Edge of a Knife


Disclaimer: See Chapter 1 for full disclaimer.


Belle sits on a barstool contemplating her crumpled notebook. She took it from a motel room three weeks ago. It has a brown leather cover and such straight thin blue lines. It lends order to the chaotic sprawl of thoughts that spill across the pages; her curse-memories are fading, and she scribbles them down before they drop out of her mind altogether.

In this world, she cannot risk forgetting the value of money, the laws of the towns. She cannot risk being locked up. The Dark One is with her, a heartbeat hidden beneath her own, crawling behind her veins. It is very subdued in this world, tiny but malevolent, a snake coiled at the back of her mind. It can make no mischief in this land without magic, but it can whisper, it can beguile. It wants to return to the Enchanted Forest, where it has power. That is why Belle must keep travelling on, stubbornly turning her back on the place that calls to her blood.

Her fingers smooth and flip the pages. She pauses for a moment on one of her lists, of things that are not true here.

Dragons

Trolls

Magic

True love

Belle flips the notebook closed sharply, and rubs at her temples. The bar is filling as evening falls. It sounds just like the taverns back home, like the one she came to after Rum... Belle takes a drink, lets the alcohol burn away the memory before it can fully form. No lady's cup for her tonight, wine won't dull her dreams and curb her spiked and terrible thoughts. Now she drinks spirits, rum and whisky, anything that tastes of flame.

"Evenin,' sweetheart."

The odour of an unwashed body stings her nostrils. A truck driver squeezes his bulk onto the stool beside her, his flannelette shirt strained over his sagging belly. He leans far too close, smelling like beer and sweat.

"I'm not interested, thank you."

Belle swirls the amber liquid left in her glass, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

"C'mon baby. I'm sure we can find a way to pass the time."

His hand touches her hair, and Belle reacts with sudden fury. Her dagger, that she keeps nestled at her hip, slams into the wood of the bar between his second and third fingers.

"I said: I'm not interested."

The man sits back, blinking in dumb silence. Belle regrets her outburst at once, and she stands shakily, gathering up her notebook and pencil. She tucks the knife away again, hides it beneath her jacket. She wants to apologise to this stupid, harmless old man, but her lips can't form words that aren't born of hate. Her grief is deep and ever present, and it will drown her if she stops for even one moment. She passes out into the night alone.


Another day, another bar, this one high-class, the haunt of businessmen and women in designer suits. Clouds have blotted out the strains of afternoon sunlight, and the sky is streaked with shades of pearl. Belle is tapping her pencil on her table, reading over her notes, and trying her best to ignore other people's conversations. Her mood is tipping into irritation as the establishment becomes louder and more crowded. Belle keeps from scowling only with intense schooling of her facial muscles. Displays of emotion attract attention, not only from this world, but from within. The angrier she becomes, the stronger the Dark Magic twines around her soul, like a vine strangling a tree. She cannot afford to become emotional. Not now.

A few seats away, there is a young woman curled on her bar stool. One fist is clenched on her forehead and the other holds her mobile to her ear.

She is wearing a soft grey suit and a white blouse with black pumps. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a sophisticated bun, but tendrils have escaped and hang around her eyes. Physically she must be Belle's age, or a little younger, not counting the two decades Belle spent as the Queen's prisoner, frozen in time. The woman's lips curl like a child as she listens to the voice on the other end of the phone.

"But..." She says, and is cut off. Her fingers curl around her wine glass hopelessly, and then release it.

"But Guy, we've talked about this. I said I was going, and I am. I love you, I do, but you know how long I've been waiting for this promotion. I get to go on the ship and...please don't say that. We've talked about this so many times. Look, the IOA choose one person, just one person, Guy, and that's me! Out of everybody, I get to go. Don't...don't say that."

She begins to cry in earnest now, tears sliding down her cheeks.

Belle looks away, unsettled. But the word ship expands in her head, blooms into the smell of salt and the cries of sea birds, the feel of the rough stone of the battlements under her fingers. Her father's strong arms lifting her to see the ships as they danced in among the waves. The Dark One stirs at the back of her thoughts, giving her desire a sly nudge. Why should this mewling child get to travel the ocean? Why not her? She longs for the rhythm of the ocean, the white cliffs.

The woman disconnects the call and stands unsteadily, much the worse for alcohol. Belle notices, with a pang of fear, the wheeled suitcase at her side. She's leaving now. She was saying goodbye to the man on the phone. She is going to the ship.

No one notices Belle slip out of the bar and follow the woman in the grey suit. No one knows that the Dark One is whispering in her ear, telling her what to do.


Author's Note: Obviously I'm messing with time a little here. In this story the curse in Storybrooke breaks in 2009, before anyone is stranded on Destiny. Thanks go to Slightly for the review, who is just an all-around awesome person. Thanks also go the eclipse ze lunachik, R2R, Artemis Samhain and Nighcrawler's Shadow for their interest in this story. Re-watching Season 1 of SGU now, so expect the updates thick and fast before I forget the plotlines.

Concrit well received,

Taluliaka.