Emma Swan entered the store with her usual degree of skepticism. Noting the formerly ostentatious placard, now coated with filthy snow, she was reminded of a movie she'd seen as a kid, some variation of "A Christmas Carol". In that movie, there'd been a scene where the snow had been brushed off a wooden sign like this one to reveal the name Jacob Marley, crossed out abruptly.
Perhaps the thoughts came because it had been the first Christmas in Storybrook, the first Christmas she hadn't spent alone. And what a year it'd been. Following around Henry on "Operation Cobra" had gotten her into a wide range of trouble, not to mention flack from Regina Mills, breaking and entering, planting bugs and whatnot.
Then again, flack from Regina was a welcome thing. Henry, in a sense, had never been wrong about the woman being an evil witch, Emma thought childishly, before reminding herself exactly who had adopted her son, with a little too much heartache in response to the thought as she turned the doorknob.
As she entered, a tubby (read: grossly overweight, crawling with lice and thick tortoiseshell tufts of fur) cat lunged, hissing viciously at her boots. Kicking at it out of instinct, she drew the demon back as that greasy, matted fur rose from its back, yellow eyes glinting as it prepared to charge again…
"And why are you tormenting my cat, might I ask?"
Sardonic and sarcastic, in oozed a man. He was wearing a gray shirt and black pants, nothing out of the ordinary as he scooped up the mangy beast, however his appearance more than made up for the lack of uniqueness in attire.
It was hard to discern whether he was good-looking or not, simply because the most you could say about him was that he was strange. His hair, slightly longer than ordinary, was the color of soot and ashes, the skin resembled faded yellow paper. But the strangest yet where the eyes. They were almost reptilian as what appeared to be fire in the coals they resembled glowed, surprising Emma with the cruelty she felt emit like sparks from them.
"Ah, Sheriff Swan. "
"Mr. Black." She ignored the hand he stretched forward in greeting, instead gripping the badge she wore on her thigh.
"Please, call me Mort. Mortimer and Mr. Black are both too pretentious." He smiled, and again she drew comparison to a reptile. There was something almost vermin-like about him, as if he'd never seen daylight except from a hole in a drainpipe. Like something that wasn't entirely human.
He tapped his finger on the cash register in perfect…Emma didn't remember time signatures from music classes (dammit, she thought) but she knew he was doing it just right.
It infuriated her even more.
"Cut the crap." Her own voice rang over the nuisance of the tapping. "Gold sent me…"
As the sparks in his eyes burst to flame and the tapping ceased, she knew it had been the wrong thing to say.
"Gold…."The voice was a cold, icy whisper as Mortimer Black, drove closer to Emma, whose hand was already on her pistol.
"Can go to Hell. And whatever he sent you for, you can be assured that he will receive it over his own stone-cold body."
"Is that a threat to Gold? Because I could probably take you in for questioning if it is."
"A simple music store owner like me?"His voice is cajoling. "Don't be serious. Anyhow, I couldn't hurt anything."
It was the year of Selection in the Kingdom of Nirall and the unthinkable had occurred in a southern village that will one day have its name immortalized in history.
"There's a child with no Talent?"
"How can it be?! All the children must have their own Talent by fourteen!"
"I know, I know, but this one doesn't. Can't even farm the land."
"It's that orphan boy, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"What will his name be then? Surely we can't just select a Talent for him?"
"I suppose he isn't going to have a name until later on…"
But of course the kind and lovable village children give him a name, the orphan, the Talentless.
"Worthless! Hey Worthless, get out of the way for Painter! And yeah, while you're at it, go clear up the stalls!"
Kicks to the groin, hits to the face.
And his own voice retorting: "Get away, or I'll kill you!" Fists clenched and blood boiling, hands swinging pointlessly, pain surging into new places as they kick and mangle him, pressure points screaming, screaming, screaming.
"WORTHLESS."
"WORTHLESS."
"WORTHLESS."
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP BEFORE I REALLY DO KILL YOU.
"My, my. You're looking quite battered up, dearie."
A scaly gray face learing down out of a dark cloak, long, fin-like fingers coldly touching his own. Pale brown eyes like mulchy water.
"Who are you?"
"Don't tell me you haven't heard of me? The Dark One?"
A head-shake.
"Rumplestiltskin, at your service." An elaborate, foppish bow in front of a bloodied boy lying on the ground. "Pleasure to meet you, Worthless."
"I'LL KILL YOU!" Thrashing on the ground, head dragging upwards, fist raised…
And then falling, back into the mud, back into nothing as Rumplestiltskin chuckles.
"It's your name, isn't it, dearie? But it won't be for much longer…"
"What…"
"I make deals, boy. Deals with kings, deals with masters, deals with peasants, deals with servants. And I can give you the Talent that will bring you a Name."
"Give it to me!" Hands outstretched, clasping air.
"Ah, ah ah! I make deals, I don't simply give."
"What can I even give?" A hopeless whisper from the boy in the mud. "I…have nothing."
A silence before Rumplestiltskin clears his throat and speaks.
"Well, then, let's say you'll simply owe me a favor one day."
And he presses a wooden object into the muddy hands of the boy before disappearing in black smoke, leaving the boy coughing after he has gone, coughing as he pushes himself back up.
Examining the strange object, he sees that holes are carved along it, small, bare open spaces. A large hole at the end, when ventured further, he sees that the long cylinder itself is hollow…
"A flute?"
No.
"A whistle?"
Try again.
"A pipe…."
And, placing a finger on one of the openings, he blows a single, melodious note, pleasing and bright. Smiling, he pockets it and, standing upright for what seems like the first time, he walks off back to Hamlin.
"Ah, Mr. Black…." Gold smiled, tracing his finger over the mound of dust on the counter in front of him. "Such a surprise…"
"Shut the hell up."
"Such a juvenile retort from a man in his….late twenties, early thirties?"
"You know I don't know!" The ringing in the voice, loud as Mort slams his hands against the counter, looking into Gold's eyes with loathing. "No one knows!"
"Ah, yes…no one here really does seem to know how old they are, I suppose." Gold smiled coldly. "And yet you're the only one who realizes that you cannot remember a childhood….or a lover…." Gold smirked, running his fingers through dirt again. "And yet, in your wallet you have a letter from someone named Aurelia…how interesting. A one-time fling, I suppose?"
"You wanted the damn things, now you can have them!" Mort snarled as he passed a cardboard box over the counter to Gold.
"So dismissive, and so angry…" Gold purred. "Frankly, this all has been well and good, but I would like you to leave…"
"One day, Gold, I will have the truth from you." A threat, a shout.
"And you shall. Now, please leave."
As Mort stormed out, Gold chuckled. Same old, same old. And here….He opened the box carefully, glinting box cutter barely making any incisions but necessary ones, slowly sliding in and out of the pulverized paper. Like a doctor, he cuts only the organs in need of destruction to reveal the prize underneath.
He breaths out as he sees them. Two hands, mechanical joints sliding at his touch, no longer attached to an automaton or a person, glinting silver in the dim light of the pawn shop.
"A treasure…but then, it's lucky he doesn't remember himself…"