"Me and Neil will be hanging out with the Dream King"—"Tear in Your Hand," Tori Amos
Ever since his boyhood days, when other lads would dream of becoming warriors or knights or sea captains, Xavier had but two ambitions: to preserve his kingdom and to protect his family's place in it. Nothing else mattered, and nothing–not blackmail or kidnapping or theft or murder–was too wicked to pursue, Xavier's father and tutors taught him, if it would achieve, even temporarily, either of those goals.
But sadly, Xavier's father, however ruthless, was an easily distracted dimwit and when a "holy" war against the infidels kept him long away from the kingdom, his coffers were repeatedly dipped into for "necessaries" to run the kingdom in his absence. He returned, defeated in war, to find himself broke. A year later, on the day of Xavier's sixteenth birthday, King Juan suffered a sudden heart attack and passed away. Xavier's first act, once the crown was settled upon his pimply head, was to have Juan's advisors, most of whom had fled the country, rounded up and executed publicly. From that moment on, the courtiers knew where they stood and there was no more stealing. Xavier began the slow process of rebuilding, using the techniques he'd been taught, including, at age seventeen, a strategic marriage. Dozens of assassinations, kidnappings, blackmailings and con games later, he'd restored most of what had been stolen, but Xavier vowed he'd never be poor again, so just as he had sold himself through marriage, he offered for sale his son, Henry (his bastard son, actually, conceived with a scullery maid, but the few who knew that secret, including the maid, vanished on the day of Henry's birth).
And thus it was that a miller's daughter who, overnight, acquired the ability to spin straw into gold became a princess. Though she was a commoner, and dangerously ambitious, and even more dangerously befriended of the Dark One, Xavier arranged the marriage to secure his fortune permanently. If she cheated him, he could always work up a scheme to turn the Dark One against her–shouldn't be hard, for she'd jilted the imp to marry Henry. Xavier then realized how weak the Dark One was, ruled by a tender heart; had she jilted Henry, Xavier would have had her killed.
What a fool the Dark One was. Even Cora could see it and took advantage of it, summoning her scaly lover to her bed after she'd produced an heir. Xavier pondered long and hard after he learned this bit of news. If he executed her, not only would he lose his chief source of income, but also he'd incur the Dark One's wrath. Yet if he allowed her to continue to make a cuckold of Henry, the authority of the crown would be compromised, not to mention the possibility that the Dark One might develop designs on the throne, or choose to place his lover there by assassinating all who stood between her and it.
Worse came to worst: under Cora's mattress, Xavier's spies discovered a letter from Rumplestiltskin, imploring his princess to run away with him.
Something had to be done, something sneaky, because, though besotted, the Dark One was still very smart and very powerful.
Then a brainstorm: he'd used this scheme before to great success. Many years ago, when he was still a prince, Xavier and his courtiers had taken a visiting royal out hunting. In the course of the day they'd ventured upon a pack of wolves attacking a gnome, and for the sport they slew the wolves. "Who are you?" Xavier demanded of the gnome, lest he have some value. When the tiny man confessed to being Morpheus, King of Dreams, an alliance was struck, for Xavier did indeed find uses for one who could invade his enemies' subconscious, and Morpheus needed occupation for his fertile imagination. Besides, the gnome owed the prince his life.
And so Xavier summoned his ally. "Through their dreams, show the Dark One and Princess Cora what would happen if they chose to run off together."
The gnome giggled and bowed. Such a delight, toying with the truth, fabricating a future. Morpheus set to work that night, beginning with Cora.
She lay sprawled face up in her deep mattress, taking up most of the bed. Her hair matted with sweat, her skin roughened red, her nightgown asunder, she slept soundly, exhausted from a night of physical exertion, for, though she had no heart and therefore no feelings for the Dark One, she still had a ripe young body that responded to stimulation, particularly of the magic kind. Her swollen lips were parted in a snore. Morpheus watched her dreams a while–she was dreaming of scaly hands passing over her tender skin–before he invaded her mind. And this is the dream he gave her:
Rumplestiltskin and Cora walk arm in arm into the Dark Castle. The castle swings its doors open wide for them, the fireplace and dining room candles light up of their own accord, and an invisible orchestra plays as servants–butlers and valets and maids and cooks–scurry into the grand hall and fall into neat lines, women on the left, men on the right, to bow or curtsy as their master and mistress arrive from a long journey to some far-off, exotic land. Trunk upon trunk of new clothes and jewelry are carried in on the backs of footmen. Either Rumplestiltskin or Cora could, of course, use magic to transport the trunks in, but it's so much more fun to watch servants pant and sweat.
In the great hall a feast awaits. Servants stand at silent attention, ready pull out the master's and mistress' chairs and to lay down the meal. The mages need not raise their voices or repeat orders; the servants respond immediately, without question, for Rumple and Cora are feared, she as much as he, for she's just as powerful. Rumple and Cora laugh as the wine is poured, for the wine steward is King Xavier–former King Xavier. And all the other servants here are ex-royals, who now bow and scrape and tremble to their masters, the Emperor and Empress of the world.
Her new husband is easy to control: like most men, he can be led by his libido and a little flattery. He has no interest in politics or law, so he leaves most of the ruling to her. In fact, he has little interest in anyone who isn't Cora. He's fascinated by her.
Cora has never been so happy.
But the vision changes. Years later, Cora sits alone in the great hall, her dinner uneaten, her wine glass repeatedly drained and refilled. Her face is haggard from lack of sleep. Her temper is short from anxiety. Her magic is weak; she suspects her husband has been siphoning it off somehow. In fact, she suspects her husband off all sorts of wicked actions against her. She forces Xavier to taste-test her food, just in case.
Her husband, when he's home–seldom these days–mocks and belittles her. He's turned her gowns to rags, her necklaces to snakes, her rings to roaches, and her hair to hay. Just for the fun of it, he says. She's so boring and plain, he can't remember why he married her. Sometimes he shakes her and chokes her, but only with his magic; he never touches her any more, not even in rage.
He parades his young mistresses in front of her, draping them in silk and diamonds and calling them "my pet" or "my sweet." Sometimes he brings two home with him and takes them to his bedchambers. Cora sleeps in the opposite wing.
When her magic is all gone, he will throw her out, she thinks. Or make a scullery maid of her.
What happened? She doesn't know. When, in the beginning of the dissolution of their union, she begged him to explain so she could change, he laughed and conjured a mirror. "Look at yourself, dearie. A slattern! A shrew! A harpy! I can't bring myself to touch you."
The vision changes again. She's locked in the dungeon, on her knees, in straw. It's been ten years since he locked her here. Her magic's gone; she depends upon the kindness of servants for clean water and food and an occasional dress. He hasn't visited her since he locked her away. She can hear laughter sometimes, music; she imagines elegant balls taking place in the great hall.
She waits for something to happen. She knows now how cruel he can be, that he won't show her the mercy of killing her. When Xavier brings her roast rat for her meal, she hides the knife in the straw. She has a plan. She just wonders how he'll react when the servants tell him the news. "Cora who? Oh, yes, her. I thought she died years ago."
For three nights, Morpheus brought her dreams, and for three mornings, she awoke shivering and crying. When her lover appeared before her on the fourth night, she denied him. He went away puzzled and hurt.
On the fourth night, Morpheus visited her bedside again, with a dream more dramatic than before. The colors were more vivid, the sounds clearer, the lights brighter. In her slumber she slid her hands under her pillow and sighed contentedly, for this vision showed her seated on a throne, servants awaiting her beck and call—and among those servants is her husband. Beside her, on his throne, is King Xavier, still pale and weak from a heart attack last year, but as strong in will as ever. Princess Cora—not Xavier or Henry, but Cora—is holding court, charming (and manipulating) an ambassador from Smoland, a farm-rich country to the north. She will negotiate a deal for food supplies in return for access to Xavier's seaports—and then secretly hire pirates to rob Smoland's ships. It was her idea, and Xavier couldn't be prouder—or more suspicious of his daughter-in-law.
There was contention at first, of course, when Xavier began training her to take on the leadership role; by rights, the heir should lead, but Henry's shown no interest or skill. In fact, the one trade alliance his father sent him on, he screwed up royally, costing his kingdom thousands per year, and poor Cora had to spin for days to make up for the loss. Her early successes, both political and military, won her the people's support—though they wonder sometimes when neighbors who dare to speak up against the crown suddenly go missing.
As Cora, counseled by Xavier, runs the realm with a combination of cleverness, skullduggery, ruthlessness and magic, Henry bounces their baby on his knee. Cora has almost everything she wants. Sometimes her thoughts wander to the one who taught her magic, and an echo of nostalgia washes over her, but she has no real longing for him. In fact, she has no real feelings at all. With her heart locked safely in an iron box locked safely in a passage beneath a crypt, she's free of any emotional encumbrances.
It's good to be (almost) queen. It's even better to be Cora.
Well pleased with his efforts, Morpheus reported to Xavier, though he really needn't: Xavier could see the changes in Cora that the dreams wrought.
Then Morpheus went to work on Rumplestiltskin. No easy task, for the imp's mind was under siege not only from his frustrated biological urges but also from the Dark One who resided in his soul, and so his dreams were a muddled concoction of evil deeds and zealous bedplay. Morpheus almost lost his balance, hanging in mid-air above the oak bed, and momentarily forgot his purpose. Rumplestiltskin's natural dreams were just so fascinating. But when the last of the imp's dreams broke and he flopped onto his stomach to at last rest deeply, Morpheus invaded. And, over the course of seven nights–for the Dark One was stubborn–this is the dream the gnome gave Rumplestiltskin:
Before the entire court–an hour ago, Xavier's, but now Cora's, captured for her by her beloved imp– the dunce and the tyrant kneel at Cora's feet. As Rumplestiltskin, arms folded, peers down upon them, occasionally giving them a slap of magic or a boot in the butt, they plead for Cora's forgiveness for all their transgressions against her, and then, as she sneers, they kiss her slippers. "Is their humiliation sufficient? Will you forgive them, my pet?" The Dark One asks. Really, he doesn't care one way or the other.
"Hmm." Cora's luscious lips purse. "Yes, I'll forgive them, as soon as they're dead." With her magic she elevates Xavier into the air, his jeweled boots kicking helplessly, and in her now signature move, she thrusts her hand into the old king's chest, extracts his black heart and examines it before showing it to him. Horrified, Xavier begs for his life: everything he's ever done has been for his kingdom; surely she, a born ruler, can understand that. "Oh, I understand perfectly," she purrs as she squeezes the organ, slowly, watching curiously as he writhes, kicks and shrieks. She doesn't kill him quickly: like Rumple, she must indulge the bloodlust–after which she will rip her clothes off and throw herself into her lover's arms. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release. With her free hand–her lily-white, jewel-heavy hand–she unlaces the king's trousers and lets them drop until the tops of his boots catch them. She grabs the king in his family jewels and twists. Then with a scowl of disgust, she wipes her hand on her skirt and instead conjures a condor, which secures a perch by digging its talons into Xavier's knee. The bird then begins to attack what it perceives to be a shriveled worm.
Henry faints, unable to bear his father's torture. Rumple kicks his butt to bring him back around.
Finally, as blood gurgles from Xavier's throat, she tires of the game and slays the king. Then she turns her attentions to the simp. "You know, darling, this time I want to watch." Rumple understands: it's so much fun to guess at what his partner-in-pain will do, and Cora's become almost as imaginative as he is. With a lascivious wink, he starts on Henry. Their fun is cut short, alas, when only an hour into it, the prince dies of fright. "That was a bit of a let down."
"Never mind, darling." Cora steps over Henry to sink into Rumple's arms, snaking her bloody hands under his leather vest. "There's a whole castle full of couriers we can play with."
"And must," he reminds her. "We must make an impression upon your new slaves."
"And my gift to you: I will help you move worlds to find your son."
"As powerful as we are, we'll succeed." His heart sings.
She bites his lower lip, then licks away the blood she's drawn. "But first, our wedding night, hmm?" As her magic sweeps them into his bedchambers in the Dark Castle–both of them already divested of their clothes–she runs her hands up his biceps. "Let me thank you for that delicious wedding present."
"That was just the beginning, pet," he promises.
Her hands grab his hips. "And so is this."
The vision changes. He's standing behind her throne (hers, not theirs) as she passes judgment on the enemy generals her army (hers, not theirs) has captured. She fancies traditional punishments today: drawing and quartering. When one of the generals makes threats, Rumplestiltskin lobs a fireball and burns the man's hair off. But the general is made of stern stuff. "Lapdog! Look how the mighty Dark One has fallen, that he takes a woman's orders. Where I come from, we call your kind 'whipped'!"
Pretending to be bored (maybe she is), Cora incinerates him. A twitter rushes through the court, fading out as soon as it has arisen. But it's too late. It's far too late for Rumple: he has become Cora's lapdog, jumping at her very command, indulging her every whim, groveling at her slippers for scraps of her attention. It's been months since she's taken him to bed.
The vision changes. He's standing in a cold, locked bedchamber. He holds a leather kickball, rolling it around idly. A name is written on the ball: Baelfire. Childish script. Odd name. He struggles to remember: who's Baelfire?
The vision changes again. He's in his bed, in the wing opposite hers, and he's sleeping fitfully. A noise awakens him, candles flare and he sits up. Now he can see his lovely lady in her diaphanous nightgown; she stands at the foot of his bed. She's licking her luscious lips and smiling, and his heart pounds with hope as she comes to his side, her hips swaying. His heart pounds. . . and then she shows him what she's carrying in her lily-white hands: his dagger.
"How did you find that?" he gasps, but she doesn't answer; she never shares her secrets any more. "Why? I already do everything you want me to."
"Security," she snaps. "In case you grow a backbone."
He hopes she will plunge it into his belly.
But she doesn't. The vision changes and she's seated in her throne. She's using his dagger to trim her fingernails–and using his back as her footrest. They are alone, else she wouldn't have the dagger out in the open. "What happened to you? You used to be so much fun." She yawns, with her magic sending his dagger into a hiding place. She stands. "I'll be in my bedchambers. Summon one of my lovers to me. No, make it two. Blonds tonight, I think."
He trots off to obey her.
Over the course of six nights, Morpheus brought these dreams to Rumplestiltskin. The Dream King watched his sometime-collaborator (for over the centuries, the two had worked together several times, always honestly, always respectfully, though of course neither would call the other "friend." Friendship belonged to humans). Rumplestiltskin lost his appetite, became snappish, fell asleep over his spinning wheel.
And then, as he had Cora, Morpheus left Rumplestiltskin with the piece de resistance: a dream of hope, to nudge him in a new direction.
Rumplestiltskin sits at the head of a polished mahogany dining table set with china, crystal and silver. Overhead, bright lights drive away the night. These lights are not candles or lanterns, and magic didn't produce them; they come from a natural power that the humans of this realm have harnessed. From the kitchen come wonderful smells from exotic foods known only to this world. The foods are cooking in an oven that requires no wood, its fire, like the lights, harnessed and controlled by the flip of a switch. Although it's cold outside, inside it's warm everywhere, not from fireplaces but from a metal box called a furnace. In the summer, the box will issue cool air throughout the entire house. It's a wonderful world.
Rumplestiltskin pours wine for the adult guests at his table—no, not guests: these people belong here. They are his, and he is theirs. At his left sits a young blonde woman with whom he feels a kinship both emotional and legal. She is his daughter-in-law, but her experiences, in a lot of ways, have given her wounds very similar to his own, wounds that have healed in recent years under the patient care of love and friendship.
To her left sits her fourteen-year-old son, who's been fighting a cracked voice and nursing a single chin hair for months now. The boy is outspoken and observant like his mom, ethical and selfless like his father, curious and clever like his grandfather. Rumplestiltskin adores him, but doesn't say that to his face, lest he spoil the boy; instead, he devotes a full day every week to the kid, teaching him science and magic, history and wood lore—and fishing.
To Rumplestiltskin's right sits an auburn-haired woman with dancing blue eyes and an easy laugh. She's generous with her smiles and her hugs, but certain little touches and winks she reserves just for her husband, whom she calls "my love" and "Rumple." He, in return, calls her "sweetheart" and "sonsie," in an accent that really doesn't belong to him, was put on him, like his name in this land—Gold—and like this house and these fine-threaded clothes. Assigned to him by a curse, though right now, he thinks that's the wrong word for it: it feels more like a blessing.
At the opposite end of the table sits a dark-haired man of indeterminate age: there's gray in his chin whiskers, but his grin is boyish. Like his stepmother, he's generous with smiles and hugs, but like his wife, he's plainspoken and quick to, as he says, "call it like I see it." Like his father, he cherishes the people at this table more than all the gold and all the power this world has to offer. As Rumplestiltskin fills his glass, he says, "Thanks, Pop," and they both know he's referring to more than just the wine. Rumplestiltskin answers, "You're welcome," and they both know that means "welcome to everything I have." That's what it's all for, anyway, all the money and the magic: to shelter, protect and nurture the family.
Rumplestiltskin returns to his seat at the head of the table. Bowls of vegetables, platters of soft rolls, boats of gravy, pots of jam and butter weave their mouthwatering aromas throughout the dining room, but all eyes wander to the main attraction: a juicy brown turkey, waiting on a platter for Henry to carve. The family has decided that, now that he's practically an adult, it's his turn to slice the turkey this year. Henry is nervous but proud of this honor.
"I read of a tradition from this world," Belle says, "that a lot of families follow at feast-time: they go around the table and each person talks about something they're grateful for. Shall we try it?"
"Sounds good to me," Neal says, and Henry nods.
"One of the foster families I lived with did that," Emma remembers. "It was nice."
"Who would like to go first?" Belle asks.
"I will!" Henry offers. "I'm grateful for birthdays, so that I can carve the turkey this year. And I'm grateful for Grandma Belle's cooking, and the secret driving lessons my mom's been giving me—sorry, Dad—and my Dad not ratting me out when I broke Mom's perfume bottle—sorry, Mom—and that Teton Trout Spinning Combo Grandpa gave me for my birthday."
"I'm just glad I have two for-real, nobody's-going-away families," Emma says. "And a back-up bottle of Charlie."
"My turn." Neal stands, raising his glass. "I never thought I'd say this, but here goes: I'm thankful for the magic that brought you all here. Call it a curse, but to me, it's a blessing, because without it, I wouldn't have the love of my life, or my son, or my stepmom, or you, Pop. So yeah, I said it: I'm grateful for magic."
Everyone chuckles.
"I'm grateful for this town, for a sheriff who protects us," Belle salutes Emma with her wine glass. "For our mayor, who keeps everything running smoothly," she salutes Neal. "For my library assistant," she salutes Henry, "and for our hospital's Chief of Magical Healing Arts, not to mention, my beloved husband." She kisses Rumplestiltskin.
"That leaves you, Grandpa," Henry points out.
Rumplestiltskin stands to address his family. "I'm grateful for all of you: Henry, Emma, Belle, Bae. Your patience, your guidance, your forgiveness, without which I'd still be lost, a prisoner of fear and anger."
And then the imp-turned-human did something no dreamer had ever done before, not in all the millennia of the Dream King's existence: he faced forward, raised his glass and announced, "And my thanks to you, Morpheus, for showing me I could have another life."
When Morpheus reported the results of his work with Rumplestiltskin, he neglected to inform Xavier about the specifics of this dream. Some things, he believed, need to remain private between the Dream King and the dreamer. But after he returned to his hidden home in the heavens, Morpheus poured himself a glass of wine and saluted his old collaborator.
On the eighth night, Rumplestiltskin appeared, unbidden, in his lover's bedchambers. She screamed; he had to cast a spell upon the household so no one would come running to rescue her. Their voices hoarse, their eyes lined with dark circles, the lovers stood on opposite ends of the chamber, staring daggers at each other. They then knew their time together was over, in this world and all others. Without a word, she turned her back to him and he transported himself back to his castle, to work for Bae and to wait for Belle. And when the urge to be touched intimately came upon her again, Cora sent word through her maid that Henry was welcome back to her bed.
Xavier sighed in relief. He did wonder, though, as his spies reported the moans they heard behind Cora's closed doors, why no second heir was produced. Perhaps in his jealousy the Dark One had robbed Cora of her fertility. No matter; Xavier would mould Regina into a proper queen.
Or so he thought, until that mischief maker gave Xavier a prophetic dream and he saw, laid out in full color, his granddaughter's future.
His valets found the king the next morning, clutching his pillow, his eyes staring at the ceiling, his body cold and stiff.
Long live King Henry and Queen Cora.