear as if Snow was responsible for hiring out assassins to dispose of her stepmother. That was all the leverage required to banish the Princess from the kingdom and forever stake a claim to the throne. In remembrance of the sweet young girl she had once saved from a runaway horse, Snow was afforded three months to adapt to her new way of life before the proverbial hunting horns were sounded – and sound they did.

The hunt climaxed two years later on a cold, bitter day after the latest in an endless string of attempts at apprehending Snow was thwarted by the stunning werewolf who kept company with the fugitive princess. The rest, as they say, is history. A week later, Red showed up to dinner, and then again the next week, and the week after that. Pretty soon, Red was spending days at a time at the Dark Palace. Within six months, she was practically living there. Being that Snow had found her True Love and with the bounty on her head suspended, Red was no longer needed to protect her dearest friend on a daily basis. Regina was glad of it. Having come to prize her time with Red above all else, she loathed their partings whenever Red would venture back to Snow's side.

Three months later still, the inevitable happened when they fell into bed. It honestly astounded her that she lasted so long without claiming her criminally enticing prize when there were days it took all of her considerable willpower to resist temptation. The war to resist those annoyingly persistent urges to rip Red's clothes from her body and ravish her against the nearest solid surface was one she was unaccustomed to waging.

Upon becoming Queen, practicing patience in sexual matters was no longer required. If she saw someone she wanted who seemed equally interested, she merely had a trusted knight discreetly escort that individual up to her chambers. Once the door was shut, nature took it's course with no strings attached. This method of scratching a very pleasant biological itch was an ideal solution for a woman who believed herself to be cured of interest in romantic entanglements.

With Red, though, she found herself longing for companionship that extended beyond a torrid affair or quick tryst. Although her desire to know Red in a carnal sense was maddening at times, she was too afraid to take that step knowing it would irreparably alter their emerging dynamic. She worried that, as with Daniel, they would inevitably to be torn apart. In the process of time, she would drive Red away by simply virtue of attrition, meaning her selfish, cruel, vindictive nature would eventually erode Red's unwarranted affection into bitter loathing. Or worse, the unthinkable would happen to Red and it would be like losing Daniel all over again. She didn't think she could handle either scenario, so she tried her damnedest to maintain the status quo.

The great upheaval finally came one day in the early months of autumn. Regina can clearly remember dragging into her chambers, exhausted from a long day of court-related tedium. Upon arriving she'd found the door already open with Red waiting inside. Perched upon the seat below the bay window, she was completely engrossed in a thick tome containing an assortment of Eastern literature. She hadn't heard Regina approach, and as she read intently, so peaceful and still, it seemed as if she was posing for a portrait. The evening sunlight filtering into the room cast her in a faint orange glow as it played across her features and filtered through strands of rich brown hair left hanging down from a hastily applied leather tie. The sight was so breathtaking that Regina would eventually commission a likeness to be preserved by the royal artist that hung in her study to this day. Red had not enjoyed having to recreate and then maintain the position long enough that it could be translated to canvas for posterity.

Anyway, despite having adjusted to constant exposure to Red's beauty, Regina was nonetheless so awestruck that she gasped aloud, finally catching Red's attention. When Red lifted her nose out of her book, her entire countenance lit up at the sight of Regina standing in the doorway, as if she had become the sole source of her every joy. It was at that very moment acceptance of the hard truth arrived. Their current arrangement was no longer sufficient. They had waited long enough to consummate their undeniable feelings. That evening, they made love for the first time as the last rays of the sun set over the horizon, and they did not sleep until the moon had risen high in the night sky. That terrifying yet exhilarating step from a deep and meaningful friendship into sexual intimacy precipitated a fall from which she has yet to recover.

Never one to let the grass grow beneath her feet, she wasted no time thereafter claiming Red as her own. Privately she marked her new lover in ways that made Red blush for days while publicly declaring to the kingdom that Red now belonged to her and was therefore to be treated with the utmost respect properly due to the Queen's official companion. Not that it did any good insisting Red be shown respect when she was just as soon to be found roughhousing with the soldiers on their training days or milling among the peasants in the village below the Palace as to be about the castle carousing with nobles whilst adorned in the opulent and incredibly expensive dresses she was provided. The people adored Red unconditionally, accepted her as their own, and approached her without fear because they knew she was one of them. That she had risked her life on a daily basis to protect their not-so-secretly beloved Snow White only endeared her all the more to them.

In a turn of events that Regina hadn't predicted, Red became a bridge over the gaping chasm between the Crown and its subjects. As she would soon discover, Red's mere presence among them served as proof that their Queen was moving past her vendetta, that she was not just the maddened tyrant they had once rightly believed her to be.

This was proven one day when she ventured out of the castle in disguise.

_RQ_

Arrayed in the rags of a peasant, much as she had posing as Wilma to gain insight into Snow White, Regina was a woman on a mission. Red's daily excursions to the village below the palace were no secret, nor were her motives, which were obvious to anyone with a brain. What she could not figure out was the reason behind her lover frequenting the village bakery in particular.

The subterfuge, she felt, was necessary due to what she thought was a justifiable suspicion. Red was spending so much time in the bakery of late that paranoia over potential betrayal was creeping in. That the baker and his wife had two highly attractive and eligible children did not help matters in the slightest. Their son was only two winters older than Red's twenty-two, was stout of build with sandy blonde hair and possessed a relentless kindness that no doubt made him a kindred spirit. The couple also had an overly friendly daughter Red's age with bouncing blonde curls and large almond-shaped blue eyes the exact shade of a summer sky. How could there not be an attraction to at least one of them?

With that in mind, Regina glamored herself into peasants garb and slightly distorted her features to avoid detection. As when Rumple transformed her into Wilma, she proceeded to slip past her guards while they thought she was using the facilities. It wasn't much trouble traversing the palace, the courtyard, and the outer citadel without being detected. Servants often were invisible to those with the authority to detain them. So effective was her disguise that she made it to the bakery without attracting even a single second glance.

When she arrived, the baker's wife – a middle aged woman she could tell was once every bit as beautiful as her daughter – was standing out front speaking to a friend. Seeing an opportunity to glean some intelligence into the target family, she maneuvered around to the side of the building to eavesdrop.

"Why do you let that...that gold digging strumpet hang around so much?" the friend asked, clearly referring to Red in a derisive tone that implied other less savory aspersions. The slight upon her lover, however inferred, had Regina gritting her teeth against an urge to anonymously out the woman as a dissident to the nearest guard.

"If you'll recall, I'm not from around these parts," the baker's wife explained to her friend. "I knew Red's grandmother long before she was a twinkle in her mother's eye, but in the time she's been here, I've come to know her personally as well."

Hearing that embarrassed Regina. She had jumped to unfounded conclusions when Red had just been seeking a connection with someone who was once close with her grandmother. Even so, she continued to listen, spellbound by the ensuing conversation.

"That 'gold digging strumpet,'" the baker's wife continued, "is the sweetest thing I've ever met aside from my own babies. And that's sayin' somethin'."

"Makes you question what she's doin' with the Queen, don't it?" the friend then asked, contempt for Regina on open display with the familiar company. Regina had bristled silently but continued to hold her tongue in pursuit of her objective. "I wonder how she can stand to sleep next to a monster every night."

"It's because her heart is as tender as Princess Snow's," the baker's wife replied without hesitation. "That tells me all I need to know. If Red can love the Queen, then we've been wrong about her all along. Because I'll tell ya, she couldn't love someone who isn't worth lovin'. There is good in the Queen, we've just been too blind to see it."

The words had shaken Regina down to her foundations, not only because it seemed her subjects were beginning to perceive her differently. It was jarring to hear someone other than Red so boldly declare that Red could not love her if she was not worth loving. Regina realized that day how much she'd started to change, that she was remarkably less austere of late, more patient in general and increasingly equitable in her judgments. Without the pursuit of Snow being her primary mission and with Red's unwavering love and support rounding some of her razor sharp edges, she'd begun to invest herself more in ensuring she had a healthy, functioning kingdom.

The exchange that followed only served as further confirmation.

"But what about all the evil she did?" the friend had countered, verbalizing Regina's own negative inclination. She'd never really cared what the people thought of her, but at that moment she discovered that it mattered anyway. She had been a terrible ruler, had treated her subjects reprehensibly, without even realizing it, had become exactly what her mother wanted her to be. It was a wake up call, to say the least. "She slaughtered entire villages," the critical friend continued with a vehemence that bespoke personal investment, "and hunted the princess down like a dog for no good reason. How many people has she killed since she stole the crown from King Leopold? Dozens? Hundreds? More? She's called the Evil Queen for a reason, ya know."

Pressing her back into the wall she was tucked against, Regina felt white hot shame creeping up on her, inflaming her cheeks and turning her stomach until she felt sick. It took all of her hard learned restraint not to bolt from the uncomfortable discussion, but she'd been glued to the spot, unable to move as her eyes and ears were finally being opened to the truth she'd so long repressed. Snow was not the criminal; she was. In her lust for revenge, her sanity had slipped away from her like sand from a sieve and she had abandoned what once was an ironclad conscience. Without those preventative factors, the darkness her mother instilled in her took over, influencing her every thought and deed as she committed one atrocity after another. Now that a modicum of sense was coming back to her, she was revolted.

Suddenly she'd wondered what the hell Red was doing with her. What had Red seen in her worth loving when she could see so little in herself? How, she wondered as tears pooled in her eyes, was she ever going to learn to live with what she'd done without being crushed by the enormous pressures of a guilt she was unprepared to deal with? At the time, it had seemed an insurmountable obstacle to reconcile herself to what she had become in the name of a vengeance Daniel would have abhorred.

"No doubt the Queen was a wicked woman," the baker's wife then replied, and hearing it from so fair a woman's mouth was like a vicious slap to an already raw cheek. "But haven't you seen how different she is since Red came 'round? For a long time, I was ignorant of it, too, but then I tried a bit harder, if only for Red's sake, to see what made her love the woman. Know what I found?"

"What's that?"

"I saw someone who is capable and strong," the baker's wife then elaborated. "She's truly becoming a good ruler. Is she severe in judgment? Yes, but not how she used to be. Used to she'd have someone flogged for burning an apple pie, but not anymore. She's much more fair now, more willing to be persuaded for clemency. And she's always been shrewd with finances, but she's started giving back to the people that need it most.

"Don't get me wrong, I hated the cruel, vindictive witch that stole the throne just as much as you did, but I think that woman is slowly disappearing. I don't even think that woman was really her. I have become convinced, like Red has told me so many times, that what we're seeing now is the real person that just got buried under huge mountains of hatred and anger, a person Red saw and loved before anyone else. We have a lot to thank that girl for...the kingdom has a lot to thank her for. So as far as I'm concerned, she has a place here any time she wishes, and that's that!"

_RQ_

Not needing to hear any more, Regina can remember rushing away far enough to magic herself into her chambers. Alone at last, she sequestered herself for the rest of that day to contemplate what she'd heard. It was late when Red got back, and by the time she had begun to process what she had learned and found to her amazement that she was not totally repulsed by it. The baker's wife had been right. Red was helping her to change organically. Without her hardly being aware, she was slowly rediscovering the idealistic young lady who once fell in love with a stable boy and without thought for her own safety rode to the rescue of a princess in distress.

In further analyzing the subtle transformation she was undergoing, she realized those words she'd spoken to Red on the mountain weren't empty platitudes meant to entice a gullible girl into tangled web. She really was tired of fighting for something that could never make her happy, and she was sick of being a prisoner of her mother's persistent, insidious influence.

Daddy had been right all along. So long as she continued to react the way her mother taught her to, she would never stop being that scared little girl who had trembled before her imperious and heartless mother, begging not to be punished for the slightest infraction. In a stark moment of clarity, she realized she didn't want to be a scared little girl anymore. Through every encouragement, every smile, every kiss, every touch, Red was reminding her of who she used to be: a young woman who refused to allow her totalitarian mother to dictate her life, whose heart was full of love, and whose convictions were set in stone. And though she could never fully reclaim her former innocence, she was actually learning to accept the person was becoming, someone who inhabited the gray area between the looming shadow of ever-encroaching darkness and the morning sun so full of promise.

What made reconciliation of this epiphany all the more palatable was that Red never asked her to change. Once, she even plainly declared that she had fallen in love with the Evil Queen with eyes wide open, then went on to reassure her that there were no expectations or strings attached to that affection. Regina was not expected to earn her love by being good. All she ever asked was that Regina be considerate of her feelings on certain subjects and to curb her violence whenever possible while in her company.

Admittedly, at first even that little request was difficult to abide by. She found it exceptionally difficult not to react according to her deeply ingrained programming. To stop and think about her actions and words before going off at the drop of a hat required a reservoir of self-control she hadn't tapped into for so long she was amazed anything remained of it at all. She had always been impulsive, but after Leopold was disposed of, she surrendered any and all restraint, self-imposed or otherwise, that might hold her back from taking whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it.

Nevertheless, she started to make a concerted effort to do better. And she succeeded to some degree. If not everyone was thrilled with her progress, so be it. Red is happy as a lark, and keeping her that way is Regina's primary concern.

"Hey," Red suddenly interrupts her thoughts. Her wife's voice is slurred as she regards her through bleary eyes. "What're you still doin' up? Need ta be sleepin', hon."

"No reason aside from just waking at random," Regina replies. "A lot on my mind, I suppose." She does not mention that it was Red's inability to stay still that initially roused her from a very pleasant slumber. It is nothing new for her to be awakened in the middle of the night by a stray poke from a sharp elbow or a glancing kick from a bare foot. Much like an excitable puppy, Red is in constant motion even when she sleeps, which Regina finds endearing. Mostly.

Red frowns sympathetically and reaches out to rub Regina's arm comfortingly. "'M sorry."

Regina leans in to give her wife a chaste kiss. "It's not your fault, my love," she then whispers against Red's lips. Drawing back slightly, she caresses a pale cheek. "Go back to sleep. You need your rest. We have a long day ahead of us."

Tomorrow is the appointed monthly date for petitions to be made in court. Usually the cases consist of those unable to be resolved locally due to conflicting or convoluted laws and instances where the parties involved successfully argued with the local magistrate for an appeal directly to the Queen. Very rarely do they have to make life and death judgments, and those they tackle together. Only with both of their consent can a death sentence be rendered, which has happened exactly two times in five years.

Their day is likely to be as boring as it is stressful, but that doesn't mean the decisions they make aren't important. Rest is vital for a clear mind. If only her brain got the message.

Red leans into the touch and then shifts her head to press a responding kiss to Regina's palm. "Only if you do, too."

"I can try but I make no promises of success," Regina concedes. She runs her fingers through the silky hair at Red's temple, tucking it behind her ear. "I'm afraid my mind is awhirl at the moment."

Red's brow furrows worriedly. "You're not stressin' 'bout what I mentioned earlier, are you?" The question is not without basis.

Earlier, Red had informed Regina that their handmaid Iris and her husband were trying to get pregnant. During the course of the short conversation that followed, Red not-so-subtly worked in a hint that she was interested in the idea of expanding their own family in the not too distant future. Despite having frequently thought about that very subject over the years, Regina was unprepared to entertain a discussion about the possibility of bringing a child into their lives. She is still raw from being strong-armed last week into putting a deadline on producing an heir.

The only positive out of being blindsided by the Council is that she's gained an important ally. Lord Maurice is the wealthiest man in the realm by far, and with his merchant days having afforded him connection all over the known world, his vast influence has all but invalidated the novelty of his title.

In the week since the stressful meeting, he has kept her apprised as agreed of the nobles acceptance of her terms. No one was pleased at yet another delay in her decision, but they have thus far all acquiesced, in large part because Lord Maurice convinced them it was in their best interest. Twice she has met privately with the physically imposing but otherwise gentle man, and each time he has reiterated his sympathy with her difficult circumstance. Whether or not his support is for Red's sake or hers is of no consequence when she has it. The lesson of gift horses and mouths is not lost on her.

That said, she remains reluctant to discuss the topic. To avoid getting into another argument with Red about over it, she changed the subject quickly. It did not escape her attention that the hasty deflection hurt the feelings of the most important person in her world. To Red's credit, she hid her reaction well, just not well enough. The pain in her eyes would not have been obvious to anyone else. But Regina was not anyone else. It was her job to read her wife's every mood, to be able to interpret her body language and know what every conceivable emotion looked like in her eyes. As she shifted the discussion to safer waters, the disappointment lacing through those green irises was unmistakable. That she felt like a callous bitch having put it there did not deter her from putting her own emotional fragility ahead of Red's. And that only made her feel worse.

They went to bed last night with a cloud of sadness over them that no amount of flowery language or affectionate petting could dispel. One night suffering Red bravely bearing her discouragement was bad enough. However much she would rather avoid this uncomfortable topic, she cannot allow this heaviness to continue.

Red's moods are infectious when they are in full bloom. Ruling has taught her to mask her emotions quite effectively, but when they are brimming to overflowing, they virtually inundate everyone around her. When she is happy, which thankfully is more often than not, everyone in her proximity is happy, too. In that way, the metaphor her smile lights up a room is actually accurate.

Unfortunately that means the opposite is true as well. Regina has watched both happen in real time, but none were as frightening as an incident three years ago. They were scheduled to attend a party in Baron's mansion not far from the Palace that regrettably fell on the anniversary of Anita's death, only Regina didn't know that because Red hadn't mentioned anything about her mother's demise aside from generalities. Without the full picture, she hadn't been able to figure out why Red was so withdrawn during the carriage ride, and watched in muted horror as the death of all gaiety seemed to follow her morose wife around wherever she went. It was one of those rare occasions where nothing or no one, however interesting, could engage Red. She was totally disassociated and operating as if an emotionless automaton whose strings were being pulled only in the directions she did not want to go. Later on back home, she finally confessed the reason behind her strange behavior.

"I just felt so empty," she had said, hugging herself as if she was freezing and brittle and marred by a thousand spider-webbed cracks. "Like a balloon that had all the air let out. Just elastic and useless. I'm sorry I ruined the party. I really tried to make it go away. It just wouldn't."

Regina kissed her pleas away and held her tight all night long so she wouldn't feel alone. But that valuable lesson was never forgotten. As startling as it was to rows of people simultaneously succumb to gloom prompted her to take extra notice of Red's emotiveness. They never again ventured out into public when she was feeling, as she had described it, empty like a deflated balloon.

There are few individuals she has ever met that are as strong as Red is. With all she's gone through, that that sort of thing doesn't happen continually is testament to her resilience. That said, being denied something she clearly and ardently desires over and over again is sure to eventually push her straight into the poisonous fingers of depression. The last thing they need is a castle full of weepy, dispirited, and demotivated servants.

Besides considerations of Red's state of mind, she also cannot abide allowing her wife to continue to fret over the misconception of having upset her. Not when the truth is she has been wrestling of late with a similar desire to be a mother. The only difference between them is that she is too cowardly to admit it. And for obvious reasons.

For one, she doesn't feel like she deserves to have that kind of pliable medium in her life. She is not so far removed from the Evil Queen that any sane individual would entrust her with a the welfare of an impressionable child. Even more so, she worries about repeating her mother's mistakes. She was not blessed with the best example of motherhood, and while Red's grandmother was a far cry from perfect, she at least loved Red and put Red first at the expense of her own ambitions. To the contrary, everything Cora ever did for her daughter was for her own benefit. To that end, she had groomed Regina to be a selfish and vindictive woman who is disturbingly likely to irreparably corrupt a child's innocence in the same way her mother had hers. The thought is as distasteful as it is terrifying that she might do to someone else what was done to her, thus keeping the cycle of abuse intact.

Frustrated with herself, she heaves a furtive sigh and determines to be honest for once. If not for her own sake then for Red's. "Perhaps I am a bit disconcerted about it," she admits, finding the words difficult to spit out. She feels better, though, once they are out in the open.

"Oh," Red responds, looking crushed, although she rallies quickly by putting on a false smile. "I totally understand. I love our life together, and I'm happy with the way things are. I just thought I'd see how you felt about adding to our family now that some time has passed. But since I know you don't want to, we can just move on. No harm, no foul, okay?" Though she tries to hide it, Regina can tell that Red is about to withdraw and feign going back to sleep so that she can let the tears fall silently without them being seen.

When she begins to shift away to face the wall, Regina stops her immediately with a firm hand on her hip, keeping her in place. "Sweetheart, I am not dismissing the idea outright," she explains, holding Red's eyes. "I just have concerns, mainly related to me and my capability to be a mother. I didn't have the best example, as you well know." And Red most certainly does know. Firsthand at that.

When Cora suddenly reappeared about eighteen months ago along with that backstabbing pirate, Captain Hook, she went about implementing a series of convoluted maneuvers to reintegrate herself in Regina's life. The last attempt involved removing Red from it, which she'd very nearly done by taking Red's heart and then using it to force Regina into compliance. With that much leverage at her disposal, Cora was able to rule the kingdom by undeclared proxy, thus granting Red an up close and personal glimpse into Regina's childhood hell. It was, perhaps, the second worst period of her life.

During that most trying time, she'd had to endure going through the motions of court, deferring every major decision to her mother who insisted on attending each session. Every meal was taken in tense silence, with only her mother's occasional questions and Regina's clipped answers to fill the coldness of the atmosphere. Eyes were on her everywhere she went. When her mother was not present to watch over her, Regina was accompanied by members of her personal guard whose hearts had also been collected by Cora to assure their loyalty.

The nights were the worst, as she'd had to suffer being separated from Red, who was kept confined to the tower of the citadel, for the first time in years. 'It's for your own good,' her mother had told her. Each night following Red's detainment, Cora made a show of visiting the tower after saying good night to her daughter. The unnecessary drama served as a pointed reminder that the slightest failure to be obedient would result in Red's defilement on any number of grotesque and unthinkable levels. Her mother was not above selling access to the most universally desired woman on the continent.

To prevent the worst atrocities imaginable being visited upon Red, Regina kept her rebellions minor. Sadly that did not stop her mother from doling out less perverse punishments upon the woman she saw as the primary factor behind Regina's aberrant lifestyle. Had things gone on much longer, she was certain her mother's nightly visits would have inevitably included graphic descriptions of what activities with Red tonight's customer had purchased. The sole purpose of that most atrocious lesson would have been to enforce Cora's supreme dominance over every aspect of Regina's life, something she could not, would not, allow to happen. Not at Red's expense.

The charade went on for another whole month before she was able to surreptitiously locate her mother's well-hidden heart, which she then used to command the power-hungry witch to relinquish Red's heart. Once that was back in place, Regina ordered Cora to her knees. With the organ in hand whose absence had caused so much suffering throughout her childhood, she'd realized there was no other alternative than to permanently end her mother's machinations. Weeping openly while Red pleaded for her to reconsider, she said her final goodbyes and then crushed the heart to dust right in front of her mother's disbelieving face.

That excruciating tribulation for the most part cured Red of any remaining curiosity about Regina's childhood. The stripes she received at Cora's hand, both physically and magically, served as ample evidence of the horrors Regina was made to endure. Surely, then, she should understand why Regina feels reticent to bring a child into her life, why she feels as if she has been set up for failure. Deep down, she believes Red does understand, and is relieved to be proven correct when her wife's features soften with sympathy.

"I get why you feel that way," Red says sympathetically, "I really do. I just happen to think that your worries are misplaced."

Regina frowns. "I fail to see how. You met my mother."

"Yes, I did, and she was a nasty piece of work. But you are not her." Regina scoffs in objection. "You're not!" Red insists more forcefully. "Are you like her? Yes. But you're not her. That means you have a chance to learn from the mistakes she made with you so you don't repeat them. If the past seven years have taught me anything, it is that you have a good heart beating inside your chest." Regina scoffs a second time at that. "Don't be so dismissive," Red grouses, irritated now on her behalf. "I'm being serious! I think you've always wanted to be a good person, you just lost your way for a while."

"That's an incredibly generous description of events," Regina retorts. If only her enemies could see it that way, she'd have a lot easier go of diplomacy. In her experience, people simply cannot let go of the past...

"Maybe. But it's true." Green eyes swimming with unadulterated love, Red cradles Regina's chin between her thumb and forefinger, keeping their gazes locked. "I see your goodness every day in the way you love me unconditionally. I'm not without my faults, but you've never held them against me. I'm stubborn and reckless and sentimental and emotional, yet you've never asked me to change to suit your preferences. You accept me as I am, and I happen to think that is an indicator you will make a wonderful mother."

Regina nibbles at her lower lip, caught between implicit trust in Red and a woeful lack of it in herself. "I'm glad you think so," she says. "Unfortunately I do not share your unbridled optimism."

Unbidden memories of Snow invade her thoughts. How easy it had been for her to pretend to love her step-daughter like a good mother should! All the while she was consumed by a ravening hatred that made her crave giving the girl a second smile right in front of her bastard of a father. Funny how talk of having a child of her own illuminates how depraved she became where another was concerned. And while Snow certainly bore her fair share of responsibility in Daniel's demise, there was no arguing against her being a minor incapable of comprehending the ramifications of her betrayal.

Ultimately, Regina had chosen to unleash the fury of her devastation on the victim least capable of surviving it, which made her not only a coward but decidedly not the type of person to be responsible for a helpless infant wholly dependent upon her for vital nourishment. How many innocents had she slaughtered in her mad quest to kill Snow White? More than she can reliably account for. Would that effusion of blood stain her child by association? Worse still, how corrupted could that malleable life become were her degenerate nature take control again? In investing herself in extending her line, would she, like her mother before, only wind up raising another monster whose generationally-compounded malevolence surpassed that of it's predecessor? Would the kingdom come to rue the day the Evil Queen spawned a devil worse than her? She just couldn't imagine ever taking the chance of unleashing that much evil upon the unsuspecting world.

Instead of being swayed by her very rational concerns, Red just keeps holding her eyes, that remarkable faith shining all over her features. "In that case I'll just have to keep on reassuring you every single day you until you believe it yourself."

Regina, unsure of whether to kiss the woman for her dedication or shake some sense into her, heaves out a frustrated sigh. "You're not going to let go of this are you?"

"Not a chance." Red releases Regina's chin as she shuffles in close and presses their foreheads together. "I want us to have a baby together," she then says in a breathy whisper full of promise. "Many babies. A castle brimming with babies if I have my druthers."

Regina recoils away with a noise of disbelief, putting a hand's width of space between them. A castle brimming with babies? Adopting an heir will not be so simple. No doubt the nobility will require any potential successor to be of at least minor pedigree, of which there are exceedingly few within the swelled ranks of the kingdom's orphanages. Finding a suitable child will be a delicate task that will entail a measure of luck if any success is to be had. If Red wants many children as she has so stated, biology will have to be involved. And how, exactly, does she expect that to work when there are obstacles, both obvious and secret, that would prevent her from fulfilling her end of the reproductive process?

"You can't be serious." Red says nothing but her eyes tell that tale that she'd spoken truly from the heart.

Regina grows more horrified by the second at the very prospect of enduring multiple pregnancies even though she knows very well it is impossible for her. Endless months of hormonal mood swings followed by hours of ripping pains as she passes an object the size of large vase through a hole tight enough to grip around a single finger. Frankly it sounds like torture, and one she cannot ask Red to endure in good conscience even if they possessed the means to make it possible in the first place. Which they most assuredly do not.

Seizing on the impracticality of conception under the circumstances, she adds, "Just how exactly do you propose to accomplish this miraculous feat? Last time I checked, we're missing an essential appendage required for conception."

Red nods, unperturbed by these irrefutable facts. "So? Like we discussed, we can adopt."

Regina concedes the point with a shrug of her shoulders. Insistent with confidence as Red is that adoption is a wholly acceptable choice, she cannot help but balk at her inability to provide so essential a service to her spouse.

Feeling insecure, she picks at the sheets between their bodies. "That is a viable option, of course. But I fear we will be fortunate to find one suitable child to adopt that the nobility would approve as legitimate successors. They will vastly prefer natural heirs. Which brings up the fact that you're young and fertile and I am neither. Don't you want to get pregnant, to grow large with a child that's been made out of love and bond with it before birthing it into the world?"

Just because she's not keen to go through such an awful ordeal doesn't mean Red feels the same. And judging by the wistful yet pained expression that overtakes that pretty face, Red does not share her reticence.

Red sighs, and the disappointment with which she speaks squeezes at Regina's heart. "You know I want that or else you wouldn't have brought it up. But tell me, who am I going to make a baby with out of love, huh? Because I have to tell you, you've ruined me for anyone else. It's just not possible for me to love anyone else other than you. So that's not gonna happen. And besides, there are so many kids out there of every age that need a home. Wouldn't it be incredible to give some of them a home that is full of love and support and encouragement? One where their parents are madly in love with each other, and have so much to give to a child who only wants to be loved. I don't need to give birth to be a mother, Regina, and neither do you, so don't let that be a hindrance to us having a family. And who gives a rat's ass about what the nobles think? This isn't their kingdom last I checked. They'll accept our kids or take a damn hike. I'll tell 'em myself if I have to."

Regina stares at her wife with a wonderment she ought to have run out of by now. But Red keeps finding ways of surprising her, of exceeding her expectations, and of showing her just how astonishingly vast her reserves of love are.

Tears of joy well up, and she reaches for her wife's hand to thread their fingers together. "You really mean that don't you?" she asks, tone matching her awe of the woman she neither deserves or appreciates nearly enough. "You would really be okay with adopting and never getting to have your own child or fulfill your somewhat illogical dream of singlehandedly repopulating the castle?"

Red gives her a longsuffering look as she thumbs away a tear that Regina hadn't noticed escape her lids. "Of course I would, you silly woman. You're the love of my life! I want a family with you, however we have to go about making that happen."

"Okay, then." Regina whispers the words so faintly that no one else could have heard them but her werewolf of a wife. Her reward is a smile so wide and bright and beautiful that it could never be adequately portrayed by even the most prodigiously talented artists of any realm.

Still smiling, Red's grip on Regina's hand tightens until it is a bit uncomfortable. Her excitement is unmistakable. "Yeah? You really, really want to?"

Regina nods, feeling her own excitement grow. "I really, really do."

"Oh, Regina! Oh! I didn't think you'd say yes, but I'm so happy you did, 'cause I've been talking to Matron Vilenda at the orphanage, and she was telling me about this one couple who waited for so long to adopt..."

Regina listens as Red goes on about the tragedy of a woman who lost her husband and her entire family only to then die in childbirth. Nodding sadly and smiling encouragingly where appropriate, she lets Red gush about the resoundingly successful adoption of the infant boy without a soul in the world left to claim him.

And when Red is finished, eyes alight and cheeks flushed with excitement, she swallows down her many, deeply rooted apprehensions and simply says, "Alright. You've convinced me. As soon as we are able, we'll pay a visit to Vilenda."

Red's exuberant shout of unadulterated joy fills the room and Regina's heart, too. When she finally makes it back to sleep half an hour later, she has a tiny but hopeful smile upon her face.