A/N-This is an AU based off The Notebook. I don't know if someone has already written this. I did look around and couldn't find any, so I went ahead and wrote this. So alas, I give you the first chapter. I hope you enjoy. Thank you.
It was universally recognized that true love was the most powerful magic in all the realms. Powerful enough to bring back even the most lost souls. So lay the desire to rescue a lost soul, in the heart of Mr. Gold. Feeble and worn with age, he walked with a limp, and stopped in a doorway at the end of the hallway. In his calloused hands he carried a little journal, softly colored in a sweet sapphire. The pages were thick, yellow parchment, rough with texture. He enjoyed the feel of the pages between his trembling fingers, or perhaps he held a great fondness for the floral handwriting dancing along each page.
"Hello Miss French." Two beautiful cerulean eyes met his.
He paused and in took a breath. Never would he grow used to her beauty.
"Hello," she smiled politely.
She sat peacefully—almost angelically—before a window in her room at the nursing home. The sun from the hot afternoon poured light deliciously down her petite frame.
"Do I know you?" His smile faltered, though not enough for her to notice.
"No," he tried to laugh, but it came more as a cough, "no. I am terribly sorry. Where are my manners? I am Mr. Gold."
"Oh," she gave him a gentle smile; though it was obvious she held little interest.
"It's a beautiful day." He stated, attempting to stir up a small conversation.
"Yes, I-I love the warmth."
"I know," he bit his tongue realizing his mistake, quickly adding, "Who doesn't? Our old bones have a greater appreciation for the warmth."
She eyed him inquisitively, but said nothing. He noticed she held a book in her lap, and promptly inquired, "Something I would know, perhaps?"
She glanced at the book than returned her gaze to him, "Pride and Prejudice."
"Ah, yes, of course." He stepped through the threshold to gain a better view of her face.
He knew quite well that she loved that book, in fact; he'd watch her read it about a hundred times.
"I've never read it before. It seems lovely so far," his expression fell, and she observed the quick saddening of his features.
"Not something you would choose to read?" She questioned. Always curious, something's never change, he thought to himself.
The familiarity in her essence caused the ghost of a smile to haunt each corner of his mouth. With a tender side grin he answered, "Actually, once upon a time I knew a librarian who happened to have recommended I read it, and so, to please her, I did."
"She must have been a very smart woman," she giggled.
"Very smart indeed," he returned, the grin spreading to a full smile, "Speaking of stories, I've come to see if you would like to hear a story."
"Oh, I absolutely love stories," she announced.
"Wonderful," he began, "would you like to walk down to the library with me? We can sit by the glass doors, and have a beautiful view of the lake?" She looked unsure; he even thought she might reject him, "Alright," she responded quietly.
Transferring the journal to his left hand, he used his right to help her stand. He offered his arm for her to intertwine hers; she did so with slight hesitation. The first few hours are always the most difficult, he thought to himself, at the very least she had accepted.
They arrived at the library, and strolled toward the back by the large French glass doors that opened out to the dock. The couple inhabited the two crème colored sofa chairs placed in front of the doors.
"Mm," she hummed.
"You like the view?" He guessed.
"Yes, very much."
"Good, good thing. I'm glad." He cracked open the book, and before he could begin she interrupted, "This isn't a sad story, is it?"
"There are elements of sadness in it, like every story," she looked uncomfortable, perhaps even frightened of the idea of a sad story.
"Nothing to be worried of, I think you'll enjoy it," she watched him, still, with uneasy eyes, "I give you my word."
Only then did she seem to relax. In his front left pocket, he pulled out a pair of black-framed reading glasses, which he slid into place. He then removed a handkerchief with a red rose embroidered on the silvery fabric, clearly using it as a book mark, and began.
"June 6, 1940 Rumplestiltskin-"
"Rumplestiltskin?" She exclaimed, "What kind of story is this, exactly?"
"Ha-ha, oh trust me, he knew just how ridiculous it truly was," her brow furrowed in quizzical excitement; he found her expression comical.
"May we call his Rumple?" He froze, peering at her over the frames of his glasses.
"Why would you want that?" He wondered.
"Rumplestiltskin is lovely and all, but it is much too formal. Names are important, and should only be used when truly necessary. Rumple seems like a pleasant secret shared between two toddlers. Don't you think?" She awaited his answer; he sat baffled by her reasoning.
"I suppose—if it pleases you," he replied after a moment, and she smiled widely.
He replaced his finger at the beginning line, and commenced once again.
June 6, 1940, the day they met.
Rumple was thirty-two working for the lumberyard. He was a small man, not very muscular, though still more than capable of hard labor. His dusty brown hair fell to the tops of his shoulders, lathered profusely with sweat and oils. The group of young men he worked with had babbled all day about the festival scheduled for that night; Rumple was uninterested, claiming he'd retreat home for a good night's rest instead. Archie, another lumberyard worker and the closest person Rumple had to calling a friend, caught him just as he left, and convinced him to go—if only for a little while.
The village square was filled with a massive gathering. There were foods of all sorts' boiling stews, sugary sweets, garden-fresh fruits, and warm bread. The music was loud, and had inspired many to grab a partner and dance. Children played games here-and-there, and once in a while they'd dart off running in certain directions, chasing a small animal or simply chasing each other. There was a gargantuan bonfire in the heart of the gathering, so fierce and violent it was as if the flames touched the sky, lightening the heavens. The village people rejoiced wildly around it. Rumple followed Archie throughout the sea of people. He looked over the flames, across the village square, and there stood the most glorious being he had ever seen.
Her name was Belle. She was seventeen.