Henry plucked his hands in the generous pockets of his jacket, the thin gloves he had hastily thrown on earlier that morning unable to compensate for the heat leaving his body in droves. His fingers dug into the fabric as if depth could alleviate the pain in his bones. The excessive cold had ravaged and made them brittle, stiff.

What he wouldn't do for a mug of Granny's hot chocolate.

In the course of little over a week, a sudden onslaught of snow—it became akin to a blizzard as it swelled in magnitude—turned Storybrooke into a wintery wasteland, complete with sad, drooping skies and desolate streets to accentuate. A powdery film blanketed every object that was not a person. People, of course, chose to stay inside with their heaters that were dialed up to maximum potential and their warm, gratifying blankets.

A little over a week ago, Henry watched as his heartbroken mother tore out of Granny's and before he could think to run after her, vanish in billows of purple.

He hadn't seen her since.

That night and every day afterwards, the boy knocked fruitlessly at 108 Mifflin Street's tall, imposing door. It didn't budge. He shouted her name to no reply. His words grew hoarse with the length of time he stood there waiting for one though.

When he expressed his panicky concerns—that his mother wasn't taking care of herself or something wasn't right—his other mom and his grandparents accompanied him.

It was with this entourage Henry now traveled, taking point as to set the pace for walking the white sidewalk. He hadn't seen his mom in nine days today; no one in Storybrooke had either. Nonetheless, the truest believer was determined to break through. The weather was worsening by the second and it wasn't hard to guess strong magic was its root. Henry, if not the town, felt the bone-chilling need for Regina's expertise.

Well, he would play that card anyways.

It also wasn't hard to imagine that half of the townspeople suspected the former queen; they always did.

When the small group arrived at the door—which was still firmly (and magically) locked by the way—Henry turned to face them, his eyes wide with a sudden thought.

"The back door," he breathed, and his words were accompanied by icy vapor. "I haven't tried there yet."

Emma shrugged. "Why not, kid?" But the savior was just as eager; guilt had been her constant companion since that night at the diner. It would probably kill her if Regina wasn't some semblance of okay.

They made their way to Regina's backyard, only to stop and stare in horror at its centerpiece, the mayor's pride and joy. The apple tree.

Only it didn't look like the mayor's pride and joy.

It looked frostbitten and haggard, the branches sagging under the weight of snow. A dark stain like blood slowly crept down the trunk, enveloping it with a burnt, sickly appearance; contour-wise, the body seemed emaciated and thin—caved in on itself—as though starved. Withered leaves and rotted apples dotted the white landscape under it at often, too often, intervals; the remnant were only clinging to the tree by tendrils.

Snow cupped a hand to her mouth and the other on her stomach, suddenly feeling sick.

Henry felt as though the world was crumbling in front of his very eyes, which, it might as well have been.

"What?" David demanded, wrapping a protective arm around his wife. His blue eyes were alert as he scanned the yard for danger. "What is it?"

"The apple tree," Snow murmured faintly. "It's dying."

Emma's brow furrowed. She wondered what the fuss was about.

"That isn't too weird," she offered. "It's this crazy weather. Trees die in the cold."

"No, it's not that. It's just—"

"My mom would never let this tree die," Henry finished, a certain throatiness to his tone. He wiped at his eyes only to find that the cold had frozen his tears in their tracks. The cycle began anew when the implications hit him full force. A sob curdled at his tongue, but he couldn't release it; he didn't have the strength to. His tears were impeded from falling once again. "Ever."

"Maybe she just..." The excuse died on Emma's tongue; she placed a comforting hand on her son's shoulder.

"This tree was Regina's last connection to the time she believed in hope and happy endings," Snow supplied. "Even when she was married to my father, she tended to it—always able to keep it healthy and beautiful. It could withstand the winter."

"So it's a metaphor?" David asked.

"It's a metaphor," she agreed.

A sudden wind collected itself in the air, brushing past the four people in the backyard and hurdling towards the apple tree. At impact, its limbs convulsed and trembled, eventually spluttering out a single leaf. Its audience watched in paralyzed silence as the brown silhouette slowly spiraled to the ground, moving downwards in undulating motions. It landed like a dagger in Henry's chest. He fell to his knees in pain.

The apple tree was dying.

It was a metaphor.

—

Emma readjusted the gray beanie on her head before sliding out of the yellow bug and into the frosty air. Her boots sunk into the thick layer of snow; it measured out at a good six inches now.

Stupid Snow Queen. Stupid Elsa. Stupid Frozen. Why did she have to be real?

And a villain who liked to make ice sculptures out of civilians while at it.

In front of Emma stood the huge mayoral mansion that was now completely white, its shutters and shingles caked in icy frosting; the front door alone, protected by the awning, was still black and without icy discoloration. It was a single bit of color in a white world. The sheriff's eyes drifted to the top window she knew looked into Regina's room. Its curtains shimmered with a certain sense of abandonment, despondency even.

So not only did Emma trudge up the driveway through snow; she made her way through crushing guilt, too.

It wasn't as though she regretted saving Marian's life—far from that, in fact. A kid got his mother back, and Robin, well, his wife. The only mar in the fairytale was Regina. Emma didn't regret saving Marian's life; she would do it again if there was the choice to. She was the savior. Saviors saved people. She did feel pretty sorrowful about the whole ordeal though, if only for Regina's sake at least.

Apparently, the heartbreak was killing her, or so the apple tree said.

The backyard was just as knee-deep in snow as the front. Emma shivered and then looked to the infamous topiary for the metaphorical resonances Snow and David kept jabbering about.

They were there alright.

Since her last visit to the estate, more leaves and apples had dropped, creating a thicker pallet of refuse under what was left of the tree's canopy. The branches, as relieved as they were, still sagged and bent at broken angles. They seemed thinner, too.

Emma sighed. She would have to keep Henry away from this scene if she could (which, knowing her son, she probably couldn't). It wouldn't do wonders for his mental health at any rate.

"Hey, Regina." The blonde was met with an awkward silence. She shifted her weight, conscious that she was talking to a tree. "Look, I know this is rough. You really liked Robin, right? It can't be a good feeling to have that wrenched away from you. I mean, I wouldn't know but—"

More silence. Emma trailed off, the tree stood still, and a rebuttal suddenly occurred to her. (It was a rebuttal and not a thought because the tree, in all its haughty immobility, seemed to be arguing with her. Even Regina's dying plant had a superiority complex. Go figure.)

"No. Scratch that. I do know what it's like. Neal left me in jail, remember? He was the reason Henry was born in a prison."

The tree didn't look impressed, and Emma wasn't either; she threw her hands up in frustration, eyes rolling to the heavens.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I took away your happy ending. I'm sorry I've made your tree into a metaphor for your existence. Your life is pretty crappy and I made it crappier. I'm sorry, Regina."

A slight gale stirred the tree. A leaf threatened to fall.

"But I don't regret saving Marian, and I don't think you do either. She was going to die by your hand. You would have killed her."

She thought about what Killian had said—about Regina and the Evil Queen not being the same person. Emma rectified herself.

"The Evil Queen would have killed her, Regina."

The leaf fell, and once again, Emma's anger grew. She kicked at the snow beneath her boot, sending some of the slush into the air. What more could she say? What could penetrate the woman's impenetrable fortress of unreasonable stubbornness?

Lightbulb.

"And you aren't the Evil Queen anymore. You're Regina Mills. You're our son's mother. So if you won't get your act together for anyone else, do it for him. Do it for Henry. He loves you, and you love him. You aren't worthless, Regina. You mean the world to him."

There was another breeze; it agitated the tree and an apple wriggled on its bough. Emma held her breath, but nothing happened. The apple stayed.

It was hanging on by a thread.

"Thank you."

—

David had a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, marking off names as he went from door to door. He had taken it upon himself to do an Elsa-invoked census of the town, to see who was alright and who was a human-sized popsicle. Check. Check. Popsicle. Check. To his relief, no one the Charmings knew intimately had suffered such a gelid fate.

Well, not yet at least.

At the moment, he was on Mifflin Street, where his lone company consisted of the dwarves who were shoveling the roadways. Grumpy waved at him from afar. David returned the gesture before looking back to his clipboard where a wind-battered sheet of paper told him the stretch's residents:

The Waters family - Check

Ms. Hudson and her two tenants - Check

The Potters - Check

Regina Mills

There was a vast blank by the former queen's name for no one had seen nor visited her in two weeks now. David himself hadn't been here since the day he came with the rest of his family; it wasn't as though there was any reason he should come alone either.

He had a family to take care of (this included a newborn baby). He had obligations to the police station. Other people needed him more. He—

David didn't know what to say.

How did one comfort the woman who had repeatedly tried to kill his wife, then changed and saved his baby?

"Hello, Regina. Thank you for not being a murdering psychopath anymore. How are you doing today?"

That would go over well.

The roof of the prince's mouth was dry as he found himself walking down the driveway to that very same woman's house. He was slow to ascend the few steps leading up to her porch. He swallowed his hesitation when he knocked on the door.

"Regina?" There was no reply or movement from the other side of the threshold. David tapped his foot and knocked again, his knuckles rapping with a little more force than before. "Still alive in there?"

He might as well have been talking to her corpse.

A huff of annoyance left him, and he considered forgetting it and going home; Snow was frying chicken anyways. If Regina wanted to hole herself up, then good and fine for her. David would leave the queen to it.

But she saved his baby.

He jogged to the backyard as though to try the back door and the sight of the apple tree stopped him short.

Wilted was the understatement of the year.

The inky stain had gained some ground; it painted most of the trunk and parts of the branches. Only blotches of its former glory remained (and even those spots seemed dull and gray). Not a leaf was green or even that murky olive hue that seemed brown in the right light. They were all dark and shriveled, like skin exposed to too much of the sun.

Likewise, maybe Regina had been exposed to too much heartbreak.

As David studied the tree for a moment, his younger years as a shepherd boy began to kick in, triggered perhaps by the compassion he instinctively felt for wounded creatures. His sheep had needed to graze no matter what season it was, and winter was always the trickiest. The grass and leafy verdure decayed and the valley streams iced over in their places. The sun seldom shined. Winter was a season of frozen time; nature couldn't thrive in it except when it occasionally could. Along the way, David had devised a method to circumvent the frost and keep it away for awhile.

The shepherd couldn't repair what had been broken, but he could alleviate the pain.

He marched over to Regina's shed where a lock dangled on the knob. It was frozen though, and thus easy to hack away at and break (David borrowed a small shovel from one of the dwarves). Inside, gardening tools hung from wall to wall, further testaments to the queen's love of cultivation. A wardrobe of sorts stood in the far corner of the room. It was there the prince found what he was hoping he would find. A tarp.

David hoisted the burlap material over his shoulder—there was a profound amount of it, so that was fortunate—and took it back to the tree. He then knelt and began digging, clearing away the base of snow that had formed around the plant. It took a good ten minutes before a small island of grass was a tangible presence in an ocean of white. David wiped the sweat from his brow before hunching over to continue his work.

It became evident in the moments later, when he was layering the circle with the burlap, wrapping it neatly around the tree, that the shepherd was creating a frost blanket that would protect the roots. Perhaps this tree would die, but another would gradually grow in its place because not every part of its predecessor had gone with it.

Once finished, he stood up and admired his work. The craftsmanship was excellent and functional; his days as a shepherd had served him well.

"Hope this keeps you warm, Madame Mayor."

He whistled as he walked away.

—

There was someone sitting under the apple tree when Snow got there; it was Robin Hood, his muscular frame shivering in the cold.

She stepped closer and further inspection proved her wrong. Silent tears streamed down the archer's face as his shoulders trembled with unrestrained sobs.

"Robin?" Snow disliked the accusing edge to her tone, how her question was more to indict the grieving man than be there for him. Bitterness like a seed had grown in her these past few weeks—three to be exact. Regina hadn't been seen for three weeks now.

So she couldn't keep the hurt from her voice, not when Regina was all alone doing who knew what to herself because villains didn't get happy endings. Snow couldn't stop herself from a tiny bit of frustration on Robin's behalf when the apple tree he cried under was spluttering to thrive on. (Speaking of which, the branches were devoid of life. Only a few leaves and a singular apple remained.)

Robin exhaled deeply before looking up, his bright blue eyes rimmed with dark circles and the capillaries within them a bloody red. "Believe it or not, I hate myself more than you do, milady."

She believed.

Snow sighed and eased herself next to the man, her shoulder brushing his. She touched his arm in the way a mother does her upset child. The child slumped backwards in defeat. "I don't hate you, Robin." She forced the residual bitterness out of her tone; it was easier to do when she took in the outlaw's visage, how he seemed ready to crumble at the slightest provocation. "I just hate to see Regina hurting that's all."

"Wait!" His eyes grew wide and his eyebrows rose. "You've seen her? Can you tell her that I'm sorry?"

She shook her head. He had misunderstood. "I've seen the tree."

"I'm afraid I've lost you."

Snow was pensive for a moment as she considered the best way to explain it to him—Daniel, Leopold, and whatever else had transpired during the queen's Enchanted Forest days. She decided to give him a condensed version. Robin was a perceptive man. He could fill in the blanks.

"She was my stepmother for sometime, you know. But at the same time, she actually wasn't. She was only eighteen, and I had just caused the death of her fiancé." In spite of herself, Snow gave a wry smile. "So you can see why she was so insistent on killing me."

"To avenge her fiancé," Robin said nodding. He remembered the darkness of Marian's death—well, not that she was dead now—how he almost lost himself trying to ease the pain.

"The marriage between her and my father was arranged, and, well it didn't turn out all too happily. I don't—" Snow faltered as she tried to reconcile Regina's version of Leopold with her own; they weren't even remotely the same. "I don't think my father was a good man to her. That's probably part of her issues today."

"What of the apple tree then?"

"It was the only thing Regina could carry away from her old life. I think it reminded her of a time when she was hopeful and carefree, when she believed in happy endings."

Robin was silent as he pondered that, then his eyes bulged when he considered what the tree dying could mean. He gripped at the burlap beneath him; his fingers were white and clenched against the fabric.

Snow's lips pressed into a grim line. She felt the familiar sting of tears blur her vision.

"The tree is dying," he said hoarsely. "What does that mean?"

"It means—"

"Hope isn't easy when I know she holds my heart."

"Which you'll get back stronger than ever. That's what it means to be the most resilient."

"That could be another one of her tricks, too."

"Regina, I've seen what life has thrown at you, and you still fight against the darkness every single day. Sooner or later, your heart will find its way to happiness."

Regina chuckled, her swirling eyes dark. "That doesn't feel possible."

"But it is."

"It means Regina has given up."

"But Regina never gives up."

"I know."

At that precise moment, a leaf shook itself from its limb and came to rest on Robin's shoulder. He recoiled at the feathery touch and the offending object flew away from him, coming to rest in the snow a few feet away from the outlaw and bandit, the lover and the closest thing Regina had to a relative anymore.

"I love her," Robin said, his voice shaky as he stared at the leaf. It was small and fragile, dark and alone. It was Regina.

He loved Regina.

"But you can't leave your wife," Snow finished for him.

Robin Hood was an honorable man; honorable men didn't believe in divorces.

"But I can't leave my wife."

—

As soon as the final bell rang, Henry darted out of the classroom and then the school, his backpack hanging haphazardly on his shoulder by a single strap; the mass clanged against his side with each stride he ran. But there wasn't any time to waste, much less adjust the bag. He would be late to visit Mom.

And she definitely wouldn't appreciate that.

Elsa had been defeated a little over a week ago now, and Mom—as in leather-swathed, Operation Cobra Mom—acting as interim mayor, had declared it safe enough to go back to school. The roads were defrosted and so was the rest of Storybrooke. Everything was relatively back to normal.

Sort of.

Mifflin Street was a block and a corner away from Storybrooke's tiny school, and the huge white mansion he had grown up in was the last residence on the stretch. It was easily the most impressive structure around. He loped down the sidewalk and then turned into the driveway. At the end of it, he curved and made for the side of the house; it led into the backyard that now sparkled with dewy verdure. That's where he knew he'd find her.

She was there.

Though the snow, ice, and biting temperatures had left Dodge with Elsa, the crippling sickness of the apple tree remained. More aptly, the tree wasn't really a tree now—more like a twig from which hung one, last apple. It was a blackened, shriveled little thing.

So maybe apple wasn't a befitting identification either.

"Hey, Mom," he greeted cheerfully, and he coupled his words with a sloppy grin to accentuate. His bag fell to the ground next to his feet.

"Young man," she scolded playfully, "how many times do I have to tell you to hang your bag on the rack?"

"Sorry," he apologized. Then he shouldered the backpack again.

"How was school?" she asked. "Did you do well on your homework last night?"

Henry shrugged sheepishly, his ears turning red. "Actually, I sort of didn't do it last night. I went sailing with Killian and Mr. Smee."

"Henry Charles Mills!"

"I know, I know. Grounded."

"I didn't raise you to be a truant."

"More like a prince."

"You're still grounded though." But she smiled all the same.

Henry was getting better at capturing her voice, at imagining the things his mother would say if he was talking her and not her tree. Sometimes—on the bad days especially—it was pretty cathartic.

Others, it was downright depressing.

Henry slumped to the ground and cradled his face in his hands; it didn't take a genius to figure out what kind of day this was.

He missed his mom, but no amount of begging or pleading he did would draw her out. The crippling sickness of the apple tree was depression, he had been told, and in the end it would kill her. His mother was going to die because she didn't believe in herself, and it was like watching Peter Pan all over again.

But clapping wouldn't solve anything (he'd already tried); in fact, nothing would because Henry had gone through every trick in the book.

The leaves and apples had continued to fall; they fell and fell until the only thing that tethered Regina Mills to life was a rotten piece of fruit. Even the Heart of the Truest Believer couldn't stock much hope in that.

So the only thing left to do was wait.

"Dr. Hopper suggested that I start writing a eulogy, and I kind of got mad at him for suggesting it. And I know you wouldn't approve, but I've been short with a long list of people nowadays."

Henry shook his head at the memory. "I even snapped at Robin once, right in front of Roland, too. Don't worry though. I apologized immediately."

Robin had apologized, too. "I'm sorry, Henry."

"So back to the eulogy. Later on, I decided that it was worth a shot; maybe it would help me feel better about all of this. I drafted one out." He reached over to his bag and pulled a folded sheet of notebook paper out of the water bottle pocket; it was slightly crumpled with mistreatment. "Wanna hear it, Mom?"

He took the silence as a thumbs-up.

"Awesome." He smoothed the paper out against his shorts before clearing his voice; his mouth was suddenly dry.

"Most of you knew my mom as the Evil Queen. From what I've heard and read, the title was pretty deserving. I've never seen her though—I mean, maybe glimpses of her, but never the real thing. I only know her fully as Mom and Madame Mayor. Both of those could be quite scary when they wanted to be. Mom grew fangs when I beat her at Scrabble."

"Anyways, for a long time I thought she didn't love me. I mistook her fear that I would be taken away from her—her phobia of being alone—for possessiveness. I thought her hatred of my other mom was backed by cruel intention. It took me a long time to realize what really was behind those cold and closed off curtains; she feared that she was too unlovable to be loved. And I think that was what ultimately killed her. Mom's life was just one traumatizing incident after another, and she believed it to be all her fault. Some of it was, yes, but in reality, all of us here have given her a bad time at some point or another. I know I have. I pushed her away. I confirmed her worst fears. Truth is though, my mom loved and felt with an almost staggering capacity. She risked her life dozens of times to prove that, and we're sitting here as living evidence today. So my point is, she was once the Evil Queen, and there were reasons for that. She wasn't the perfect person. But to me, she was—she is—my mom. She was Regina. She tried her best, and I know that now."

"As a child in this world, you grow up with this black and white sense of morality. Some of that, without a shadow of a doubt, stems from fairytales—which, well, we all are. In these stories, there's an unquestionable hero and an even more distinguished villain. Yet reality isn't really like that, is it? In this world, my mom was neither good nor evil, a hero or a villain. She was that gray area in-between who did good things as much as she did bad ones. She was a person, and I think that's what people here tend to forget. We're all people in the end."

"Emma told me that she once asked to die as Regina. She was trying to save us from the curse's self-destruct button, and that was her deathbed request. I think it still stands today. I'm going to still call her Mom because that's what she is to me, but it's up to you guys whether she's Regina or not."

—

Later that evening—it was about nine—the phone rang and Henry jumped up from the couch to get it. His grandparents were in the other room rocking Neal to bed. He picked the extension up from its cradle.

"Hello?"

"Henry, is that you?" Something was wrong with Emma's voice; it was high-pitched and fast. It wasn't his mother's usual gruff tone.

"Mom, what's going on?"

"Can you meet me at the hospital?"

"Mom."

"Run."

Henry flew.

Storybrooke's lone hospital was only a few blocks down from the apartment; at night, it shone like a beacon with all its white, fluorescent lights.

Emma stood at the entrance with a giddy—Henry double checked—yes, giddy expression on her face, and it matched her inflections from the phone.

Now the question was, what could his mom be so giddy about?

"Now, kid, I know it's late but I didn't think you would mind."

"What? What is it, Mom? Are you pregnant?"

Emma's nonverbal response immediately rejected that idea.

"W-where'd you get that idea?" she spluttered, her cheeks turning red. "Killian and I haven't, um—never mind."

"Then what is it?"

Emma smiled her wide, crooked smile—the type she only reserved for special occasions. "Come on. I'll show you."

She led Henry into the hospital, up two flights of stairs, and then down a dimly lit corridor on the third floor. At the end of the vestibule, a tall paneled door stood slightly open. Gentle light, the kind that emitted from a television, eased from behind the gaps.

"Who's in there, Mom?"

Emma only smiled again, and ushered him forward; she stayed a little ways behind. "Go on. Go see for yourself."

He reluctantly stepped forward and towards the door. He grew close enough to hear the whirring and dripping machines presumably attached to the mysterious patient inside. Henry lightly pushed on the door.

His mother's face greeted him.

"Living as Regina seemed a bit more rewarding than dying as such."

"MOM!"

His eyes flooded with tears and he ran to her side, her warm arms enveloping him and bringing Henry home.

Henry was home.

A/N: Guys, you literally are the best reviewers ever. Thanks for all the kind words, favorites, and reads! c: I've really appreciated them. Also, I edited a word or two to make the flow a little easier. (7/3/14)