Chapter Text
Edging
Queen Regina of Thornewood is a proud, formidable sort of woman — the kind that mothers have long told their children to avoid if they can, and approach with caution if they cannot. Though perhaps it is to be expected, for one with the weight of a Kingdom on her shoulders. And Regina's Kingdom is formidable — the largest in the realm by quite some measure, passed down her family line throughout time immemorial. Like a folk song, it has changed its tune subtly each time it has been shared. Her lands are as much her own as the generations that preceded her, as much her forbears as she can bear to retain. Still, Regina's style of ruling is forthright, with directness colouring her diplomacy and rendering anyone who might think themselves an enemy to think twice before crossing her. To her allies, it's her greatest strength. To anyone who dares to cross her, it's her greatest flaw.
To Regina, it's survival. Experience has taught her to take with force the things that she desires, rather than to risk them slipping through her fingers, to risk being taken from.
To date, there are only two people who have dared to follow through and attempt to take that which they seek from her.
The first was her mother, who had tried to take her life.
Queen Cora had been a terrible mother, all told. Either absent or cruel, and often tempted by the dark side of power, she had always expected perfection from her only daughter in a manner that had always made Regina question whether she could ever be enough. Still, Regina's father had been a doting sort, and he had seen to it that his wife was never too forceful in her shaping of his beloved princess. For as much of a cautious balance the three had maintained throughout her childhood, it had all shattered on the night that Regina's father had died, a single pin falling and throwing Regina into a stomach-lurching nightmare feom she still hasn't been able to awaken.
He had been killed — and no one had seen the murderer, nor the weapon — but whoever had done the deed had left his kingdom in the hands of a thirteen year old girl and her grieving mother. Cora had lost all semblance of the kinder parts of herself on the very same day. Terrified that she was going to lose the control that she had relied on her husband to give her, and that the young princess would seek revenge for her painful childhood, Regina's mother had turned her spells against her own daughter.
"Love is weakness," Cora had shouted to her stunned daughter, compelled by her grief to impart one final lesson. "I know that now more than ever."
Regina had survived, somewhat unexpectedly.
In the heat of the moment, her fear had transformed into purple wisps of magic that had clung to her mother like venomous snakes, squeezing and wringing the danger from the room until all that had been left was her crown, jagged edges glittering like knives in the moonlight.
And so Regina had become an orphan, a sorcerer and a Queen all in one evening.
~.~
The reason why Regina has become such a formidable creature is not widely known, even a decade and some change later, when she has become every part the Queen that her mother's crown dictates — from its perch atop Regina's carefully sculpted ebony curls. Time has been kind to the young queen, with her sharp, undiluted beauty renowned throughout the realm. But there remains a growing tide of dissent amongst her court at her lack of urgency to find a husband and begin producing heirs.
And so, to appease them, she had agreed to host a ridiculous farce of a tourney — a charade more than anything, a chance for a male heir to another kingdom to win himself an audience and a chance to woo her.
As if her happy ending would ever be something so trivial as a man.
But still, with all the questionable grace and unflinching inevitability of a boulder rolling down a hill, they had paraded and performed and tried to prove their prowess.
Regina had been largely uninterested, though she had of course performed a perfect guise of feigned attentiveness. Her interest had only been real for one of the knights in attendance. It hadn't been at his perfect record, which was impressive, despite the blandness of his competition. Even she'd had to admit he was in a league of his own.
No, this knight — one of the King's Sun Guard of the adjacent Somersfeld to the South, a land famed for its fair-haired rulers and rich gold-mines under its sandy plains — had impressed, and galled, Regina with his single false step, his single failure. He had fallen in the final Joust against Prince James, the King David of Somersfeld's son, and his commander, in all likelihood. It had all been far too choreographed to be accidental. He had collapsed with lithe movements, the sort that he had shown himself capable of throughout all of the other events. Of course, no knight worth their salt would unseat their own Royal family. It would be considered treason. So it must have been a deliberate mis-step on the part of the curiously talented Sun knight.
And perhaps Regina should have left it there, focussed on the display of poor gamesmanship that the knight had had the audacity to pull off right in front of the Royal Stand.
Perhaps then, her record would still stand at one. Only her mother, and no other soul brave enough to try to take from her.
But alas, she had been too intrigued by the knight in a league of his own to leave him there — alone — where he belonged. No, she had invited him, alongside his Prince, for an audience in her own private chambers.
Neither had declined, of course. Regina is still the fearsome thing her mother had shaped her into, and very few faced with her would refuse her anything. Least of all, a knight in front of his master, who had been caught in the act of lying in broad daylight, and whom she can have tried for any crime she decides had a matching sentence.
~.~
"Exemplary performance from you both," she says by way of greeting as the two march into the Throne Room, where she'd been enjoying a cool glass of wine to recover from the heat of the day.
They walk in, accompanied by a loud clinking of metal against metal as both kneel and bow their heads as protocol demands. The cacophony comes not from the prince, who has changed into a tunic which cuts a much more flattering line across his masculine figure. His knight, however, is still dressed head to toe in the suit of armour he had favoured on the tourney field, despite the heat lingering in the early autumn afternoon. It must be a mark of deference after his aggressive mis-step whilst jousting. She hums her approval, for it is a fine and dashing build as any she has ever seen.
"Thank you, your majesty," Prince James offers in a commanding tone. His white-blond curls move invitingly against his face as his head returns to the vertical, followed swiftly by the rest of him.
The other knight remains silent, as he has all day, waiting for his companion to rise first, before he does the same. Exemplary conduct, just like he had shown for all but one of his bouts on the tourney field. Regina feels a warm pang of admiration, perhaps, at that. The armour croaks against itself as he stands, the sound richocheting off the walls in an uncomfortable symphony that irritates Regina almost as much as the secret it hides. It's not often that people are bold enough to deliberately cover themselves in her direct view.
Prince James talks uninterrupted for a whole two minutes then, mostly extolling the virtues of Thornewood and all that they had seen of it on their route to the tourney, and reminiscing fondly on the parts which he had frequented as a small child and neighbour to her lands.
It makes her feel uneasy, as though she were a piece of meat hanging on display from the corner of a market stall. She's never managed to get close enough to enquire of those, but she can almost feel him salivating with a desire to come to know her, her worth, and her price.
She supposes her mother would have been proud of her for withstanding the compliments.
She would not be pleased with the way Regina's gaze remains on the brutish helmet of his counterpart for the entire time the Prince is talking. She stares uninterrupted, as if her eyes could turn the metal to glass such that she might see the more impressive of the two men from her position on a raised dais in front of them.
He has still not spoken, not even moved, in fact. And that speaks as much of his quality as a knight as it does of his rigour as a man.
She raises a hand, silencing the prince with a single gesture, once he begins to lose steam.
"Yes, I am delighted that you take such pleasure in our lands," she dismisses him diplomatically. "I would pay the same compliments to Somersfeld, but I am confident you are aware of its beauty, for there are books and songs aplenty that describe it much greater than I could wish to."
He smiles, mollified and entranced by the flourish in her manner of speaking.
"I would like to know his name," she demands, her attention never once leaving the suited man.
The late afternoon sun dances like dappled sunlight through the canopy across his chest, so at least she has an excuse for it. It's unsettling, because she's more drawn to him than she generally allows herself to be. But once his secret is out, she's sure he'll fade into a muted grey watercolour like all the other men who have tried to court her.
Prince James, to his credit, does not comment on her rudeness to him.
"Ser Swan is a member of my father's Sun Guard," he says, words perfunctory as much as his tone belies an underlying fondness, a closeness that she does not feel for anyone paid to work for her.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Perhaps the knight is mute. She's heard tell of an elite cult of trained fighters who have their speech removed from their throats to allow them to focus on their training. It would make sense.
Or perhaps his skills are barbarian in nature, a beast both on and off the battlefield whose intellect has been surrendered after one too many blows, and now is unable to communicate with words.
Or perhaps he is merely shy. She tends to have that effect on people. Other Royals can often overlook it, by virtue of their own bloodlines. But common folk read enough into her aura to avoid poking the bear.
"Does he speak?" She asks bluntly.
"I do," comes a rich tenor, muffled slightly from behind the visor. "Your Majesty," he tacks on, as if forgetting himself in her proximity.
For someone who has so seldom been denied anything, Regina does an excellent job of holding in her frustration at this knight — a knight, not even a Prince or King — who is so hellbent on waiting her out, teasing her beyond what is tolerable without revealing so much as his name. She imagines he is grinning broadly under that helmet of his. The thought displeases her.
"You need not continue overheating in that helmet, Ser Swan," she says. It's a demand masquerading as a offer, and one that does not go unanswered.
"Thank you, your Majesty, but I am quite comfortable."
A denial?! Unforgivable. Insupportable, even.
She's not sure whether she imagines the teasing undertone, but it roars something unpleasant within her.
"You mistake me," she threatens, hating the way her pique spikes into thorny rage without permission. It's a different kind of anger to most, one that scorches with a delicious heat and settles somewhere south of her stomach in a soft ember. "That was not a request, it was a demand."
She hears Prince James' sharp intake of breath, and that in and of itself should be a warning.
"If you insist, your Majesty," Ser Swan grumbles. Grumbles.
"I do—"
Her words are staccato bursts, shot like arrows towards the impenetrable steel target between her and her would-be conquest.
The helmet still hasn't moved, and it fixes a heaviness between them.
Regina waits. If there's one thing that duty has taught her, it's an infallible patience that always catches her mark.
She refuses to break, to give into the temptation to hurry things along with the magic she swore she'd never use again. It comes to her fingers, beckoning with its dark talons in purple mimicry of her own hands. It burns her skin with its unfamiliarity, the ghost of her mother goading her from beyond the grave. She swallows it down.
All magic has a price. She knows it in the cold stillness of her father's form, still etched into her eyelids when she tries for sleep. She knows it in her mother's final blood-curdling scream, echoing agianst her skull even now. And she knows it in the certainty that this man will yield and her curiosity will be satisfied. Without her revealing herself.
So she waits, on the edge of her seat, for him to capitulate to her demands.
~.~
The knight lifts his helmet slowly, tauntingly, as if it were the tight leather boots that have often been all but molded to her thighs. It feels ilicit somehow, in a manner that Regina is familiar with. No stranger to taking her night-time pleasure from courtiers or men-in-waiting, she watches the tension in Ser Swan's frame as he uses all of his charm to have Regina gasping for even a glimpse of his features.
She almost breaks her vow to remain patient, but another spark of her mother's wisdom keeps her seated, cools her broiling stomach. Queens never beg. She will not allow some lowly knight to have her sumbitting to that urge.
The helmet reveals a clean-shaven chin, rounded and smooth even at this late hour of the day.
A young knight. And so even more attractive to her, despite his teasing nature, a mark of his foolishness and his youth, no doubt.
Smooth metal inches slowly upwards still. Regina's breath hitches. She doesn't care that Prince James is watching her coming delightfully undone with each careful movement from his charge.
And then he does it. The metal headgear is removed and the truth spills out.
Finally.
Regina is met with long blonde princess curls that are pale straw in colour. They spill from the metal like a waterfall and land on broad shoulders as if in mimicry of the white foam collecting against rocks at the bottom. Nested between them is a woman's face. A beautiful woman's face. And Regina can't even speak with the shock of it all.
Just the shock, mind.
Of course, there's no rule that prevents women taking up office in the Royal Guards, but it is still incredibly rare. Regina has met one other, a Ser Mulan of Esterwind, whose master had visited her father when he was still alive. She had been a fearsome thing to behold, but she had been nothing, nothing compared to the blonde marvel in front of her.
"Ser Emma Swan, of Somersfeld, at your service, your Majesty," she says proudly. Her voice thick with an accent that's not so far from Prince James', by way of the gutter she was probably raised in. It gives her an edge and a bite that Regina finds terrifyingly compelling.
Regina inhales, stutters.
Fuck.
The dappled sunlight spills slowly across dimpled cheeks, now they are in view and smiling warmly at her. Defiant green eyes sparkle as though cut from the stained glass which throws rainbows across her perfect face. And Regina drinks it all in like she's just seen the sun for the first time.
Inconvenient. At best.
"Would you like me to extoll the virtues of your kingdom, your Grace?" She smirks, and Regina's eyes lock in on the half smile with a fierceness that makes most men cower.
But Ser Emma is no man, and that makes her unique. She doesn't so much as flinch.
And she's not done.
"I fear my Prince has stolen the words I would have chosen, but please — if there is anything I can do for your pleasure, I am only here to serve."
Her voice is low, flirtation hidden under layers of deference. Ser Swan's prince probably doesn't even notice it. She wouldn't have, but for the way she has hidden that exact tone herself under a blanket of false niceties before.
It means she is dangerous. For the both of them.
God—
Regina can't be sure if Emma's words were sent to disarm or devour her, but she feels fire etching her skin either way.
Damn, it's a compelling thought, Ser Swan and her pleasure.
Nonetheless, her body does not know of the inconvenience that this attraction could cause them both, so her lips part, suddenly parched and of their own volition. Under the autumn sun, the room feels as though midsomar has returned not two moons after it departed. All there is is heat, thick and sticky and impossible to ignore. It burns something wretched in her gut as the anger is replaced with want.
There's no way other than the obvious to account for it, but Regina finds herself wishing court clothes were not so restrictive, and not for the first time. She has never felt that desire quite so strongly as she does confronted with the face of Ser Emma Swan for the first time.
It's enough to make Regina want to do something reckless.
"Ser Swan. Prince James." She addresses them in turn, for this concerns them both. "I have been searching for a new Head of my Royal Guard these many months now, and I have seen enough of your prowess on the field today that I would like to make you and your King an offer," she opens in her usual formal tone of voice. It comes out on the edge of raspy, and Regina wills herself to pull it together.
There's a soft clinking sound in response, Emma's armour betraying the roll in her spine as she processes the Queen's words and shudders slightly. It's impossible to tell whether it's borne of arousal or fear, but Regina knows that her offer has affected the blonde knight.
As if that isn't what she had been aiming for.
"Thank you, your Majesty. That is a high compliment indeed," Ser Swan replies in that same strange accent as before. It sets her apart as richer and better trained than most non-nobles that Regina has had the dubious pleasure to get into dealings with, but it also settles her on a rung beneath the Prince who accompanies her. Of course, her accent and her outfit cement her status far beneath Regina herself, even if her beauty elevates her to equal in at least one manner. All of it only makes Emma more attractive to her still, layers upon layers of complexity that Regina cannot wait to pull from her like her own restrictive layers of clothing, and preferably soon.
She has been toyed with enough for one day.
The knight defers to her prince, as is protocol, despite there only being one correct answer to the powerful woman sitting in front of them both. Still, they have a silent conversation without Regina being privy to what is communicated unspoken between them.
"Ser Emma Swan will transfer into the service of Queen Regina of Thornewood. My father can spare her such that our two kingdoms may retain a prosperous and peaceful relationship," James decrees to the assembled persons. He speaks with conviction, and embues his words with the grace that his title carries.
"I swear to protect you, my Queen," Emma declares in a proud echo.
Regina, it turns out, is quite overcome at that.
She swallows it down, her mother's last warning reverberating in her eardrums and cautioning her treacherous heart. She doesn't even know the girl, and her heart is a blackened, wretched thing anyway. No, Emma's words leave a trace of pride in her chest. Nothing more.
Prince James, for what it's worth, appears to be genuinely sad to have handed over one of his knights into her care. In so doing, Regina catches a glimpse of it again — this strange fondness which her brain cannot begin to fathom, rich with the scent of goodness that she has long left behind — but she shakes it aside in favour of covering her gratitude.
"Thank you, Prince James. Allow me to extend the same wishes for our continued friendship," she says slowly. The last word is delivered with practiced spines, designed to ensnare the listener and set them on edge. Friendship is a curious word, but she is happy at his obvious design to appease her. She can't have him getting too comfortable, but she feels like she's a winner today.
What a generous thing he has just gifted to her, in any case.
The blonde knight remains carefully guarded, even with her full face on display now. Regina watches as the only emotion that makes itself known is disappointment, and even then it's only visible in the small downturn of her lips, and only because Regina had been watching her with such intensity. Even so, it disappears as fast as it had come on, and the woman instead kneels with her right hand across her heart in a gesture of fealty to her new Queen.
And fuck, Regina is entirely torn between discomfort and delight at the blonde's display of loyalty to her previous employer.
Her conquests have always been so much more fun to subdue when they can't get a handle on their emotions.
But she's not even sure if she wants to subdue the marvel that is Ser Emma Swan. Part of her wants to scratch at her edges until she comes completely undone. But perhaps there is a way that she can achieve both.
She's certainly going to enjoy trying.
~.~