This is a combination of a prompt sent to me ages ago from @oneresilientheart and a request for some Maleficent/Merida interaction by @trina-deckers. So here you go, you two. I hope this pleases both of you. And I hope all of my readers have a Happy and Safe Halloween!
“Like this, Merida,” she instructs, moving forward and kneeling down so she is eye to eye with the child. “You’re thinking too hard. Just let your body relax and feel the energy move.”
Blue eyes stare back at Maleficent with more than a small amount of wariness as her self-proclaimed aunt opens her palm and gently strokes the lines she finds there.
“That tickles,” the girl mutters, making the older woman smile.
“It’s supposed to,” Maleficent assures her. “That’s how inborn magic feels when it’s itching to get out.”
Small fingers twitch, the need to release what is building internally close to overtaking the girl, and just when Merida thinks she’s going to rocket off the ground, her arm is extended, her hand pointed towards a makeshift mannequin just her size that receives the full impact of her magic. There is no sound, but the child’s body shakes against the older woman’s legs, and she holds the girl steady, trying to remain focused in the brilliant menagerie of an undisciplined yet powerful gift.
The smoke from her hand is silver, dotted with rose-tinged beads that sparkle within its wisps, more veil of light than plume of smoke. It smells of lavender, Maleficent notices, a scent that matches the girls wild curls that spill haphazardly down her back.
“That’s it, Merida,” she assures her, laying her hands on the child’s trembling shoulders. “Let’s see now what you’ve created.”
Small eyes are squeezed shut, afraid of seeing damage or something distorted and ugly, something that will remind her of the birth mother she’s never known but feels marked by all the same. As the fog lifts, Maleficent laughs, a brilliant, bubbly sound that makes Merida’s eyes pop open in wonder.
“What?” the girl questions, looking up to her aunt for answers.
“Just look,” Maleficent instructs, pointing in the direction of the mannequin, no longer bare but clothed in an outfit that shimmers in the sunlight streaming in from the nearby windows.
“A Dragon? I made a dragon?”
They walk towards the costume together, hand in hand, both extending their opposite arms towards a body suit scaled in gray, pewter and pink with horns that look as if they’ve been carved from opal atop a hood just the right size for a girl of nearly five.
“You made a dragon, little one,” Maleficent beams, feeling the unworldly lightness of what should be heavy material, gazing back at the child in amazement as the costume sparkles in her clasp. “And a very complicated and detailed dragon costume, at that. You never told me you wanted to be a dragon for Halloween.”
The girl bites her lower lip, a lopsided grin unleashing deep dimples inherited from her father.
“I thought about it,” she confesses. “Just like I thought about being a football player for trick-or-treating, but Mommy didn’t like that idea too much.”
“Well, I highly doubt your mother will disapprove of this costume,” Maleficent states with more than a bit of awe in her voice. “This is magnificent, Merida.”
The girl is bouncing on her heels, wide-eyed and eager yet stunned all the same.
“I don’t know how I did it, Auntie Mal.”
“You don’t have to know,” Maleficent assures her, taking a small hand within her own. The feel of it makes her heart ache, the tug of lost years and experiences with her own daughter blurring into the present with this child she has come to love as family. “Sometimes, it’s best to let the magic move you. Sometimes, it knows what is needed before you do.”
Merida bites her lower lip, scrunching her freckled nose in the process.
“Isn’t it dangerous to let it do that?”
There’s so much doubt in the girl, fear she recognizes, fear bred from being born a magical being among people who tend to demonize what they themselves don’t possess, the fear of being inherently evil because of the choices made by the woman who carried this precious girl in her body while unleashing unholy hell on everyone else around her.
“Not necessarily,” Maleficent assures her. “You mind always controls your magic, Merida. If you thoughts and heart are in the right place, your magic will be, as well. You only need worry when your thoughts and emotions are completely out of control. That’s when your magic can turn on you.”
The child nods once, her little face drawn inward in concentration.
“You need to stop being afraid of yourself, my sweet girl,” Maleficent continues. “Trust me. If your magic were something to be feared, your mother and I would have found the means to have blocked it for your own safety.” Pink lips part at that, forming a soft “O” shape that speaks of realization. “Now, why don’t we go and finish our snack before I take you home in time to get ready for trick-or-treating?”
Red curls bound into the kitchen at that, drawn by the heady combined scent of cinnamon, brown sugar and pumpkin.
They walk back to her own house nearly an hour later, Maleficent diligent in making sure that sticky cheeks and fingers are washed and that the dragon costume is beautifully and securely packaged before they leave. Merida carries it proudly, she notes with a measure of relief, and if anyone they pass has any ill thoughts about either of them, they think better of uttering them out loud.
Good. There’s no way in hell she’s going to let any prejudiced simpleton with a brain the size of a magic bean ruin this little girl’s Halloween. Her own fingers twitch as she scans the streets with a scowl.
Merida lets herself in, bounding into her house with excited cries of Mommy. Daddy, look what I made flying from her lips. Maleficent steps in behind her, careful to close the door as she hears Regina make her way down the staircase, the younger woman’s belly swollen and hard as the last stages of pregnancy make themselves known. She looks tired, Maleficent notices, a bit paler than usual, and she moves closer to the staircase as Merida dashes towards her mother.
It’s then that everything freezes—literally.
Silver smoke wafts over them, the scent of lavender permeating the room as Regina hangs suspended just above the stairs, her foot having slipped in her eagerness to reach her child, her child who now stands with both arms extended and a look of raw panic in her eyes.
“Let her down gently now, sweetheart,” she manages, moving forward and touching the child’s shoulders just as she had back at her house. “You saved your mother from falling. Now just help her down.”
Merida trembles all over, her eyes fixed and unblinking, holding on to her mother with a ferocity well beyond her years. This must be the same instinctive magic that protected Regina from Zelena when Merida was still inside that woman’s womb, Maleficent reasons, a protective magic she can’t help but believe grew from a combination of her father’s inherent nature and the magic that runs in the veins of all the Mills women.
Plums of rose water and what resembles starlight set Regina down on the bottom step, the younger woman grasping the rail, open-mouthed and shaken as her free hand moves instinctively around her middle. But her eyes never leave her daughter’s, the connection between these two as strong as what could ever exist between a birth mother and child.
“Merida—you saved us.”
The child’s body remains immobile, as if she’s frightened of what will happen if she lowers her arms, so Maleficent presses on them gently, whispering that it’s time to let go, that her mother and baby sister are safe thanks to her, thanks to her magic. Small muscles finally give, and the girl nearly collapses as both women rush to her side and keep her upright. They slowly allow themselves to settle to the ground and huddle together on the floor, a cluster of past, present and future—of purple, black and silver, and words slide off of her tongue before she can stop them, words that shimmer and hover over Regina and Merida before disappearing into their skin.
Merida turns then, facing her aunt with a look of wonder.
“You spoke a blessing over us,” she mutters, her lips continuing to work independently of her voice.
“You understood that? What I said?”
Auburn locks bounce as she shakes her head.
“No,” Merida replies, resting into her mother’s chest as Regina’s arms engulf her. “I just felt it.”
A tear falls down Regina’s cheek, and she kisses Merida’s forehead, pressing her face into the unruly nest of ringlets.
“You feel so much, don’t you, sweetheart?”
Regina’s voice is hoarse as the girl wraps herself around her mother as best she can, burying her head into a chest that’s grown to accommodate a new baby, one that now comforts the child born to her from another woman’s body.
“Too much sometimes, I think,” Maleficent states, seeing Regina nod in agreement as she kisses her daughter once again. Merida doesn’t speak, only holds on to her mother, and it’s beautiful, this scene playing out in front of her, something Maleficent knows Regina never had with Cora, something she herself was denied with Lily—the freedom to love and be loved without judgment from the one whose opinion matters most.
It’s then that Regina’s mouth falls open with a low, guttural sound followed by a gasp of some sort, one accompanied by rounded eyes and furrowed brows as dark eyes gaze directly into hers.
“What is it?” Maleficent asks, helping her friend to her feet, her question answered wordlessly as she spies a small puddle on the floor where Regina had just been kneeling. Merida sees it, too, and she looks frightened again, placing her hands on her mother’s stomach just as the other woman is able to formulate words.
“The baby’s coming,” Regina states, her eyes finding and locking with those of her husband who has just walked in the front door, both boys gaping open-mouthed by his side. They all stand frozen in time for a moment, that is until Roland tugs off his beanie and crosses his arms in an exaggerated pout.
“Does this mean we don’t get to go trick-or-treating?” the boys asks, ducking as both his father and step-brother give him a sound whack on the head.
For the amazing desperationandgin who brings me so much joy, sends me such incredible support and gives me all the feels with her writing. Here you go, my friend. In fulfillment of your request for Little Merida to be talking to the baby when Regina is very pregnant.
Shit.
He’s late for dinner, something he knows will annoy the hell out of Regina. Of course, it isn’t his fault that David needed a hand when his truck battery died on the outskirts of town, nor could he control the fact that cell phone service was spotty for some reason out by the town line. But reasoning isn’t her forte these days—not when she’s eight and a half months pregnant with swollen feet, an aching lower back and recent leg cramps that have been keeping her awake half the night.
And tonight is lasagna night. Of all nights for him to be running late.
The smell of her signature dish hits him as he mounts the front steps, making his stomach rumble loudly enough for him to pause and take notice. What had he had for lunch today? A bologna sandwich that was supposed to have gone into Roland’s lunch box? Oh well, thank God for microwaves at least. The ability to warm cold food so quickly with the push of a button still excites him.
He unlocks the door and steps inside, expecting to hear the house alive with sound—voices, the television, Roland’s X-box, Regina reprimanding somebody for something. But it’s quiet, almost too quiet save a muted whispering coming from the living room.
He turns the corner, taking care to walk as quietly as he can, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him. Regina—stretched out on the couch sound asleep, mouth open, shoes off, hands on her rounded stomach with Merida kneeling beside her, reciting a book she knows by heart in a hushed tone.
It’s Goldilocks and The Three Bears, he realizes, grinning at the number of times either he or Regina have read it to her. He must always play Papa Bear—Merida insists upon it—while she has perfected three distinctive voices, one for Mama Bear, one for Baby Bear and one that sounds remarkably French for Goldilocks herself. The discovery of the little intruder in Baby Bear’s bed turns into a tickle fest more times than not, one that has brought Regina in to calm down pre-bedtime antics more nights than he can count. He angles his head , his heart swelling at the notion that their pint-sized red-headed renegade has read her mother to sleep.
“Hi, Daddy.”
She grins up at him, laying the book aside as she stands to her feet. He’s been caught spying and extends his arms towards her, catching her up in a hug as she dashes towards him, her favorite lavender nightgown bunching around her legs.
“Shhh,” the girl insists. “Mommy’s asleep.”
“I can see that.” He kisses her freckled cheek then, enjoying the dampness of hair that smells like baby shampoo. “Were you reading her a bedtime story?”
She shakes her head, stifling a soft giggle into his shoulder.
“No, silly,” she whispers. “I was reading to my baby sister.”
She’s said things like this throughout Regina’s pregnancy, but they always catch him off-guard, making lumps of emotion clog his throat as blue-eyed innocence gazes back at him.
“To your sister, eh?” He pauses as she nods. “And just what does she think of Goldilocks and her furry friends?”
“Oh—she likes them,” Merida beams. “Even better than The Gingerbread Man.”
“Is that so?” The child’s conviction is unwavering, and his finger dots her nose, wincing as small fingers pinch his in return. “How is it you know that, Merida?”
Her eyes drop then, her shoulders shrugging, a habit she’s recently picked up for reasons unknown whenever someone questions her about the baby.
“I just do.”
Fear starts to shine in her eyes, and he won’t have that—the child is scared enough by her magic and biological link to a woman whose name she won’t even speak.
“Well, I think it’s lovely.”
Her nose scrunches, and she gives him a look oh so reminiscent of the brunette still snoring softly on the couch.
“Neal says it’s weird,” she murmurs. “But Auntie Snow says it’s a special gift.”
“Auntie Snow is right,” he returns, making a mental note to thank the woman the next time he sees her. Merida relaxes in his arms somewhat, her arms hanging around his neck. “Not everyone is born with magic as you were, pumpkin. Many people would pay a king’s ransom to possess what you were given.”
Ginger brows crease as she ponders his words.
“What’s it like, Daddy? To not have magic?”
He sighs, wondering how in God’s name he can even begin to answer this question.
“It’s normal,” he finally states with a shrug. “For me, anyway. And for your brothers.” Her expression falls at that, but he cups her chin and draws those wide eyes back up to his own. “But not for your mother, or Emma, or Auntie Mal, for that matter. Normal for them and for you is entirely different, Merida, and that’s alright. It’s lovely, actually. I wish I could sense everything about your baby sister that you can.”
She studies him with the seriousness of a child twice her age before leaning in until their noses nearly touch.
“She has magic, too.”
Her whisper brushes his cheek, making his heart flutter at her words. It’s something he’s wondered, how could he not with one magical daughter and Regina for a wife, but hearing it spoken with such certainty, a certainty even Regina hasn’t felt both thrills him and makes him pause.
“Then I guess it’s a good thing she’s got you to show her the ropes.”
She pauses, blinking rapidly a few times.
“I guess,” she shrugs, her face alight with something that evidently hadn’t occurred to her until this moment. “You really think so, Daddy?”
She’s biting her lower lip now, a habit she’s picked up from both of parents, one that gets to him every time she does it.
“I know so,” he breathes.
She kisses his cheek then, tickling his skin with the softness of a moth’s wings before sliding down to the floor and skipping back to the book she’d left on the rug. She silently motions for him to come closer, beaming at him when he does before taking a breath and picking up just where she left off. Regina has shifted somewhat, her head now tilted to the side, and he moves to lay a blanket across her bare feet before they turn to icicles. It’s then he spies the slight upturn to her mouth, her mouth that is now closed even as her snores have ceased. She’s heard their conversation, the sneaky woman, and he can’t help but grin down at her as he leans in close and brushes a kiss to her forehead, feeling her move slightly beneath his lips. Her smile is unmistakable,though her eyes remain closed as familiar words in the whispered excitement of a four year old move softly over them.
“Someone’s been sleeping in my bed, said Baby Bear. And there she is.”
I’ve had countless requests to write just how Merida first learned of Zelena and that she was adopted by Regina. So here you go. It sort of ran away with me--I hope you don’t mind.
Many thanks to all of you who continually support and read this universe. I hope you enjoy!
Her Past:
The chime of the doorbell is followed by a rapid pounding, one that makes her drop the knife on to the counter beside a partially peeled potato, nearly nicking her finger in the process.
That’s odd. She isn’t expecting anyone.
More pounding demands her attention, as does a child’s stifled yell, the coupling of these two particular sounds prompting her to move towards the front door without bothering to turn off the burner. Her heart inches towards her throat, and she catches herself sprinting the last few feet, throwing open the door without bothering to see who it is.
It’s Snow. And she doesn’t look good.
She’s holding Merida, in fact, whose head is buried in the crook of the other woman’s neck and shoulder, small hiccups making the child’s body shake as she slowly turns a tear-stained face towards Regina and thrusts out her arms.
“What happened?” Regina questions, examining her daughter for suspected cuts, scrapes or bruises all too often picked up at the playground. She takes the girl into her arms, kissing a damp cheek and stroking matted curls that feel like used sandpaper. “Is she hurt?”
Its then she spies Neal standing beside his mother, his face surly, his lip swollen and bloodied to the point that it resembles a roma tomato. Blue jeans smudged with dirt, sneakers caked with mud, his pout so pronounced it almost speaks for itself--no, these aren’t the signs of a regular afternoon at the park. Something is definitely wrong.
“Were they in an accident?” Regina continues, cupping the back of Merida’s head as the girl pastes herself to her mother’s chest, her legs wrapping around Regina’s waist as tightly as her small arms twist around her neck. “Or a fight?” She rubs Merida’s back, the material of her blouse now sodden and sticking to her shoulder. No limbs are positioned at odd angles, she has yet to spy any blood on her daughter...a wasp sting, perhaps?
“Not exactly,” Snow states, pausing just long enough to rattle her nerves even further. There’s something in the way she’s looking at Merida, something that tells Regina that what happened today is far bigger than stings, stitches or splinters. Something that claws peskily at her insides and makes her want to yell.
“Well?” Regina snaps, unable to stomach the suspense any longer. “Why is she so upset? Did something scare her?”
“Regina,” Snow cuts in, her expression settling as her eyes hone in directly. “It might be better if we talked about this inside.”
Something is off—very off—so much so that a knot of dread plops into her stomach and doubles in size on contact. She steps back, allowing Snow to drag Neal into the foyer before closing the door and leading the way into the living room. The ceilings seem higher than usual, the walls colder, the light muted and tired.
“Okay,” Regina begins as she sits on the edge of the sofa, Merida still attached to her like a baby Koala. Neal plops down beside his mother, obviously fuming over something, but what exactly, she has no idea. “We’re inside. What’s going on?”
Her daughter shakes her head against her neck as Regina attempts to shift her into a more comfortable position, moisture and mucus dampening her skin and blouse even further. She pulls the girl back just far enough to look at her face, her skin red and blotched, her nose and eyes puffy.
“Merida,” Regina utters gently, wondering why her child won’t look her in the eye. She’s still sobbing, her breath coming in snatches and gulps as she wipes her nose with her sleeve. “What’s the matter, baby?”
The girl throws herself back on to her mother’s chest, her tears falling in earnest now.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Neal mutters, pointing at Merida and shaking his head. “It wasn’t mine, either, Auntie Gina.”
“What wasn’t her fault?” Regina utters as puzzle pieces try to fit themselves together unsuccessfully in her mind.
“We know that, Neal,” Snow assures him, rubbing his back and silently nudging him closer to her. “Nobody is angry with you or Merida.” Her focus returns to Regina, her eyes steely, her mouth set. “Our kids aren’t at fault here, just so you know.”
“Would you kindly just tell me what the hell is going on?”
She bites her lip, hating that she just lost control in front of Neal and Merida. But she can’t call the words back, can’t scoop them up and put them back in her mouth, so she leaves them lying there between them, her body now void of malice, her shoulders beginning to stoop under the weight of worry.
“I’m sorry,” she utters, trying to breathe in and out at a more regulated pace. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I just need to know what happened...”
“He was mean to her.”
It’s Neal who interrupts, his expression scrunched and angry, his bottom lip jutting out to the point of almost being comical.
“Somebody was mean to Merida?” Regina clarifies, catching Snow’s eye.
“A boy said something to her,” Snow states as she continues to rub her son’s back. “About Zelena.”
Dread shoots up her spine instantly, paralyzing her to the spot, making her forget how to breathe no matter how strongly her lungs protest.
“He said nobody should play with Merida ‘cause her mommy was a wicked witch, and if she didn’t get her way, she’d turn us all into frogs or something.”
The words gush out of Neal as Merida’s grip on her tightens, constricting her rib cage to the point that breathing is now a decided effort. She feels disembodied, like she’s seeing this scene play out through a tunnel in slow motion or portrayed by smudged, painted figures on a canvas.
It isn’t supposed to happen this way. This conversation is not supposed to happen yet. And Robin is supposed to be here when it does.
“Oh God,” Regina breathes, unsure if the words actually fell from her lips or not. Her fingers move instinctively into Merida’s hair, stroking, touching, trying her best to soothe as her hands tremble uncontrollably. “Who? Who did this?”
“One of Old Lady Stringer’s sons,” Snow answers, the set of her jaw tight and angry. “Todd, I think.”
“The old biddy shouldn’t have so many kids if she can’t teach them any better than to pick on little girls,” Regina spits. Her spine is cold now, cold enough to shoot ice crystals through her chest and out her eye sockets.
“I agree, but that’s neither here nor there,” Snow states, inhaling noisily in an obvious attempt to keep the conversation somewhat calm. “What matters at the moment is that Merida is upset.”
It irks her that Snow’s observation is so spot on. She shifts as best she can with Merida planted on her lap, shuddering at the imagined sound of fingernails scraping down a chalkboard.
“I’m aware of that,” Regina manages, shoving down wells of anger just begging to be unleashed, knowing this is neither the time nor the place to give full reign to her fury.
“I told him to say sorry,” Neal interjects. “That I was gonna tell on him for being mean to Merida. But he told me that I was just a baby with a witch for a girlfriend and that I should go play with my dolls.”
Regina pauses, truly examining the boy’s face—his swollen lip, loud streaks of red fading to yellows and purplish-grays just beneath is right eye.
“What did you do, Neal?” she questions, fairly certain of the answer already.
“I tackled him,” Neal replies, sounding indignant that she had even had to ask. “He was being a bully, and bullies shouldn’t win.”
She hears David’s inflection seeping out of the five year old’s mouth. The realization warms her like hot chocolate.
“Come here,” she instructs, careful to keep her tone level. Neal blinks repeatedly before he swallows and takes a step forward, clearly frightened he’s gotten himself in trouble. “You stood up for Merida against a bigger boy?”
The child nods, his bottom lip growing by the second.
“That was very brave,” Regina states just before she waves her palm over the child’s face. Dots of silver flash before him as he sucks in air, but then he smiles, touches his no longer swollen lips, carefully examines his eye and cheek now the color of skin rather than injury. “Does that feel better?”
“Yeah!” the boy exclaims, his face splitting into a grin identical to his mother’s as he looks from one woman back to the other. “Thanks, Auntie Gina.”
Snow smiles as he moves back into the crook of her outstretched arm, and Regina watches as he snuggles into the comfort of his mother, now content and blemish free.
At least one child feels better, she thinks as Merida sobs anew against her chest. At least one child will sleep tonight without difficulty.
If only she had a potion to take away the punishing effects of words and hard facts, one she could feed to her daughter before she tells her facts that could reduce the girl into a pile of shreds labeled Mills. Her mother created quite the legacy, she muses, one of selfishness and self-derision, of ambition gone wrong and love skewed beyond recognition, one that branded her as a child and still makes her limp emotionally when no one is looking besides her husband.
This is the legacy she now must pass on to her daughter. That she was conceived in a lie, carried as revenge, born after an attempted murder, all because her grandmother deemed her biological mother unworthy of raising. The lump in her throat swells like a sponge tossed into a bathtub.
Snow stands, taking her son’s hand, stopping just in front of Regina, her brow scrunched in concern.
“Does she know?”
The words are mouthed, not voiced, yet they clatter to the floor with the weight of a canon. Regina shakes her head. Snow closes her eyes.
“We’ll leave the two of you alone,” Snow states loudly enough for the children to hear. Regina’s throat constricts another notch with each step the other woman takes towards to the door, and she fights down the urge to call her back, to ask Snow to stay, to beg her to do this for her as a new terror grips her hard. She’s frightened of telling Merida the truth. Frightened she’ll mess up. Frightened Merida won’t understand. Frightened her family might crumble away to nothing as her life has in the past, leaving her alone and fully responsible, the mother who could never get anything right, the reformed evil queen clutching to a happy ending faded beyond recognition.
“Mommy?”
It’s her daughter who calls her back, all smudged freckles and blue eyes, bruised shins and battered heart.
“Is it true?”
Her voice is no sturdier than a wrung out washcloth, her nose now nearly the same shade as her hair.
“Is what true?” Regina asks, nearly rolling her eyes at her own ridiculous question.
“Am I a witch?”
The eyes that look back at her are the eyes of her father. And they gently demand the truth.
“No,” Regina replies, losing her fingers in red curls she knows by heart. “You’re not.”
Merida coughs, and Regina conjures a box of Kleenex just beside them, placing one into a warm, sweaty palm that still smells of swings and sand.
“Are you my real mommy?”
Blackness dots her vision. She is hollow, completely hollow and frozen, save for the pain in her chest reminding her that her heart still beats.
“I am,” Regina answers. “But I didn’t carry you inside my body.”
Merida’s nose screws up as her face morphs into a scrunched pout, one that oddly reminds Regina of a squished troll. She tosses the notion aside, summoning Robin home as best she can with her thoughts, casting them broadly across Storybrooke, hoping they’ll find him and tug on his sleeve.
“You’re my adopted daughter, Merida,” she clarifies, stopping to rid her throat of pesky clumps. “All of my children are adopted—Henry, Roland, and you.”
The new word sits in front of the girl, and she reaches out for it with small hands that clasp her mother’s shoulders and mucus she sniffs up her nose.
“What’s ‘dopted?” she asks, clearly perplexed yet hopeful, as though Regina has just tossed her a lifeline in the deep end of panic.
“It means I chose you. I picked the three of you to be mine.”
She’s confused again, God, she’s only just turned four. This is a conversation they were supposed to have together—she and Robin and Merida—one that should have waited until her fifth or sixth birthday when she could better grasp an abstract concept and process the fact that her biological mother was someone she is much better off without.
“A woman can become a mother two ways,” Regina attempts to clarify. “One way is by carrying a baby in her body, letting her grow and get big enough to breathe on her own.”
“Like Emma?” Merida questions, her eyes widening in recognition. “When her tummy was really big with Baby Arthur?”
“Yes,” Regina confirms, continuing to stroke her child’s hair. “Exactly like Emma.”
“But I didn’t grow in your tummy?”
The question stings in its innocence, conjuring swirled images of Cora and Leo, of Robin’s face when he first said the word pregnant, of Zelena asking her to not give her unborn child away.
“No, sweetheart,” Regina admits. “My body can’t carry babies. So instead, I find children who need a mother and make them my own.”
She sees the wheels in the girl’s mind spinning, whirling, grinding into thoughts until she can dissect and make sense of them for herself.
“So I needed a mommy?” Merida asks. Regina’s entire skeleton shudders at once.
“Yes, sweetheart,” she responds, her voice the texture of warm milk. “You did.” She pauses, breathing in, holding in the air, letting it out slowly to settle her mind and quiet her limbs. “The woman who carried you inside her, who gave birth to you…her name was Zelena. She was my sister. And she died when you were born.”
There’s very little reaction, less than she’d expected, until blue eyes hone in on her without a single blink.
“She was the witch,” Merida states flatly. Regina’s hands cup the girl’s face instinctively, preparing her, grounding her, despising the inevitability of this moment as much as she had Henry and Roland’s discovery of her own mired past.
“She was,” Regina answers. “But you aren’t.”
Merida’s eyes turn liquid, her breathing accomplished in puffs and spurts.
“How do you know, Mommy?”
The question is whispered, as if giving it voice will make it true.
“Because evil is a choice.”
Her declaration is solid. It stands on its own two feet, even as her own have gone completely numb. Their eyes lock, Regina’s resolute, Merida’s uncertain.
“It’s made, Merida,” she continues, her fingers sliding to the back of the child’s head. “Not born. Only you can turn yourself into a wicked witch, my darling. No one else has that kind of power over your destiny.”
A tear drips from rose petal lashes, another crystallizing in the crook of her left eye.
“How do you know?” the child mutters, wiping her nose with the well-worn Kleenex. “How can you be sure?”
“Because I’ve made those choices,” she admits, the words burning her tongue, leaving a residual of sand on her palate. “Both the wrong ones and the right ones. There was a time in my life that I chose evil, Merida, when I hurt people and did terrible things.”
Her pulse runs away with her as a dull ringing resounds in her ears.
“But you’re good, Mommy.”
For a fleeting second, she wishes the world were this simple, that good and evil were black and white, that grays wouldn’t cling to her insides like damp stockings continually pinching all the wrong places. But grays are not an appropriate pallet for a four year old whose primary language is that of primary colors and do’s and don’ts. Grays are not something her daughter understands.
Regina chooses black and white.
“I’m good now, Merida,” she states, the words awkward, their taste foreign. “Because I decided to change my life and choose good over evil. It’s that simple.”
Curls brush her fingers as the girl nods and chews on her lower lip.
“Why did you choose evil before?”
The question nearly gets lost, barely making it out of the child’s mouth, her lips pressed together so closely it’s a wonder Regina heard her at all. Her stomach flips twice, her lids flutter shut, and she wishes again for Robin, craving his assurance, needing his ability to make everything complicated sound as simple as sloshing through puddles. She files through explanation after explanation, fully aware of how hollow each sounds even to her own ears, trying her best not to mix colors in the process.
How will her daughter see her after today? Next week? Ten years from now?
How will she see herself?
“Because I was wrong,” she says, choosing the simplest yet most honest answer. “And I listened to the wrong people.”
Merida’s nose twitches as she reads her mother’s face, her fingers needing a tactile distraction. She chooses the button’s on Regina’s blouse, rubbing their smooth surface, gazing at them as if they were made of diamonds rather than plastic and thread.
“I decided it was more important to hurt the people who had hurt me instead of forgiving them and moving on,” Regina expounds. “Then one day, Henry helped me realize that the person I was hurting the most was myself. He helped me make better choices and become a better mother.”
The words morph from gravels to putty as they filter through her lips, and she marvels at the wonder of it, how simply speaking frankly with her daughter unravels a knot in her chest she’d forgotten still existed.
“I wanted to hit Todd when he said those things about me,” the girl murmurs. She’s not looking at her mother now, her gaze fixed and steady on the third button. “Does that make me evil?”
“Not at all,” Regina hastens, a smile fighting its way out. “To tell the truth, I’d like to hit him, too.”
Her sniffly giggle sounds like Mozart to Regina’s ears, the smile that accompanies it more priceless than the Mona Lisa.
“Getting angry doesn’t make you bad, Merida,” Regina assures her, touching her forehead to her daughter’s. “It’s what we do with our anger that’s important.”
The girl’s lips are twitching, words struggling to form, ones she obviously doesn’t want to say sneaking their way out.
“She…her…Zelena…”
Her eyes fly back to the button, her chin quivering, her hands fisting into balls.
“She’s really dead?”
The child’s fear is tangible, spilling out of her, leaving her small body shaking in its wake and her mind twisting itself into pretzels.
“Yes,” Regina whispers, nudging her child nose to nose, pulling her close, breathing her in. “She’s really dead. You don’t have to be afraid of her.”
Merida’s eyes flutter, and she swallows--once, twice until she summons the courage to ask what she needs to know.
“So she can’t come back and take me away from you?”
Regina’s arms tremble without warning. The world feels suddenly cold, as if the impossible were taunting her from beyond the grave.
“No, sweetheart,” she states, closing her mind to the mere possibility of life without this child. “Nobody can ever take you away from me. I’m your mother.”
Her lungs nearly collapse as Merida hurls herself straight into Regina’s chest, her nose pressed to her mother’s shoulder, small arms fastened around her neck. They remain like this for seconds, minutes, mutually deciding that it really doesn’t matter if neither of them cares. This child is of her body, Regina muses, even if she didn’t grow in her womb or kick against her ribs. They are attached in every way possible—emotionally, physically, pressed together like two colors of Play Do now combined to form something new.
They finally separate to breathe and look at each other.
“I don’t want her as my first mother.”
The confession hovers between them, an invisible vapor that won’t go away. This is just the beginning, Regina realizes, the beginning of a lifetime of questions and confusion, realities she wishes she could brush away for her child like her stubborn red tangles at the end of the day. There will be many discussions, tears in the backyard, whispers behind closed doors, doubts and derision, reminders and repeated words that carry more weight than any obstacle the family will face.
I love you. You’re my child. You’re my mommy. I will always choose you. I will never let you go.
They will bathe in these utterances, will wear them as a shield, will cling to them when night presses in and accusations whisper with mocking tones and dogged persistence. They will glue them together with a bond that defies description, a bond fashioned of the most powerful form of magic that exists. Merida is a child of true love. Not through the manner of her conception by any means, but through the choices her parents have made and will continue to make for the rest of their lives.
“I know, baby,” Regina hums, feeling as helpless as she had when Henry ran away. She hates that her daughter now bears a wound, one that will heal but leave a permanent scar. She knows about scars--she’s an expert at them, in fact, seeing her own in marked clarity when exhaustion and self-doubts creep in, seeing Robin’s when he slides off his own personal armor before climbing into bed with the one person he fully trusts with his nakedness each night. “But there’s nothing you can do to change that.” She collects the girl’s hands in her own, tracing lines as they sit almost motionless. “You can only be in charge of what happens now.”
A new energy pulses between them. Their pulse rates fall into synch.
“I don’t know how,” Merida sighs. She almost deflates into her mother’s lap before Regina takes the girl’s chin into her grasp and lifts it so they’re staring eye to eye.
“Don’t worry about that,” Regina assures her, conjuring a smile from the depths of her past, present and future. She will guard this child. She will love this child. She will never let her doubt that her real mother loves her to the moon and back. “That’s why you have me.”
In response to the many requests for Merida and Zelena’s back-story in “Her” verse. Have a lovely Monday, everyone.
She never expected this.
It’s too much, the way her chest constricts at the sight of this child she’s half-feared for months on end, the overpowering need she feels to hold this baby to her chest—the very baby conceived with the express intent of destroying her happiness. Where had it come from, this desire to tuck this child into the crook of her elbow and rock her tiny body close to her heart, to sing to her, to kiss her forehead, to cherish this infant who nearly cost her everything, to cradle her soft head so she never doubts that she’s loved and wanted?
Loved. And wanted.
For she is.
She’s Robin’s daughter—Zelena’s daughter—her daughter, damn it. This baby is a wanted child, a child born to a father—no, to two parents who will love and raise her in a manner so that she will never doubt just how special she is.
Even if the woman who gave birth to her tried to kill her in an unexpected ambush just hours ago. Even if that same woman is now dead.
Dead. The thought still makes her shiver.
Don’t give her away, whatever you do.
Her voice had been weak, the color draining rapidly from sickly olive skin, but her eyes—they’d been clear, focused, alert…and desperate. Regina knows she’ll never forget how her sister’s eyes looked straddling the juncture between life and death.
Don’t blame her for what I’ve done, Regina. You can’t let people hurt her because of me.
Zelena—
Promise me.
She’d been numb in the midst of confusion, an icy hand clutching her arm until it began to throb. People were blurs, noise non-existent, her every sense honed in on seconds ticking by that would forever alter her life.
Promise me…
I promise. This baby is Robin’s, and I’ll raise her as my own. I promise.
Just like Henry?
The question had hit her squarely in the chest, and she’d nodded without thinking.
Just like Henry.
Then it was over.
So here she stands by the incubator cocooning new life, a life both strong and fragile, one hooked up to tubes and ventilators, one so small she could cup it in two hands. How in God’s name had she ever been afraid of this baby, she wonders? How had she ever wanted to wish her away?
“Fight, little one,” she instructs, her hand reaching through the round opening and touching the baby’s hand. “You have to be brave now. You have to be strong.”
Tiny fingers wrap around her own, almost as if the child can hear and understand what she says. Her eyes fill, and she swallows, her throat thick, her heart full, her mind focused on one thing and one thing only.
This baby. This little girl. Robin’s daughter.
Her daughter.
“Just like Henry,” she whispers as a tear spills over and marks her cheek. But Henry hadn’t been forcibly extracted from his Emma’s womb prematurely in an attempt to save his life. He hadn’t had to fight to breath on his own, hadn’t had to spend his first minutes plugged into machines, blocked from normal human touch by protective plastic that somehow feels like a shell.
“Be brave, my sweet girl,” she instructs yet again, biting her lower lip, closing her eyes in a prayer to whomever might be listening.
Then someone clears his throat behind her. Whale.
“There’s something you need to know,” he begins, and she’s hesitant to look at him, unwilling to take her eyes off of the baby.
“About?”
“About her.”
She finally gazes back at him, nerves making her palms twitch sporadically.
“About the baby?” she questions, and he nods twice. She looks back at the little girl and tries to push down an impeding sense of panic, tasting the sharp edge of bile in the back of her throat. “What about her? Is there something wrong we don’t know about?”
His delay in answering robs all remaining moisture from her mouth.
“I don’t think so,” he begins, taking a step closer as his voice drops in volume. “Not physically, anyway.”
Ice creeps up the back of her legs, rooting her to the spot where she stands.
“Then what is it?” Regina asks, looking back at the baby, feeling the child’s grip holding steady on her finger. “Just what are you trying to tell me, doctor?”
She focuses on breathing in and out, on holding herself together, regardless of what he says, of being strong for Robin in case the roof caves in once and for all.
“I think I know what killed her mother.”
Her breath catches in her ribs.
“What did—“
“She did it,” he continues, gesturing towards the incubator. “The baby, I mean.”
He’s lost it, she thinks to herself. He’s finally, finally cracked. She opens her mouth to dispute him, but he beats her to the punch, raising a flat palm in her direction.
“I know how this sounds, believe me,” Whale adds. “But hear me out. Just before Zelena collapsed, she tried to curse you—right?”
You underestimated me, sis. You let yourself believe that pregnancy has made me soft and sentimental.
Regina nods, trying to keep her mind rooted in the present and up to speed with what he is saying.
“She tried to kill me,” she clarifies, pausing to clear her throat. “With a mortal curse.”
“But it backfired,” he continued, and she nods in affirmation. “Do you have any idea how that happened?”
Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Her sister had been a powerful witch. Regina should be dead right now.
“Regina,” he dares. “Zelena’s body is covered with the scars of dark magic, and they’re very distinctive if you know what you’re looking for, as I do.” He pauses, inhaling audibly. “But the pattern—the pattern the scars have left on your sister, well, it’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What do you mean?’ she prompts him. Her stomach curls around itself in dread.
“I mean that they seem to be drawing a map of what happened,” Whale explains, his face alight with excitement. “And they aren’t showing straight lines branching outward as you’d expect to see when a curse is cast. Instead, the pattern shows that Zelena conjured dark magic from within, no surprise there, and then tried to shoot it out at you.”
“This is hardly new information,” Regina interjects.
“Yes, but…” he continues, practically bouncing on his feet. “But then there’s a looping pattern, that’s what’s odd, one that shows that her own body—or her own baby, I should clarify, rejected the darkness she was trying to use to kill you, and it imploded as a result.”
The room starts to spin around her as her vision clouds over with spots.
“Are you saying…”
“I’m saying that that little girl wouldn’t accept dark magic and somehow redirected its path,” he interrupts, nodding his head in the baby’s direction. “That she somehow rerouted the curse back towards herself rather than letting it harm someone else—you, to be specific. But in doing so, it hit Zelena head on and began to rip her apart, beginning with her placenta.”
She can’t think, can’t process, can barely even breathe.
“If that’s true, then it means…”
“It means that baby saved your life,” Whale finishes for her. “At the risk of her own.”
Evil isn’t born, she thinks to herself, unaware that her lips silently form the pattern of the words.
“It means that little girl effectively diffused her mother’s bomb just as she threw it in your direction. This baby has some sort of magic, Regina, magic that didn’t mesh with her mother’s—not at all. But magic she somehow used to defeat her.”
Images collide in her brain, swirling in some sort of mad menagerie that makes her sick to her stomach. Oh, God. She’s going to pass out.
It’s then she feels him behind her, and she leans back into his chest, absorbing his hold around her waist, gripping his arm to keep herself upright in a dream-like reality.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, and she leans into him, feeling his heart beat from beneath his jacket. He is here. He is real. And so is their baby.
“Pretty heroic for a motherless child, I’d say,” Whale concludes with a shrug. Her head snaps up at that, and she feels Robin stiffen behind her.
“She has a mother,” Regina corrects him, a fire burning in her gut that can be lit only by her children. “I am her mother now, she is my daughter, and I will personally deal with anyone who claims otherwise. Is that clear?” Her entire body is shaking, and Robin holds her all the tighter.
Whale nods before he can speak.
“Of course,” he manages as he turns on his heels. “If there’s nothing else…”
He’s gone before his sentence is complete.
“You heard?” she whispers, more of a statement than a question, and he nods in response.
“I heard,” he returns, his fingers gripping and releasing her waist. “My God, she’s already a hero, Regina. And there were times that I wished…that I wanted…”
He’s broken, completely and utterly broken, and she turns partially in his arms, her finger still engulfed by those of her new daughter’s, her head pressed into his chest.
“I know,” she assures him, and she kisses his cheek. “She saved my life, Robin. Your—our daughter—she saved my life.”
His tears drip on to her scalp, and she lets them without moving a muscle, absorbing them into her skin.
“She saved your life,” he echoes, his hold on her gentle yet firm, his arm muscles flexing beneath the coarse material of his shirt.
“Just like Henry,” she utters to herself, her heart swelling to twice its size as small fingers give her own a squeeze.
Prompt idea: Little Merida Mills-Locksley one day overhears that her birth mother was responsible for the death of her brother's dad and her other brother's mom and asks them if they hate her for that. Robin and Regina listen in on the heartbreaking conversation between their children. - If you are interested. I'm crying only thinking about this. Thanks
Thank you so much for this gorgeous prompt! I hope it’s fulfillment lives up to your hopes. :)
Her Fears:
He finds her outside of Roland’s room, her ear practicallypressed to the door, her stance tense and rigid.
“What—”
Regina silences him with a finger to his lips, grabbing his armto bring him closer to her.
“Shhhh,” she instructs without a sound, pointing to the door,her eyes wide and concerned. It’s then he hears Henry’s muffled voice followedby a deep cough from Roland, the timbre still too wet for his liking. The boyhas been fighting bronchitis for the past four days, and he wonders if theyshould take him back to the doctor.
“Tha…not true, Merida,” Henry states, and Robin leans incloser, suddenly distracted as he tries to make out conversation funneledthrough wood.
“But she…killed your dad,” Merida replies, some of her wordslost in the journey. “And…mom, Roland.”
“Oh my God,” Robin breathes, and Regina nods back at him,her grip on his arm all the tighter.
“Doesn’t that make you two hate me?”
The girl’s words are loud enough to travel straight to hisears and into his heart, and he clutches Regina’s waist, feeling a deep pain alwaysreserved for his youngest child, one conceived under the worst possiblecircumstances, circumstances he’s tried to protect her from since she drew herfirst breath.
There’s some sort of movement, and he hears Merida crying.His hand reaches for the door knob instinctively, but Regina pulls him back, beseechinghim to wait with her in silence.
“Don’t cry,” Henry insists, and the boy must be sittingcloser to the door now, for his words are much easier to make out. “We don’thate you. You’re our little sister, and we love you with all of our hearts.”
“But she…she,” Merida sobs, and he breathes in as Reginaleans into him. “She did terrible things. She took away your parents.”
“She did,” Roland answers before launching into a smallcoughing fit. Regina tenses at the sound, and he knows she worries over himevery bit as much as he does, a mother to all three of their children to thecore of her being. “But you didn’t.”
There’s more crying, and he’s certain he hears Henrymurmuring to the girl, making him wonder if she’s crawled up into her oldestbrother’s lap as she’s inclined to do. Merida’s adoration of Henry nearly borderson hero-worship, and Robin feels tears pricking the rims of his eyes when heconsiders what a wonderful impact his step-son has had on their daughter.
“But…I…look…like her,” Merida sputters, and Roland coughsagain, clearing his throat as feet move across the floor.
“No you don’t,” Roland replies. He must be sitting next toHenry and Merida now, Robin surmises, judging from the volume of his voice. “Trustme. I remember what Zelena looked like, and you’re a lot prettier. Not nearlyas scary, either.”
He can’t help but smile at that, but he hears Regina sniff.His fingers reach for her cheek automatically, and she turns to look at him,her eyes as full as his heart.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, and he cradles her head to hisshoulder, feeling her sentiments to his toes.
“You look like yourself,” Henry adds. “Just like I look likeme, and Roland looks like Roland.”
“Roland looks like Mommy,” Merida insists, and both boyslaugh before Roland launches yet again into a round of hacking coughs.
“I know,” Roland manages. “Not sure how that happened.”
Robin chuckles into her hair, and she leans back to kiss hischeek, relaxing into his hold one muscle at a time.
“We’re a different kind of family, Merida,” Henry continues.“But that’s alright. We’re family. Our parents love us just the way we are.What happened in the past really doesn’t matter anymore, you know. Our mom madesome bad decisions a long time ago, but she decided to change her life for thebetter, and look at what has happened.”
He feels her breath catch in her chest, and he kisses her temple,losing his fingers in dark satin locks that ensnared him at first glance.
“Mommy is good,” Merida states, and he’s beaming now,wrapping his arms around her waist completely, holding her as close as he can.
“So is Papa,” Roland adds. “Even though he has messed uppretty badly sometimes.”
Regina chuckles, prompting him to bite his lower lip as heshrugs in acknowledgement. Roland’s words are an understatement, a fact he liveswith on a daily basis, counting himself the luckiest of all men that this womanin his arms is actually here with him, raising children he sired with others withthe same passion as if she’d carried them in her womb.
God, he doesn’t deserve her.
“They’re heroes,” Henry says. “Both of them. And we can be, too, all threeof us. But it’s up to us, you know. Every day. We have to make our owndecisions and be the best people we can be, regardless of whose blood we havein our bodies. Remember, my grandpa is the Dark One.”
He hears a soft, girlish giggle, and his shoulders relax anotch or two.
“And my uncle is the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Roland adds. “Hewas a real jerk.”
“But what about the new baby?” Merida asks. Regina tenses inhis arms, and he stands taller, wondering what sort of turn this conversationhas just taken.
“What new baby?” Henry asks.
“What new baby?” Robin repeats into his wife’s ear.
“Our baby sister,” Merida explains. “The one in mommy’stummy. Didn’t you know?”
One hand splays over her abdomen instinctively, and he turnsher face towards his with the other, his heart beating so hard it’s a wonderthey children can’t hear it in the other room. He can barely breathe as darkeyes look back at him in wonder, a solitary tear cascading down marble skin asshe nods in breathless confirmation.
“Mom’s pregnant?” Roland cries, coughing once for emphasis.
“You’re pregnant?” he whispers, his legs now as sturdy astoothpicks, his heart swelling against the confines of his ribs.
“Yes,” Merida answers. “I can’t believe you guy didn’t know!”
“Yes,” Regina breathes, and he pulls her as close as he can,absorbing this miracle into his soul, feeling like the least deserving man onthe planet, but one who will never take for granted what he’s been given.
“H-how?” he stammers, shaking his head. “I thought, I mean…”
“I know,” she returns. “Believe me. I know. I’m as stunnedas you are.”
He kisses her then—he can’t help it, full and passionate,open-mouthed and overwhelmed. Mouths cling to each other until the door behindthem opens, three sets of eyes staring at them in a wordless gape.
“You’re pregnant?” Henry questions, and Robin can’t tellwhich of the two boys appears most shocked.
“I am,” Regina answers, and they’re flogged by theirchildren, creating an odd sort of five-person heap in the hallway.
“And it’s a sister,” Merida states just before Robin lifts herup into his arms, kissing a freckled cheek soundly, happy to see that the girl’seyes are no longer wet, even if they are still rimmed with red. “Can you loveanother girl, Daddy?”
He stops short at this, and Regina slides in beside him,taking one of Merida’s hands in her own, giving the child a look that makes himwonder if the two of them have already had a similar conversation.
“Of course, I can,” he answers, stifling a well of new tearsthreatening to fall with every breath. “I have the best girls in the world, youknow.”
The child’s lower lip sticks out, and he wonders what isplaying out in that complex little mind of hers.
“And if she looks like Mommy?” Merida questions. “Will you loveher more?”
The hall is silent then, even Roland’s cough subdued by the seriousnessof her question.
“More than you?” Robin returns. “No. More than your mommy?Never. More than Roland or Henry? Not at all.” He breathes in deeply, staringat each member of his family in a moment that feels almost surreal. “More thanmy own life? Yes. Just as I love you, Merida Grace,” he assures her, nudging hernose with his own. “Just as I love each and every one of you. You’re my life,my heart, my…”
He stops, his throat thickened past the point of speech, andhis tears fall unhindered, wetting his face, filling his spirit. Small andlarge hands embrace him from all directions, the scents of his sons minglingwith those of his wife and daughter in a perfect menagerie that transcends therealm of humanity.
“My family,” he finishes as they stand together united,Mills and Locksley, blood and bone. “My perfect, perfect family.”
