Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
- Robert Frost
It had all been leading up to this. Ever since his awakening, finding her had been his only goal. And now that Regina was preoccupied with the repercussions of her accidentally having poisoned Henry, he could finally take action.
Discovering where she was kept was the easy part. When you have eyes and ears throughout the entire town, news of a mental ward, and of its patients, eventually makes it to the surface. Planning the extraction was a little more complicated. There was the nurse constantly on guard who had to be taken into consideration, not to mention Regina's frequent and unpredictable visits. In the end, however, he found the answer.
The key was Emma. By first putting her in his debt and then helping her become the sheriff of Storybrooke, he ensured that when the time came and Regina was sufficiently distracted, she would be there to help him carry out his mission. He hated to call her away from her son, but Henry was comatose and a favour was a favour. Besides, if Emma had other things on her mind, she would be less likely to ask questions.
He told her no guns, so as not to scare the patient. He told her to tell the nurse the patient was being brought to the sheriff's station for questioning regarding an incident which occurred prior to her admittance to the hospital. He told her to ask the nurse for the key to the patient's room rather than have her accompany them. When the nurse would ask what he was doing there, he told her to say he was the patient's lawyer. Emma, desperate to get back to her son, did not challenge his instructions.
It was unsurprising that a simple flash of Emma's badge was enough to earn perfect cooperation from the nurse. As they now headed down the stone-cold hallway toward room 23, he was all pins and needles. Other than keeping his eye on Regina, he had spent most of that day trying to settle down on what to wear, what cologne to use. He ended up choosing one of his most frequently worn suits and the usual cologne. He did, however, buy a white rose from her father, which he had hidden in the depths of his suit for fear of coming on too strong, because he knew there was always a chance she did not want him. That is, if she even remembered him. Oh, how he hoped she remembered him. Her file said she had "problems with reality," and in this town that more than likely meant her memories were intact.
There was a short pause at the door while Emma fought with the lock. His heart beat so fast he was afraid he would go into cardiac arrest at his age. His mouth felt dry and it was at that moment he realized he had no idea what he would say to the girl. What do you say to someone whom you had willingly pushed away, who was kept from you by an evil witch for over 28 years, and whom you had thought dead all this time? He decided "I'm sorry" was probably the best place to start.
Emma swung open the door before him and his heart stopped so abruptly it hurt his chest. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the perpetual darkness within, but then… he saw her. She stood by the far wall of the room, hunched over in fear, blinded by the light pouring in from the open door like a deer in headlights. She held her hands in front of her uncertainly, squeezing her fingers nervously. Once she was finally able to see and to make out her unannounced guests, her crystalline eyes took on a more curious expression rather than that of fear.
"Belle…." the man in the suit whispered, then took a few hurried steps toward her. She shied away from him, stepping along the wall to his left. He understood and stopped within an arm's length of her. "Oh, Belle, what has she done to you…?" Slowly, carefully, he reached out a hand and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Like a wild animal's, her silver eyes followed his every movement. He decided to risk taking another step toward her. She took a step backwards, toward the door. He realized, gritting his teeth, that Regina had ensured the girl had no human contact over the past 28 years.
He stepped in front of her and hastily pulled the rose out of the folds of his suit. He held it out to her with baited breath. She surveyed him shyly, playing with her fingers, but it was evident the flower had caught her attention. Finally, she reached out a delicate hand and took it. Mindless of the thorns, she brought the petals up to her nose and inhaled the sweet perfume. Her lips curved into a small smile and her eyes twinkled like stars in winter when she looked up at him again.
"Oh, Belle," he said, his lips breaking into a smile as well. Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder. She froze but did not back away from him, so just as gently he pulled her into a close hug. "Belle, I'm so sorry," he breathed, his eyes filling with tears of relief. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted what's best for you." Momentarily, he glanced over at Emma, who stood in the corner to the right of the door. She understood - not entirely, but enough. She smiled at him, though in her smile was a trace of jealousy at what he had and she clearly did not.
In the doorway there appeared a shadow. It took the trio in the room a moment to notice her, and it was a moment too late. On Regina's face were mingled expressions of hatred, disgust, and above all an evident frustration at having to do what she was about to do. She drew a small revolver from her pocket, and pointed it not at the saviour, not at the pawnbroker, but at the brown-haired girl with the rose.
"Plea-" was all the man in the suit could manage before the shot rang out across the room. At first he thought she had not been hit. Then she clutched the left side of her head, smearing blood on her hand and the rose, and he thought it was only a graze. Then the blood began to flow in rivulets down her temple, her cheek, and her neck, and she collapsed forwards. He caught her in his arms but because of his lame leg could not support her for long, and had to lay her down on her stomach onto the concrete floor. Her left hand held the rose as tightly as ever while the blood spreading steadily in a pool beside her head surrounded it in a crimson sheet of satin.
The pawnbroker rose to his feet. His breathing came in short bursts as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. The soul-crushing fury he felt now had not been experienced by him since his ancient days of being the Dark One. He was ready to kill. He berated himself for not having brought his gun and for having told Emma not to bring hers. Because of his own damned overconfidence, all he had to rely on now was his cane. Holding it as if it were a sword, he lunged at Regina. There was momentary panic in her eyes, but then her pistol sang once more.
He stopped in his tracks, his cane slipping through his fingers and hitting the floor with a clatter. Shakily, his hands travelled to his chest where the bullet had pierced his clothes, his skin, and his flesh. He felt a welling of warmth where a searing pain should have been, a welling which then spilled down his stomach and was absorbed by his shirt. He staggered backwards and fell onto the icy floor.
He heard screaming. It was probably Emma. The commotion around the door sounded as if she and Regina had just gotten into a scuffle. Soon enough, the voices and sounds had just turned into background noise.
He turned his head to the left and was surprised to see the brown-haired beauty's face just a couple of feet across from his own. Her dilated pupils dashed hither and thither, telling him she was still alive. A sudden joy filled his heart at the thought that if they had to die, they could at least die together. Her hand, the one not holding the rose, lay limply on the floor beside her, and he reached out to hold it. Her body jolted at the touch and she pulled her arm away from him and out of his reach. This hurt him more than the gunshot wound. He looked back into her face, unable to mask his pain. Her eyes were wide from shock, unable to focus. It was likely she did not know where she was anymore.
"Belle… Belle…." he whispered, trying to catch her attention. Finally, her eyes stopped dashing and froze on his. "It's me, Belle, your Rumple. Don't you remember me? Don't you remember your Rumple?"
No. He did not need to see the word or to hear it. He saw it plainly in her eyes that she did not recognize him. Hot tears spilled over the bridge of his nose and down his cheek, obscuring his vision. When he had blinked them away, she no longer moved, and the light that had constantly shone beyond her silvery blues had gone out.
He stayed longer than her, mere minutes, but to him it felt like eternity. He had not realized until then how truly cold her room was. The warm tears which would not stop flowing felt like acid on his chilled face. But soon enough even those ran cold.
And then the cold was all that remained.