Author's Note: This is a head canon I recently thought of after thinking back on the Beauty and the Beast episode of Once Upon a Time. I am not sure how long this will turn out, or if it will even go anywhere. This takes place before Emma comes onto the scene, but it links to what we see at the very end of the Beauty and the Beast episode. I may write small pieces of accompany this fiction, or I may just leave it as a one shot. Either way, this is a short story to feature a head canon of mine. I have only written for Phantom of the Opera before, so venturing outside of the Phantom community is a big leap for me. I really do hope you enjoy :)

- Phantom's angel

Rest betrayed her nocturnal eyes as she forced herself to rise earlier than normal. Words and stories were rushing through her mind, trampling out the very thought of sleep and focusing her on what would happen next in the stories she'd heard. Who would stand a victor and who would be slain? She assumed it was near six in the morning, but it was difficult to say. Though time had not existed for so long in Storybrooke, she tried to maintain it. Just like any human, she thrived to control her day with a pattern. She awoke in the mornings, she thought of the stories she'd been told, she stood for a stretch, she was delivered breakfast, she thought some more, she wrote, she ate lunch, she stretched, she wrote, she thought, she ate dinner, she thought and she slept. Based on her lack of sleep, it must have been near six o'clock. Her judgment on the time only came as the latch of a vault turned and a slight stream of light spilled into the cell.

Yes, she thought. It is now near ten o'clock.

Belle thrived on hearing the stories that the witch came to tell her. It was all she craved and now it was getting to the point of true insanity. She never believed herself to be insane, but it was what the nurse told her. It was the woman's constant reminder to her, but the witch never said it. She must have known she was perfectly normal.

She must know…

The first years in the asylum's cell were dark. No body came into her room and she never spoke a word. A gloomy haze filled her heart, but she was never able to understand why. It was more than just feeling trapped, but it was feeling that she once had something wonderful, but she'd never see it again. But of course, she could never discover what it was she lacked.

Until one day when the door opened.

The first time that the black haired witch entered Belle's cell, she smelled of freshly trimmed hedge and apples. Belle never saw hedges in the cell, but she knew how they smelled. She'd also had her share of apples. She didn't know what time it was or how long she'd been in that cell, but she only remembered waking up one day and being there. It was as if she was born there and at that point knew no other than the nurse who cared for her through the peak hole.

The witch stepped into the cell, filling Belle with fear as she caught a glint of white teeth flashing at her; the woman before her was smiling pleasantly. As her eyes adjusted to the unforeseen visitor, she saw she was quite beautiful. Her lips around the glistening teeth were full and red, her hair was short black, her eyes were a deep brown and her features were fair and brilliant. Belle thought she be a queen.

She walked into the cell and nodded, giving a sly smile as she stared into Belle's eyes. She almost couldn't stand to look at her directly, she'd never had to look upon anybody like this in her time in the cell. Yet emotions uprooted themselves to force her to remain strong; she stared right back at the woman. The woman seemed nearly surprised.

"Good morning, Belle," she said smoothly.

Her steady eyes fell to the ground.

Is that…?

"I beg your pardon?" Belle said slowly; her first spoken words.

"I said, 'good morning,'" the witch repeated.

"Is that...—"

"Your name?" the witch asked. "Of course it is."

Belle remained silent. Thoughts began stirring inside of her, as if the name drew some distant memories to sort through. The beautiful woman looked down to her and gave another false smile.

"May I?" she asked, gesturing toward the bed Belle sat on.

Belle nodded and scooted over, letting the woman set down onto the rusting springs.

"I need a good pair of ears," the witch said. "Do you mind?"

Belle didn't agree or disagree, but sat to the woman's side, staring at the ground.

I don't know how good my ears are, she thought.

Without consent, the witch began telling her the story.

Belle's story was nothing of importance, for the witch kept her tale out of the budding romances that took place in a land full of kingdoms and royalties. She told Belle of the land's many kings and queens and the magic it once held. But in the name of revenge, the witch created an evil curse to conceal every character within a realm in which they did not belong. Weekly, the witch returned at her pleasure, giving Belle the details of a small town that was stuck in time. Storybrooke was a place of characters who were concealed from their fates in the form of delayed clocks and forgotten memories.

Every week the witch would entertain Belle's growing imagination of the town by giving details to fill in the stories she'd left her with. The witch told of the character's pasts and their present misgivings, and how she carried the upper hand to all of their fates.

She even mocked a timeless understanding that True Love's kiss could break any spell.

"Not this time," she'd muse. "It will never happen."

Belle began acquiring an understanding to each character within the mapped out story. Through the witch's confiding in Belle and her role as mayor of Storybrooke, Belle began to know everybody. She longed to hear of Ella's continual pregnancy, Ruby's monthly 'mood swings' and Grumpy's constant complaints; all which were a continued annoyance to madame mayor. But Belle longed to hear more.

As the story built, Belle pitied them all. How unfortunate that she should know the truth when their stories were so captivating and uplifting. Her gratitude to the witch for relaying the story was immense, yet she hated the woman for keeping the lives of these people and creatures hidden.

"All for their good," she'd say.

The gossip of the week usually detailed the story of a young woman named Snow White; an enemy to the witch. Yet one week, the witch turned to Belle and stared for a moment. She hardly looked at Belle when she told the stories; it was much like a horrible confession she was giving. But this week, she watched Belle, who eagerly anticipated for the story to continue.

"Your prince has been quite a nuisance this week," she finally said.

Belle remained silent.

I didn't know I had a story, let alone a prince.

"Yes, dear, you did have a prince," the witch said, as if trying to erase the possibility of her imagination building up. "But you didn't get your happy ending. And you never will."

There was no further discussion of it. The witch told Belle occasionally of her prince and how he was a user of dark magic, and that even in Storybrooke, he could never cooperate with social norms. But Belle continued to wonder what her story looked like. What led to their meeting and their unhappy ending?

"Your prince lost something very valuable today," the witch said that day.

Belle was tired. Despite it only being sometime around ten o'clock, she was tired. Even at the mention of her prince, she was tired. She was also disappointed. Belle was expecting more to the other character's story, and whenever the witch spoke of her prince, the story never continued. The witch left Belle dry each time her prince was mentioned; she left her with nothing to add on. Yet words of value made Belle quite curious.

Am I of value?

The witch remained standing. It wouldn't be a long story today; not this week.

"He lost something very valuable to him, and he's already on the hunt for it."

Belle kept her eyes down.

I want a story.

"Do you know what that object is, Belle?"

The witch was leaning over her ever so slightly now. She was standing very close and leaning over Belle, antagonizing her with an answer she knew she'd never obtain. She closed her eyes and forced back a tear, trying to remember what her love was like. Even if nobody in Storybrooke could remember their past lives, she was determined to at least feel something from what she'd had before.

Love is hope; it fuels our dreams. But love doesn't last forever.

Behind the tears, she could almost see him…

Long hair with a slight curl, hands that tended to gold, skin like stardust. She could see a stern face and narrow features. Proper in stance and regal in his bow.

Belle opened her eyes.

"A chipped cup," she muttered.

The witch stood straight quickly and fire lit inside of her eyes. Her lip curled and her shoulders straightened.

"What did you say?" the witch sneered.

Belle remained silent. She did not look to the witch but kept her eyes straight ahead, looking toward the door. Belle could feel the witch's body beside her; stiff and rigid. Slowly, the witch began to laugh.

The witch turned and began to walk away from Belle, shaking her head in disgust and heading toward the door. Her movements were so regal – so unlike a witch – yet her tendencies were too malicious for any hint of good. Every single one of them, including her captivation of Belle. She stopped, still facing the door and paused.

"Would you like to know the name of your prince?" she asked calmly, with a hint of amusement in her tone.

Though the witch's back was facing her, Belle nodded eagerly.

Finally. Please…

The witch turned her head over her shoulder and looked Belle straight in the eye. Her eyes were on fire and her teeth were glistening just as Belle remembered from their first encounter.

"I'll make a deal with you," the witch said.

Belle leaned over the edge of the bed.

Anything…

"I'll give you three guesses."

She turned abruptly and flung the door open and stepped out behind the door, latching the vault abruptly. Belle's head dropped; her eyes clamped tightly. Names poured through her mind, driving her to the bedside table and retrieving a small pencil and parchment paper from within.

The names began to filter out of her, crawling their way out of her through instances she'd never lived but had heard as a third party. She turned through the faces she had imagined in the stories and wrote down the names: James, Jiminy, the Huntsman, Granny, Ella, Snow White, Henry…

Belle placed the pencil to the paper and squinted in the darkness. She began to write all the names out, sorting them out by story and imagination. Through each story, she searched for her prince; looking for correlations. She filed each tale on the paper, linking their names in the forms of short stories, all of them connecting to a familiar ending, and all of them starting out with the words Once Upon a Time…