A/N: Finally everything is cross-posted! The (very short) first in a (much longer) projected series of vignettes. Been sitting on this on for a while and hopefully won't be canon jossed anytime soon.
On a Thursday night in autumn, Mr Gold finds himself sitting on a reasonably comfortable divan in a darkened parlor. Despite the chill creeping in through the uncovered dark windows, he feels pleasantly warm and hazy as though he has just woken up from a century of deep, rested sleep. Though an unnatural, pregnant silence surrounds him, it fails to interest him; he much rather prefers to focus on how aching joints and limbs no longer plague him, and how agreeable it is to recline against such soft, plush, and civilized furniture. In short, Mr Gold does not want for anything, not even a mug of hot tea.
Vague, disjointed images and sounds then prickle across his brain: A dungeon with rats. Iridescent, black smoke blasting in his direction. His breath clouding before his face. "You think a horse is going to do?" Jagged, rusty bars. Nowhere to run. Distant screams echoing down a long mineshaft. "Emma." Shrill, manic laughter exploding in his ears.
Apparently he has nodded off again, because he jerks awake and finds himself reaching for his watch chain to flick open the timepiece. It is eight-fifteen, which he decides is certainly enough time to finish a little work before putting himself properly to bed. Without a second thought, he hauls himself to his feet. The instant he takes the first step toward his study, however, his right leg unexpectedly collapses under the sudden weight, sending him into the side table with a graceless lurch, then crashing against the immaculate hardwood floor.
"Shit."
He recovers quickly and he pushes himself up on one elbow, only to notice a black lacquered cane resting innocently against the back of the divan.
A sensation of uneasiness suddenly settles somewhere in his gut and for the life of him, he couldn't explain why.