Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
Summary: They share one thousand and one tales; it's the morning of the one thousand and second day of Belle's captivity.
Belle knows the inner workings of her tower by heart. She's been there a fortnight, and between the mild taunting and less mild torture for no apparent reason except that the queen appears to be a sadist, she's had plenty of time to explore her barren surroundings. She might as well have been back in the dungeon, sans the tea set obviously.
So of course, the tiny mirror, the size of a thumbnail, in the far corner doesn't escape Belle's notice.
She's reached the peak of boredom (and the subsiding of tears and pain) when she resorts to calling out, "Alright, I know you're in there, so you might as well do the polite thing and introduce yourself."
It's silent for a moment, and Belle considers yelling a little louder, perhaps throwing in a word or two she learned from… well, a word she's learned that's not at all something her royal tutors taught her, when a face appears.
"I am the Magic Mirror, at your service," the reflected face says.
"Don't you mean at the queen's service?"
The mirror chuckles.
"What?"
"I can see why he kept you."
Kept. Past tense. "Yes, yes. We all know why I'm here, but answer me this, one kept-being to another: if he doesn't want me anymore, which he did make perfectly clear, what good can I be to your mistress."
More chuckling. "You can't fool me with that line, princess, nor yourself, for that matter. You know you mean a great deal to him, and that makes you—"
"A bargaining chip?"
"Useful. Immensely so."
"Lucky me." She settles a little lower into her hay, for Belle has become an expert at sulking.
"At least you can rest assured you're more useful alive than dead—which is more than many in the queen's hold can say."
Belle cocks her head to the side, something about his voice peaking her interest. She notices a strange, lilting accent in his not unpleasant voice. "From where do you come; your voice is strange to these parts, I think."
"True, princess, I come from past the Levant, from the sands of Arabia."
Her eyes grow wide. "You must have a great many tales if you come from that far."
"I do, quite a number in fact."
A thought occurs to Belle, but no. He (if it really is a "he" at all) would of course refuse. However, it can't hurt to ask; after all, what did she have to lose? "Could you," she leans forward, conspiratorially, "share one of these tales, or at least what your home is like?"
The voice is without emotion when he replies, "This is my home now."
"Oh, I thought not."
"Not so quick. I only said this is my home, but perhaps I could be convinced to tell you of the far away places my eyes have seen."
The way he breaks his words lets her know that this offer is not without cost—she knows that best of anyone. "What's your price, man of the mirror?"
He smiles. "I know little of this land. Even less of its histories. It behooves me to learn."
"Why do you wish to know such things?"
"Should not one always strive to know of where they find themselves?"
"That is true, but that is not your reason." She thinks for a moment. "You wish to advise her, don't you?"
He laughs. "Yes, yes, I can see why he kept you. So will you agree to this? Tell me of your home and I'll tell you stories to keep your mind busy in this place of madness."
Belle considers. Largely, she would be conspiring with the enemy, but then, she would be conspiring against him if she let herself go insane, a path on which she fears she finds herself currently. This way she could remember all that her tutors had taught her and see worlds she has only ever imagined (and looked at in his book collection once upon a time). "Deal."
So it goes, a story a day. The history of the Great and Terrible Ogre Wars, the first, the second and the current third. He tells her of a great cavern filled with treasure, with a password, and how brother killed brother over the ownership thereof, only to die of starvation for forgetting the secret, enchanted word.
She shares how the two warring lands across the river became King George's because the two heirs fell into a ridiculous and self-destructive love and killed themselves in a case of mistaken timing. This is exchanged for the account of the great vizier to the bumbling sultan, who ruled more wisely than his lord. The vizier was responsible for extracting the secret of paper-milling in the East, as well as the building of many great universities and himself was a famed translator, but lost it all, and most importantly his head, because of an affair with the sultan's lovely and capricious wife.
On some days the queen precedes their sharing of chronicles and tales of adventure. She mocks the princess and toys with her in most violent and creative ways.
One day, he says (for she is most certain by now that it is not a mirror enchanted, but a person, a real, live person), "And that is how the first Jin came to be, and because of him, the art of weaving Magical Carpets became known throughout the land by sorcerers, manufacturers, and peddlers a-many." He listens to the girl sigh, pleased with the legend. "Did you know, I wonder, that it has been a year?"
She is silent for a time, but does not cry—which is what he had been expecting. "I thought as much. So shall we continue on with the records found beneath the West Mountains from inside the jars from the ancient cleric's commune of scribes?"
"And that is how Midas gained his great gift and, in my opinion, curse, but no one's asked me." She pauses, staring out the window at high summer; her tower's sweltering. As a bead of sweat rolls down her forehead, she asks, "Have I missed our second anniversary?"
"Yes, lady, a few weeks back."
"Does he still live?"
"You live; should that not be answer enough?"
"Yes." She smiles, faintly, "he must live."
It's a chilly spring day. The queen has done a particularly good job of inflicting torture for torture's sake. Belle wonders if the woman-of-the-road's been bested in some small manner and needs a play-thing on which to loose her anger. Bend, but not break; scar but not reduce to ashes.
Belle is not smiling when he presents himself to her. She is also lacking in a certain vitality, he thinks. The former Genie asks hesitantly, "What stories shall we trade today?"
"I—" She pauses mouth open, but then shuts it again, looking more than a little confused, "I think I've run out of tales to tell. I have no more accounts left inside of me to trade for yours."
He takes pity on her, strangely enough. "Well, at least allow me to tell you a story to raise your spirits."
She remains silent. Finally, Belle looks up at the man in the mirror, "I only have want of one tale."
"And which tale is that?"
"The tale of how the man in the mirror fell in love with a woman lacking a heart."
He sighs. In the beginning he had dreaded this very question, but now, it's been so long, he had forgotten to worry. She's taken him quite by surprise—oh yes, he could see why Rumpelstiltskin had kept this one. "I will tell you, but only in exchange for your final tale."
Belle scoffs, "But I've none left, you see."
"You've still one: how the beauty fell in love with a beast."
"Then our deal has come to an end." She says immediately, but without anger.
"So it has, princess."
It's a cold winter's day in Storybrooke, and in hell, as the case may be, Mr. Gold thinks, because at the sounding of his shop door, he looks up to see Sidney Glass crossing the threshold. "Whatever brings you here, Mr. Glass? Surprised Regina let out your leash far enough."
Mr. Glass halts momentarily at the biting comment, but continues to walk to the front counter. "I'm here without the mayor's knowledge."
"You don't say," Gold replied, skeptical. What was the witch up to this time?
"You don't have to believe a word I tell you, Mr. Gold, but at least hear me out. Who knows, you might find that what I have to say is to your liking."
"Somehow I highly doubt that, Mr. Glass."
The reporter sighs heavily, but does not answer, instead, setting a manila file folder on the counter.
"And what, may I ask, is this?"
"See for yourself."
Gold opens the file and thinks he might have a heart attack. It's a medical file for French, Rose. It's her picture; it's her life.
She's in the psychiatric ward, the insane asylum.
"How long?"
Sidney sighs again, and no, it can't possibly be, appears remorseful. "Too long. I heard what happened to Mr. French—wrote it up actually. I always wondered why this girl, but then it all clicked."
"But why," Gold pauses, not sure if he can specify more than those two words. Finally, he adds, "help me?"
"Because believe it or not, I know what it is to be in love with someone you are told you can't have." With that, Sidney Glass turns to leave.
"Mr. Glass," the pawnbroker calls, "What's your price, for this?"
The man thinks—in his pity, he had not planned to ask for anything in return. Then, he knows what to ask—wish—for, "The mayor can never know it was me."
"Done."
The two men nod at each other and part ways. It's a cold day in Storybrooke, but strangely, both feel a touch warmer.