And they lived happily ever after.
That's how all the stories end, is it not? True love's kiss breaks the curse. Good triumphs over evil. Light defeats dark.
Maybe. Maybe not. Some fairy tales are stories. Some stories are fairy tales. All stories are made of truths. All stories are made of lies. The only way to know which is which is it to listen. The only way to know which is which is to learn.
Happily ever after isn't always part of the story. Neither is once upon a time.
But sometimes it is. Sometimes they are. The trick is learning what to believe and what to ignore. The trick is learning to listen. The trick is learning to see.
The trick is learning.
"Tell me a story, Papa," Baelfire asked. "Please? Just one story, Papa, and I promise I'll go straight to sleep."
Rumpelstiltskin couldn't help but smile, gently reaching out to ruffle his son's hair. It was growing long again; it would be in need of a cut before too long. "Of course, Bae," he said, shuffling a little so that he could sit down on the bed without causing his leg to ache too much. "What story did you want to hear?"
Baelfire's smile was bright and innocent, lighting up everything around him. "Can you tell me one about Mama?"
Rumpelstiltskin flinched before he could stop himself. Baelfire's face fell.
Once upon a time there was a man who loved a woman. Once upon a time there was a woman who loved a man. Once upon a time there was a woman who loved her son. Once upon a time there was a woman who hated a coward. Once upon a time there was a woman who died, most likely scared and alone and in pain, because her husband was too helpless to save her.
"Papa," Baelfire said quietly, "you can tell me another story, if you want."
Rumpelstiltskin looked down at Baelfire. He was still young, yes, still just a child. But he was growing up. One day, he wouldn't ask his father to tell him stories anymore.
"Once upon a time," Rumpelstiltskin said, and then he had to stop. But his son was staring up at him with wide eyes, a hopeful look on his face, and nobody said that the story had to be true. At least not in its entirety. "Once upon a time, there was a woman. A beautiful woman who loved a man with all of her heart."
Belle burst out laughing. "You're making that up!"
"I never!" Rumpelstiltskin said, bringing his hand up over his heart and pointedly ignoring the looks the two of them were getting from the other patrons at Granny's. "You wound me, Belle."
"Oh, no you don't," she said, picking up a french fry from her plate and waving it in his direction. "I know you and your stories, remember? And I'm absolutely certain that one was a complete lie."
Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. Then he picked up his napkin and reached over to wipe a smudge of ketchup off her cheek. Belle made a face at him as he pulled the napkin away, but her eyes were twinkling.
"A complete lie?" he asked lightly. In his mind, a red-haired mermaid swam through the ocean, desperate to fulfill her part of their bargain. "I'll admit, I might have embellished a few slight details—"
"That much was obvious," Belle cut in. "Do you really expect me to believe that a kraken would—"
"—but I wouldn't go as far as to say it was a complete lie," Rumpelstiltskin continued calmly, causing her to break off her protest mid-sentence. "All stories have their basis in truth, you know."
Belle gave him a skeptical look. "Even the lies?"
"Oh, Belle," he said, shaking his head despite himself. "Especially the lies."
"And what would you want from me this time?" Snow White asked.
She was watching him warily, a distrustful look on her face, but Rumpelstiltskin knew her well enough by now. If the price wasn't too high, she would be willing to pay it. If it was too high, she still might. Desperation wasn't a good look on her.
"Don't worry, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said with a laugh, "my price this time is rather small."
Snow let out a rather unladylike snort.
Rumpelstiltskin's grin grew even wider. "You don't believe me?" he asked, dramatically bringing both arms up to cross over his chest. "I'm hurt, dearie. Hurt."
"I know you," Snow said matter-of-factly. "What do you want, Rumpelstiltskin? What's your price?"
He studied her face for a moment. The future was on the right path, he could feel it. As long as he kept her on it, everything he had been preparing for would eventually come to pass.
Snow tightened her grip on her sword. "Well?"
He met her gaze and nodded. "All I want from you is a story."
She blinked, her sword dropping just a bit. "What?"
"Just a story," Rumpelstiltskin repeated, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's all."
Snow stared at him for a moment or two, her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to decide what game he was playing. She knew him well enough by now as well. "Why a story?"
He snapped his fingers, and a book appeared in his hand. It was almost empty, only a handful of pages filled in, not that she could tell from where she stood. Not without him opening it. "Well, I don't know about you, dearie, but I love a good story."
"Rumpelstiltskin," Snow said, her eyes narrowing even more, "why a story?"
If it had been anyone else asking, he wouldn't have answered. For Snow White, though, he was willing to make an exception. Everything depended on her in the end. Snow White, and her prince, and the child they would one day have. "Because words have power," he said simply. "And stories have words."
She kept staring at him for another few seconds, obviously trying to decide whether or not to believe him. Then she nodded and finally lowered her sword. "What type of story do you want from me?"
"Why, a true one, of course."
"You're not welcome here," Red said, almost snarling as she leaned protectively in front of Belle in the booth they were sitting in. "Go away."
Rumpelstiltskin raised an eyebrow. "I'm not here to see you, wolf."
Red glared at him. "Oh, I know. That doesn't mean that I'm going to stand by and let you bother—"
"Ruby," Belle said lightly, cutting in. She rested her hand on top of the other woman's. "I know you're trying to help, but I can fight my own battles. I promise."
Red reluctantly nodded, her posture relaxing somewhat as she leaned back, but her eyes were sharply focused on Rumpelstiltskin.
He raised an eyebrow as he met Belle's gaze. "Am I a battle that needs to be won, then?"
"I don't know anymore," Belle said, not looking away. "Are you?"
There were a thousand and one ways he could answer that question, and every single one of them went through his mind. "I hope not," he said finally. "Battles are something typically not remembered with fondness."
Red started to say something, and he could guess what, but Belle elbowed her rather roughly in the side before she could. "Ruby," she said warningly.
Rumpelstiltskin stood there, suddenly aware of the myriad of looks being shot in his direction from the other patrons of the diner. Belle was staring at him with an unreadable look on her face.
"Tell me a story," she said suddenly.
Red looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Rumpelstiltskin suspected that there was a similar expression on his own face.
"What?" he asked.
"I said, tell me a story," Belle said. "Words are power, aren't they? And stories have words?"
Rumpelstiltskin couldn't help but smile, just a little. "You want to have power over me then?"
Belle raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, Belle," he said, shaking his head as he sat down in the booth across from them. He pointedly ignored the look that Red was shooting him; he suspected Belle wouldn't react well if he was to turn her friend into a newt, and looking at her would only increase his temptation. "You already do."
Dr. Hopper was standing in front of the boarded up library, staring up at the clock tower high above it with a puzzled look on his face.
Mr. Gold was tempted to simply walk past, as he usually did. Except he couldn't remember the last time he had seen the doctor during his usual afternoon walk. Normally, he wouldn't think anything of it. But there was something . . .
"Good afternoon, Dr. Hopper."
Dr. Hopper literally jumped as he spun around, a startled look on his face. "Mr. Gold!" he exclaimed, his voice slightly higher pitched than usual. He quickly stepped back into his usual mask of professionalism, but Mr. Gold could see the cracks in the façade. "How are you doing today?"
Mr. Gold gave him a cold smile but didn't actually answer. Instead he glanced up at the clock tower. "I don't usually see you out here at this time of day."
Dr. Hopper gave him a tired shrug. "I usually meet with Hen—that is, a patient right now. He didn't show up today, though."
"How is little Henry?" Mr. Gold asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dr. Hopper shifted uncomfortably. "I really shouldn't say anything. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that means—"
"Of course," Mr. Gold cut in. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to break your oath."
It was almost amusing how relieved Dr. Hopper looked when he glanced up at him. But then he really looked at Mr. Gold's face, and his face fell. He glanced around nervously, as if to make certain no one else was watching them. "He's still obsessed with stories," he said, lowering his voice.
"Stories," Mr. Gold repeated dryly.
Dr. Hopper shrugged apologetically. "Well, you know what they said, words have power."
Mr. Gold shook his head, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and prepared to walk away. He couldn't help but glance up at the clock tower one last time, though.
"I keep forgetting to mention to the mayor that she should do something to fix that clock," Dr. Hopper said, shaking his head. "I can't for the life of me remember to ask her about it when I'm actually speaking to her. I don't know why."
Mr. Gold paused for just a moment, a hint of something tugging at his memories.
"I see," he said finally, narrowing his eyes as he stared up at the frozen clock. "Now that you mention it, I've kept forgetting to say something about it as well."
Dr. Hopper chuckled, but his eyes were still a little wary. "I guess we're both getting a little forgetful. That's what growing older does to you, I suppose."
Without replying, Mr. Gold turned and started to walk away. Dr. Hopper didn't even attempt to hide his sigh of relief.
Mr. Gold was a lot of things, but he wasn't forgetful. Not usually. For the first time in twenty-eight years, he wondered just what else he might be forgetting.
Rumpelstiltskin frowned as he felt Belle's forehead. She was burning with fever, her skin like fire under his hand, and for what might have been the first time he regretted that his castle was so isolated.
Frowning, he glanced at the stack of books sitting on a table near her bed. There were spells in there that he could try, spells that might help cure whatever it was that was rampaging through her body, but he was reluctant to use magic to heal her. Magic always had a price.
Still . . .
"Don't you dare."
Rumpelstiltskin looked at Belle in surprise. She had been mostly unconscious for the better part of a day after spending two days tossing and turning in her bed; he hadn't expected her to awaken, not without aid.
"Belle?" he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle.
"Magic always comes with a price," Belle said, her eyes bright. It might have been the fever. It was probably the fever. But maybe, just maybe, it was something more. "That's what you always say, is it not?"
Rumpelstiltskin gently pressed his hand against her cheek. It took everything he had not to pull away from the heat he felt coming from it. "Belle, you're ill."
"Don't you dare use magic to heal me," she said. The strength in her voice was already fading, her body trembling slightly from the exertion.
Part of him wanted to argue, to tell her that he knew better than she did what was for the best. He kept that part of himself quiet for once.
"What would you have me do then?" he asked, trying and failing to keep emotion out of his voice.
Belle stared at him for a moment, her eyes fever-bright. Then she smiled.
"Tell me a story,"
Rumpelstiltskin blinked at that, despite himself. "What?"
"A story," she repeated, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You were a father once, were you not? Surely you know about the healing powers of a story."
He couldn't help but close his eyes for a moment, Bae's face flashing in his mind. "What type of story?" he asked, his eyes still closed.
"A true one," Belle replied.
Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. She smiled at him.
"Those are the best kind," she continued weakly.
He nodded, slowly. "I suppose that I can tell you a story then."
"One that doesn't involve you killing anyone," Belle cut in. Her voice was light, but there was a hint of something in her eyes that he couldn't quite read.
Rumpelstiltskin just sighed. "Well then, that will cut down the potential list quite a bit."
Belle smiled up at him, her face pale and her skin burning like flame. "Maybe," she said tiredly. "But there are still some stories left, are there not?"
"Yes," he said, smiling just a bit. "Yes, there are."
Emma's face was unreadable. "Henry told me and Neal that you've been telling him stories."
"I'm his grandfather," Rumpelstiltskin replied smoothly. "Aren't grandfathers allowed to tell their grandsons stories?"
"That depends," Emma shot back.
Rumpelstiltskin raised an eyebrow. "And what, may I ask, does it depend on?"
"Whether the stories you're telling him are just stories."
Rumpelstiltskin smiled at her. "My dear, Emma, what else would they be?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "I don't know," she said, and there was magic in her eyes. "You tell me, Mr. Gold. What kind of power do stories have?"
If anything, his smile grew. "You're learning," he said. "Good."
Emma didn't break their gaze. "That wasn't an answer."
"No," he agreed, turning away, "it wasn't."
She grabbed his arm.
"Careful, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, not even glancing at her. "I've killed people for less."
Emma snorted. "Try it."
At that, he glanced at her. "Don't tempt me," he said coldly.
There was no fear on her face. "What kind of power do stories have?" she repeated.
He studied her face for a moment, considering. Then he nodded. "It's not the stories that have power," he said. "It's the words."
"Tell me a story," Lacey said. Her lipstick was smudged, and her eyes were dark with something in a way that Belle's had never been.
Rumpelstiltskin tilted his head. "What type of story?"
"A true one," she shot back instantly. "Those are the best kind."
He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, careful to keep his face expressionless. Then he smiled. Carefully. Guarded.
"I know a lot of stories, Lacey," he told her. "You'll have to be more specific than that."
She stared at him for a moment, a thoughtful look on her face as if she was considering his words very carefully. Then she smiled, and it was a smile that made him want to shiver. It was a smile that didn't belong on that face.
"Have you ever killed anyone?" she asked, not even trying to hide the eagerness in her voice.
Something in Rumpelstiltskin's chest clenched tightly, for just a second. But Belle wasn't there, and Lacey was, and in some ways he was still the coward that he had always been. He would take what he could get.
"Oh yes," he said, finally, only hesitating for an instant. "Many times."
Lacey grinned at him, bright and eager, looking so much like Belle and so much unlike her at the same time that it hurt. "Then tell me about one of those times."
Regina was staring at him, a thoughtful look on her face. Rumpelstiltskin was careful not to glance in her direction. He had been looking for confirmation that she was the one he had been waiting for; he suspected that this was the day he was going to know for certain whether or not he was correct.
"Words have power," Regina said slowly.
Rumpelstiltskin shot her a quick look, pointedly keeping his face unimpressed. "So I've heard," he said. "Is there a reason you're rambling about the power of words rather than working on the spell I gave you to practice?"
"Words have power," Regina repeated, meeting his gaze head on. "And stories have words."
He stared at her for a moment, not breaking her gaze. Then he allowed himself a small smile. "Yes," he agreed, "yes, they do."
Regina smiled.
So did he. "You'll have to tell me a story, one of these days," Rumpelstiltskin said, careful not to glance at the empty book resting on his shelf in a place of honor. It was still waiting for the right time.
"Perhaps," Regina agreed. Her eyes were sharp. "But it will cost you."
Rumpelstiltskin's smile grew even wider, and he showed her his teeth. "I wouldn't have it any other way, dearie."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Gold," she said, shaking her head. "I still don't remember anything."
Rumpelstiltskin smiled gently at her, resting a hand on her shoulder for a moment before pulling it away. "It's fine, Belle. That's not why I'm here."
She bit her lip as she looked up at him. "It's not?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's not."
"Then why are you here?" she asked, confused.
Rumpelstiltskin sat down in the chair that he had made certain would be waiting for him beside her bed. "If you're willing to listen," he told her, "I'd like to tell you a story."
She looked at him, a mixture of confusion and suspicion on her face. "What kind of story?"
He smiled at her. "A true one. Those are the best kind, are they not?"
Cora shook her head. "I don't understand."
"I said, I want you to tell me a story," Rumpelstiltskin repeatedly calmly.
She glared at him. "I didn't say that I didn't hear you," she shot back. "I said that I don't understand. Why do you want me to tell you a story?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"
"You're supposed to be teaching me," Cora shot back. "How am I supposed to learn anything if you won't explain it to me?"
Rumpelstiltskin reached out to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. "By paying attention, dearie. Words are power, you know."
He could see immediately that she didn't understand. That she hadn't figured it out, despite the clue that he had given her.
It disappointed him more than he had expected. There was a part of him that had hoped she would be the one.
"Rumpelstiltskin?" she asked hesitantly, reaching out to touch his face as if she couldn't quite believe it was him.
Rumpelstiltskin stared at her, his eyes wide. "Belle?" he asked.
Words have power. Stories have words.
Once upon a time, there was a man who became a monster. Once upon a time, there was a monster who became a man.
One of these stories is true. One of these stories is false. Both of these stories are real. Neither of these stories happened. What is the story, a truth or a lie?
Once upon a time, there was a man. Once upon a time, there was a monster.
Once upon a time.