I do not own Once Upon a Time.

Note: Mostly complete, but I won't be able to sleep unless I post this tonight. I'll try to tidy it up and get the ending in a day or two. Send all complaints to the story fairies who told me to write or else tonight.

X

There was blood on the knife. Belle, smelling it, remembered the last day of the Ogre War, how the stench of death and dying filling the air. It was thick, coating the sharp edges of the blade, filling the dark letters of the fading name still engraved on the dagger. Belle looked at the lifeless body slumped on the floor, dead eyes staring. Mutely, she met her husband's silent, uncomprehending gaze, trying to understand what she had done.

X

Early that day, people on the street stared as Belle Gold (or Belle French, no one seemed to be sure what to call her) had gone mad, seizing her grandson. She had dragged him into the shop that was her husband's, demanding the boy's blood.

Five days before, Belle had sat in their house (his house, she thought. His home. His things. She had no right to them, no more than any other thief). She had sat in a chair, staring at the dagger and the name on it, wondering what to do next as the day darkened and the shadows stretched (where was he? Had he found shelter? A place to spend the night?). Rumplestiltskin was still engraved on it, as deep and dark as ever.

Given the alternative, she knew that had to be a good thing.

Belle took it out each day, over and over again, getting as bad as Ruby checking her phone when she was waiting to hear back from a guy, not that Belle didn't check her phone, too. But, his had been left behind. She'd found it in the shop when everything was done. So, she couldn't interrupt him, she supposed. Or so he wouldn't be tempted to stop at the last minute and answer her.

It wasn't the only thing she did. She searched through books, magical and mundane, for solutions. She looked for scholars and tried to craft lies to coax answers out of them.

She listened to her friends—as well as his enemies—telling her how wonderful and brave she'd been till she wanted to scream.

When she couldn't take it anymore, when they were finally gone, she pulled out the dagger, reassuring herself that he was well, he was alive.

But, that first night, she had sat alone in the growing darkness, wondering what she should do, knowing she couldn't go up the stairs to their . . . to his room, to his bed.

She couldn't call it hers anymore, not after what she'd done.

Belle spoke to Dove the next day (on her husband's phone when she found it in the shop). Dove had heard what had happened by then (and in so many different versions). Her words had been slow, monosyllabic. Dove, usually so silent, had been the one to take the lead, filling in the gaps. Of course, he would see to it the rents were still collected and deposited. He would take care of repairs and any other business. Mrs. Gold, he supposed, would take care of the shop.

"And I'll be there if anyone gives you any trouble," he said. "With Rumplestiltskin gone, they may think you're vulnerable. I'll make sure they know they're wrong."

"Thank you," Belle has whispered, her numbness slipping just far enough for her to feel stunned at his offer.

"No thanks necessary," Dove said simply. "He would want it."

It was like a slap to the face.

Belle went to see Emma. Emma knew how to find people and she knew other people—people outside of Storybrooke—who did the same. Belle had started to ask her, and then Hook came in. He was all charm and smiles, thanking her for what she'd done.

He'd followed Rumplestiltskin to New York, nearly murdering him on his son's doorstep. Belle saw the way Emma's eyes glowed when she looked at the pirate. She knew that look. Right or wrong, a woman who looked at a man that way would hold nothing back from him.

She felt the dull ache in her own heart where something that had rooted deep had been torn out, leaving a gaping hole. Belle turned away without asking Emma to help her find her husband, to let her know he was all right.

All she could do was take out the dagger and look at it, tracing the letters with her hands, knowing he was alive. He had to be alive. Somewhere.

Till the day the blackness on the blade began to fade, the letters of his name began to disappear.

Emma, she thought. Emma.

She could call her, beg her for help. Belle owned half the town and understood things about potions and spells even Regina didn't (not that Regina needed to. When you can wave your hand and turn someone into a slug, understanding the alchemical theory behind acne cream must seem fairly unimportant).

How long would it take to find Rumple? How far could he have gotten from Storybrooke? She'd kept an eye on his accounts, the ones she knew of, looking for some sign of where he was or what he was doing. But, there'd been nothing.

He might have accounts she didn't know about. He might be halfway around the world, for all she knew. Belle cursed herself, wishing she had the magic to make her words do something. She shouldn't have been a coward. She shouldn't have run away. If she'd spoken to Emma at the beginning, made her understand why Belle couldn't have Hook know about this, maybe she'd know what to do or which way to run.

Or maybe Hook would have found a way to make these letters fade that much sooner.

If he hadn't found a way already, if he hadn't gone to Emma and asked the questions Belle had been afraid to speak. . . .

Or if any of dozens of others, people with real or imagined wrongs, hadn't done the very same. Her own father might have done it. They'd built a fragile peace between them, and he'd led her to the wishing well Rumplestiltskin and Belle had chosen as their wedding altar. But, he hadn't hidden his happiness since she sent Rumplestiltskin away.

He'd saved her father's life, his life and the lives of all their people. He'd saved her, time after time—he'd died for everyone in this town, giving his life to stop Pan's curse, to save them from the hell on earth that demon had meant for them. Didn't that deserve some sign of gratitiude?

Belle thought of herself forcing Rumple into exile, turning a deaf ear to his pleas.

No, she thought, feeling the familiar pain inside her, it didn't.

Then she saw Henry walking by. Henry. Rumple's grandson. She grabbed the boy, babbling madly as she dragged him into the shop, not caring if he understood or not as she brought his hand down on the sharp needle of the globe.

New York. Rumple was in New York.

Belle picked up the phone, hands shaking. She called Dove.

X

Such good intentions, she thought later, the smell of blood overwhelming her. They'd all had such good intentions.

She remembered the cries as the Ogres attacked and the sound of stone striking stone as the Ogres beat down their walls. She remembered the screams of children.

And blood. Always the smell of blood.

Till an imp appeared, smelling of leather and fire, promising them their lives.

For a price.

Her hand shook as she looked at the dagger, saw the changing letters and the blood.

She had started out with good intentions.

X

Dove found the pilot, a man from this world. He also found the nearest place to the town line that could be used for a small plane to lane. Dove explained something about the skills of his cursed self, words Belle heard at a distance, ex-military, old contacts. Perhaps they would mean something to her later. She thought the pilot might have asked her questions. She had a knife on her lap, after all (that was another advantage to a small plane, he didn't care if they brought a knife onboard—or he didn't once Dove paid him).

There was a story they'd had ready, something that went with the curse (in case she slipped up in her telling, mixing truth with the lies that had to be told). It was a complicated tale about this antique dagger and why Mr. Gold was a bit superstitious about it and considered it his good luck charm. If she was asked why she was rushing to her husband's side with a knife in her hand, that was her reason.

Luck. Will Scarlet, drunken desecrator of books, had been the only person to wish her luck when she'd left. He'd pressed a small packet into her hands. "It'll help," he told her, before Dove shooed him off.

They'd been flying for about an hour when Dove got a text on his cell. He turned to her and said, "They've found him. He's in the hospital. He's had a heart attack, but he's going to be all right." It was one of the longest speeches she'd ever heard from him. She began to breathe easier—

—Until the few letters remaining on the blade began to fade away.

X

A hospital. There was a hospital. Belle ran through the doors, leaving Dove to settle with the taxi. Garbled words at the desk, answers, a room number. Other phrases, ". . . .need to speak with the doctor. . . . Questions. . . . Forms. . . ." Belle ran past them, having the only thing she needed to know.

The letters had nearly vanished. She thought for a moment they were gone. Then parts of the "R" had been visible again. Faint ghost-letters began to reappear. The pilot must think she was a madwoman the way she'd begun screaming. Or he had till he'd seen the letters writing themselves back on the blade.

Belle didn't know what he'd thought in the end. Dove had a quiet word with him after Belle had calmed down and only said, "He didn't see anything. And he'll remember he didn't see anything."

It hadn't been a comfortable trip.

The hat. If she'd let Rumple use the hat, none of this would be happening. It would have meant murder, she told herself. It would have meant Hook dead. But, right now, she couldn't feel the horror at that thought the way she knew she should.

No, forget the hat. If she'd just let him stay in Storybrooke. If she'd asked why he was doing this and listened—Had he known when she exiled him how weak his heart was? This was Rumplestiltskin who always knew everything. But, had he known?

A worse thought hit her. Had he seen this? With the scraps and crumbs the future gave him, had he seen himself dying, all his power useless to save him? Had he been trying to save himself when she stepped in and stopped him?

A man would have died, she reminded herself. A man who had tried to kill her three . . . no, four times. Who had nearly murdered Rumplestiltskin, Neal, and the entire town.

No, that didn't make it right. She had been right to stop that murder. Dear gods, she had to have been right. Please, she prayed, don't let him die. Don't—don't—make me responsible for his death. Please.

She reached his room.

Belle stopped, catching her breath, trying to compose herself. She didn't know what Rumplestiltskin needed, but it wasn't the sight of a half-hysterical madwoman (did they have a ward for the insane here? How close was Belle to pushing herself over the edge and finding herself there?).

Nightmares flew through her mind as she walked the last few feet. When she'd been a child and Gaston had been a brat of a pageboy in her father's service, he had delighted in telling her terrifying stories, the sort boys told each other to see who would admit to being scared first. A traveler took shelter in an Ogre's den, the bullied boy became a fearsome wolf who killed his attackers by moonlight, a hungry goblin is let in by a foolish wish and carries the child away, a wanderer seeks shelter in a cave only to discover it is lined with teeth and the moist ground he stands on is a giant tongue. . . .

For weeks, she'd been unable to walk around a corner without holding her breath, wondering what horrors might be standing there.

She imagined horrors now. Rumple gone. Almost worse, Rumple still there but unable to hear her as she tried to talk to him one last time before he faded away. Or a Rumple alive and angry with her, his last words a curse.

Or Killian Jones, somehow here ahead of her, waiting only till she was there to see before sinking his hook into Rumple's heart and thanking her for making sure Rumple was weak and helpless when they met.

Clerics, Pan, Regina, a thousand nightmares seemed to swim past her eyes. She imagined stepping through the door and finding herself in a dark cell, the same cell where she had spent nearly thirty years.

It would be lined with teeth, she thought, and the door would swing shut like giant mouth of a monster disguised as a green hill. . . .

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Child's nightmares. None of that was real.

Belle walked in on a scene worse than any she had imagined.

Zelena.

Zelena lying over Rumple on his hospital bed. Like a lover. Like a cat playing with a mouse. She was playing with the tube giving him breath, keeping him alive.

Belle stepped closer, like a person in a dream drawn to the terror they wanted to run from. She heard Zelena whispering threats to Rumplestiltskin. Belle's head pounded.

It couldn't be real. It wasn't real.

She stepped closer, and Zelena looked up at her. The witch smiled. "Well, well, look whose come to join us, Rumple? Little Belle, how good to see you. Step back, dearie, or I think your poor husband might take a turn for the worse."

Zelena ran a hand through Rumplestiltskin's hair. Not like a lover, she thought, as if Rumplestiltskin were her pet. The room tilted and everything turned red. . . .