Author's Note — This story is something of a companion piece to my previous fic, "The End Is the Beginning Is the End". I think that this will still make sense if you haven't read that one, though.

Disclaimer — Once Upon a Time is the property of ABC and Horowitz/Kitsis. I make no monetary profit from the publication of this story.

Warnings — Heavily implied child abuse and mother/child incest.

The only thing that Mama seems to like about Regina is her hair. Cora runs her fingers through Regina's long tresses at bedtime each night, after they've been washed and brushed into something so smooth and soft that they resemble silk, and nods approvingly. "This is the hair of a queen," Mama murmurs, and Regina cannot help the shy smile that spreads across her face. It's not that she thinks, or even dares to dream, that she will one day wear a crown atop her shiny mane; her young world is too consumed by the welts and bruises that Mama's wrath leaves upon her tender skin. It's just that, in these moments, Regina doesn't feel completely worthless, like everything about her is terrible and wrong. She takes painstaking care to keep her hair beautiful, weaving apple blossoms between long locks so that everyone will be able to see that she does have at least one redeeming quality.

Then, when Regina is nine, everything about her and her mother's already volatile relationship suddenly becomes sick and twisted and utterly abominable. She screams and cries, hoping that Daddy will come to her rescue, but then Mama winds her fingers between thick strands of Regina's dark, shiny hair and yanks so hard that she gives the little girl whiplash. After that, Regina grows quiet, because she learned long ago that resistance will only yield more pain; instead, she stares at her hair, lying fanned out around her head like some sort of tarnished halo, as revulsion wells up in her stomach.

Mama still tells her that her hair is lovely, and the village boys all stare hungrily at it, while their sisters and lovers glare jealously in her direction; all that Regina wants is to hide, to rip every last hair from her head so that everyone will leave her alone, so that no one will want to hurt her. Every facet of her life falls under Mama's control, though, and Cora rarely allows her to wear her hair any way other than long and flowing. When she has the opportunity, Regina flees to the forest, either on foot or by horse, and lets the wind knot her hair into unmanageable tangles strewn with leaves and twigs, but she is too afraid of what Mama might do if she stays away past nightfall. Before bed, Mama tears angrily at her head, ripping through knot after knot until Regina's hair is once again beautiful and perfect beneath her magical touch, and Regina cannot bear to look in the mirror.

The one good thing about becoming Leopold's queen is that Mama is no longer in charge of her grooming. When her lady-in-waiting kindly asks Regina how she would like her hair to be styled, she answers simply, "Up."

Regina's heart hammers heavily against her ribs as she follows Daniel's barely visible form through the dark, moonless night. She lifts her skirts higher to avoid dragging them through the damp sand and the lake's unusually rough waves — she is not allowed to leave the palace, and if Leopold were to find evidence of her betrayal, he would have her head, literally. It's a foolish risk, especially given the nearly impenetrable darkness and the howling wind that drowns out all other sound, but Regina has felt so suffocated at court these past few days that she had feared that she would lose her mind if she could not escape, even if only for a few hours.

A few minutes later, they finally reach their destination: a shallow cave hidden within a secluded cove, of which Daniel is certain that the king's men have no knowledge. Once inside, Daniel begins building a fire while Regina removes her heavy black cloak and drapes it across a worn stone. Even though she wore a hood, she finds that the wind has still managed to muss her elaborate updo. Determining the twist to be unsalvageable, she pulls the remaining bobby pins from her head until her hair falls in soft, sleek waves down to her waist.

"Wow." Daniel stares up at her with an expression of awe on his face, the budding fire before him momentarily forgotten. "Before, I had thought that you were the most beautiful woman in the world, but now it seems that you have surpassed even your own standards."

She knows that he means well, but Regina cannot help but curl in on herself a little bit, pushing her hair back over her shoulders. Daniel's expression softens into one of concern.

"Forgive me, your majesty," he apologizes. "I did not mean to offend you."

"It's not—" she begins, struggling to find the words. "It's just that when most people see my hair, it makes them want to take, and that... it scares me."

Daniel's eyes are moist with sorrow as he gently caresses her cheek. "I am so sorry," he whispers sincerely. "I promise you, though, that that is not what your beauty inspires in me."

"What, then?" she asks, her brow knotted in confusion.

He smiles sadly. "You really have no idea, do you?" he murmurs. Entwining his fingers in her hair, he explains, "I see you here, so devastatingly beautiful, and it reminds me of how beautiful you are on the inside, too. You are so kind and full of love, so unbelievably wonderful, and I just feel so incredibly lucky that a woman like you would want to be with a simple man like me."

Tears spring unexpectedly to Regina's eyes. "Daniel, you're not the lucky one," she protests.

"But I am," he affirms, winding his arms around her waist. "In the name of all that I hold dear, I will not rest until I have convinced you of that."

Regina raises herself onto her tiptoes and presses a deep, passionate kiss against his lips. "Why don't you start trying right now?" she whispers with a smile at once both shy and teasing.

Grinning, Daniel leads her over to the blanket spread out by the fire; he lowers himself to the surface before guiding her into a position straddling his hips. She leans forward to kiss him again, and as she does so, her hair falls around their faces like a curtain, hiding and protecting them from the outside world. Once more, she is overwhelmed by the sensation of safety and contentment that fills her chest whenever Daniel is near. The only word that comes to her mind is perfection.

The next morning, Regina leaves her bedchamber for the first time with her hair loose and free.

They steal furtively through the chilly stone corridors, the lie ready on his tongue should anyone spot them: we were in the garden when she tripped and struck her head; she needs to see the court physician. However, it seems that the fates are finally on their side tonight, for they make it all the way to the safety of her bedchamber without spying another soul. Regina sinks numbly onto her bed while he tears through her closet, finally pulling out a lavender gown similar to the one that she is wearing.

"Come, sweetheart," Henry says urgently, taking her by the arm. "We've got to get you cleaned up before anyone sees."

Regina looks down at her lap and takes in the splashes of crimson staining her dress and arms. A fresh wave of grief washes over her, and it's like she's drowning; her lungs feel so heavy and full that breathing is almost impossible. "Daddy, she killed him," Regina chokes out, tears spilling down her cheeks. "He's dead."

"I know, honey," Henry sighs, suddenly looking far older than his years. "I know, but we can't let anyone see you like this." He tugs desperately at both her arms until she torpidly follows him into her bathroom like some sort of condemned spirit.

Henry bolts the door behind her before beginning to fill her large, ivory tub. Regina can only watch him as if from far away; Daniel's death is weighing down on her like a ton of bricks, and remaining upright is a difficult enough task for her at the moment. "Regina," comes Daddy's voice, and he bustles over to her side a moment later. "Come on, you need to get out of these clothes."

She tries to obey, but unhooking the buttons on the back of her bodice suddenly seems like the most difficult task in the world, and when she attempts to shrug out of her sleeves and pull her skirts over her head, the world starts spinning and the back of her head starts throbbing. Daddy reaches out to stabilize her, helping her into a sitting position on the edge of the bath. He runs his hand over the back of her head, where Mama slammed her skull into the stable's stone wall, and frowns when his fingertips find a large goose egg there.

"My dear, how many fingers am I holding up?" he asks, raising a hand in front of Regina's face.

She tries to focus, but the image keeps swimming, and she's not sure if she can remember how to count, either. "Eight?"

Henry's face falls, and for a moment he looks as if he might cry. "You probably have a concussion," he murmurs. He's still and silent for a moment before springing back into action. "Here, let me help you." With great difficulty, he manages to strip her of her blood-soaked gown. He checks over every inch of her underskirts for traces of blood; once satisfied that they are spotless, he takes a wet washcloth to her arms and begins scrubbing away all that remains of Daniel. Henry washes her arms and cleans her hands, carefully scraping away all traces of blood from beneath her fingernails, and then moves to her neck and face, gingerly wiping around the deep gash across her upper lip.

He takes a step back to look her over, dark eyes searching for any overlooked splotch of red, and suddenly lets out a groan. "Your hair..."

Confused, Regina examines several locks and finds them matted with blood. Her stomach churns violently as Daddy steps back to her side. "Just tilt your head back, and I'll get it all out," he says reassuringly. The water in the bathtub blooms a sickening shade of brownish-red, and it takes all of her strength to hold back the bile rising in her throat.

A half an hour later, Regina sits listlessly before the vanity in her antechamber. Her hair hangs limp and damp down her back, leaving dark patches on the surface of her midnight blue nightdress; in the dim light of the weak fire that her father has built in her fireplace, they almost resemble blood.

Henry casts her a sad glance before reluctantly feeding her ruined dress to the fire. The flames leap and dance joyfully, satisfied with what that they have been given to consume. The simple gown had been Daniel's favorite; Regina only wore it today because they could take nothing with them when they fled Leopold's palace, and she had wanted the one article of clothing that she would possess in their new life to be something that Daniel liked. Within a few minutes, though, the dress is nothing more than ash, just like the rest of their beautiful future together.

Her father places a hand on her shoulder; she thinks that he probably means it to be comforting, but all that she can think about is how much she wishes it were Daniel's. "I'm going to go fetch the court physician," he says, his eyes meeting her own in the reflection of her mirror. With a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, he whispers, "You're going to be okay, Regina."

For the briefest of moments, as she holds his gaze, Regina hates her father. She hates him for making false promises, and for trivializing her loss, but more than anything, she hates him for never failing to take Mama's side. "No, I'm not," she murmurs, lowering her eyes.

Henry's hand falls limply to his side; after a few moments, he slowly backs out of the room. Regina sits in silence for hours, or maybe only seconds, before finally meeting her reflection in the mirror. Slowly, she gathers her mostly dry hair into her hands and twists it back up onto the top of her head, where it can tempt no one else.

The first time that she dyes her hair, it's the first spring after Leopold's death. She doesn't color all of her hair, because black has always suited her much more than red; instead, she holds a single dark lock between her fingers and concentrates on the bright, harsh crimson of her apples.

Regina forgot how to grieve outwardly many years ago, and even if she hadn't, any public display of weakness would spell disaster for her tenuous hold on the throne. More than a few of her guards raise an eyebrow at the vivid streak (and she makes certain that they are punished for daring to question her fashion choices), but Regina touches just a single strand of red amidst the mountain of dark hair and feels connected to Daniel again, as if he's still a part of her. So every spring, when the budding blossoms remind her of that terrible night, the queen colors her hair and grieves, remembers.

She abandons the tradition when she arrives in Storybrooke, because she's supposed to be happy now.

During those first eighteen years as mayor, Regina styles her hair much as she had as queen: up, in a bun or a twist, out of sight and touch. Then she becomes the mother of a child who finds all of hours of the day perfectly suitable for wailing at the top of his lungs, and her elaborate hairdos transform into messy ponytails behind the safety of her mansion's walls. Very quickly, though, she discovers that the best way to dry Henry's tears is to let him play with her hair while he takes his bottle. He's not always gentle, but Regina will endure any amount of pain just for the chance to see the smile that spreads across his chubby little face as he laces his fingers through her smooth tresses.

And this is exactly how things fell apart so many years before, but time and love have made Regina forgetful and complacent. Her hair falls long and heavy to her waist once more, and Henry plays with it at bedtime each night, marveling in that sweet lisp of his that her hair is prettier than that of any princess. For the first time since she held Daniel's lifeless body in her arms, Regina feels as if happiness is within her grasp. All that she has to do is forget about that other world, about everything that she did to get to this one, and she can have her happily ever after.

But then Henry grows sullen and withdrawn; he doesn't want her to tuck him in to bed anymore, doesn't want to play with her hair, and when she tells him she loves him, he stops responding to her. The curse is suddenly this impenetrable barrier between them, blocking all of her attempts at reason, and there's no way that she can admit the truth and confirm his suspicions without losing him forever.

The crushing blow comes on the morning of her birthday (her thirty-third, the same as last year), when she tells Henry that they can't go see his school's Thanksgiving play that night because they'll be having a nice family dinner together. Henry's face twists with more loathing than any eight-year-old has the right to feel as he spits out the words that she has long dreaded hearing: "I hate you."

Regina's hand falls to the table with a loud thunk; after a few deep breaths, she wordlessly hands Henry the apple she'd just finished slicing for him and heads for the staircase. She reaches her bedroom with her stomach heaving like she's about to be sick and her face wet with tears. Her brown eyes find her reflection in the mirror, her glossy mane shining like silk in the morning sunlight, and something within her snaps.

Biting her lower lip to suppress the scream that's welling up in her throat, Regina seizes the pair of scissors sitting atop her vanity table and hacks off all of her hair just above the shoulders. Without a second thought, she hurls her shorn locks into her fireplace, lights a match, and watches them burn.