Unbroken

Chapter 2: Boot Camp


Rumple adores Granny.

She's one kick-ass old gal, afraid of nothing, willing to try anything. And most importantly, her bravery and enthusiasm are contagious.

But then again, none of these people know any better. They've never been in a war.

He has doubts about some of them. Belle's first act as general was to create divisions—supplies, medical, communications, infantry, air force, sharpshooters, scouts—and with Hopper's help (Archie, Clark and Doc are the medical division) she's assigned positions to each of the 250 souls remaining in Storybrooke to fight.

Belle and Hopper have chosen wisely, always with an eye toward the greater good, which has sometimes caused disgruntlement among people who imagine themselves warriors but find they've been assigned to work in supply, and vice-versa: people who don't want to fight but have the skills for it. These people have required a stern talking-to from King James (or, when James has been indisposed, a cold glare from Emma usually suffices). So the best people for the job have been assigned.

But Rumplestiltskin knows cowardice when he sees it. He can sense it radiating off some of these people: it's lukewarm, and it smells like dead fish in stagnant water.

He can smell it on himself.

Not this time. Not this time. He's older and stronger now; he can see the big picture, and he knows they can't win without him. And winning is survival. He cares too much about some of these people to turn tail when they need him.

He despises caring.

Right now it's a dinner break—others have taken over the cooking at Granny's B & B, because Granny and Ruby are warriors now, Granny a sharpshooter and Ruby a scout. They're dining al fresco, Granny at the head of the table, holding forth with tales of the Ogre Wars. The younger combatants drink up the tales as a wine that fires their blood. They need this. They have raw skills, but they haven't the heart of warriors; Granny gives it to them.

With the return of his magic, some of Rumple's foresight has returned. He's never been able to see the futures of people he loves, but he can see flashes for some of Storybrooke's citizens. Single images—not complete visions, as he used to see—come to him unbidden, but the images are too disorganized to permit interpretation. It's as though someone has turned a scrapbook of unlabeled photographs upside down and shaken it, and the photos have fallen onto the ground. In one of those photographs he has seen Emma, standing sweaty and bloody, a sword in her hand and Graham's jacket on her back. At her feet in a heap of black crinoline is Regina.

He shares this vision with the warriors. Funny how fast the most hated man in town can become a fan favorite.

The Conan the Librarian t-shirt he's wearing probably helps too. That was Belle's idea: he couldn't exactly run a boot camp in his Hugo Boss three-piece suit. "Oh come on, Belle, how can the Dark One inspire fear and terror in this?" He'd protested, holding the t-shirt against his chest. "Exactly," she smirked. Because she was Belle, he shut up and put on the damned t-shirt.

The meal over, boot camp resumes. In the north 40—which used to be a soybean field—James has his warriors standing at attention, their swords held tight against their chests. James and his troops are dressed in dark brown, the color of fresh earth. James barks and the warriors make a sharp ninety- degree turn. He barks again and they start forward. Rumple can't help but feel warmth spreading in his heart for the boy.

Rumple despises warmth.

In the south 10—which used to be a park—Emma stands behind her sharpshooters. She is showing them how to place their feet, to guarantee balance, and how to position their bodies in relation to the target. Her squad is the smallest, only fifteen individuals; while they remember swords and bows from the old days, most Storybrookers never adapted to modern weapons. Emma's troops are dressed in blood red.

In the east 5—which used to be the schoolyard—a row of bull's eye targets has been set up and warriors stand before them, bow in hand, quiver on shoulder. Snow marches up and down, inspecting their posture, inspecting their weapons, inspecting their faces for signs of weakened confidence or fear. Snow and her troops are dressed in hunter green.

At the river's edge, Rumple convenes his class. Among them is Ruby, his prize pupil: having learned how to control her shape-shifting, her confidence has soared and she is now experimenting with potions.

His troops dress in black, the color of mystery. Like Emma's, his squad is small: most people just don't have the memory capacity to make good mages. But unlike the other troops, the mages-in-training are a motley crew: two of them in wheelchairs, one who is blind, many older folks whose arms and eyes are not strong enough for weapons, but whose wisdom makes them sharp assessors of situations. The elderly have had the time to study people, and many have developed an ability to read an enemy's soul.

Rumple should know. He's the oldest of them all. Though, the way the ladies now look at him, in his motorcycle boots, Levi's and form-fitting t-shirts, one would never guess that. In fact, when he'd made his first appearance in his new threads—his eyes shooting daggers at anyone who dared to snigger at the Conan the Librarian t-shirt—he'd been greeted by a wolf whistle from Ruby.

Waltzing around like that—and with nary a stiff joint or back ache to trouble him—he has to admit Emma is right: Mr. Gold is now "a major babe."

Ah, the wisdom of Belle.

He teaches them first how to extract the magic from their Fairytale Land possessions, the ones he kept in his pawnshop all those years. It's a simple process: the possessions recognize their owners and surrender the magic willingly.

He stands, not before his troops, not behind them, but shoulder to shoulder with them. He isn't teaching them how to position their bodies, because none of that matters, really; it's just a personal preference whether a mage brings forth the magic by snapping his fingers or waving his hand or simply, elegantly, pointing a finger. Their job is entirely mental. . .

And emotional. Those are the hardest lessons: how to trust oneself, how to keep clear-headed in a battle, how to harden the heart to make a kill.

But, above all, how to put on enough of a show that killing becomes unnecessary. And that was a very difficult lesson for Rumple to learn as well, in his early days. The Dark One has all the powers he's acclaimed for, yes, but if one were to document the number of times he's actually used them, the list would be rather short, considering his two centuries of existence. In actuality, he's done far fewer tricks than the public thinks.

That's the key: perception is everything.

And so, waving away his annoyance at this necessary evil, he reveals his secret. Each of them must find their own style, he advises; he will help them draw it out. Some mages—the Dark One before him being one—prefers to come across as devils. Others, like the fairies, prefer to appear all sweetness and light (he has trouble keeping sarcasm out of his voice when he says that).

His own personal taste has always been—he stops to draw in a deep breath. He's never said this aloud, not even to Bae or Belle.

His own performance persona has always been the madman.

Rumplestiltskin is the Jack Nicholson of magic.

Their faces fall. They don't say it, but they're thinking, so you're not really crazy after all? How . . . disappointing.

And then he has to remind them who still has the power around here, so he flicks his fingers and lightning bolts shoot from them, striking a tree, bringing one of its branches crashing down. He folds his arms, his fists under his biceps so that his muscles push out, seeming bigger than they are, and he waits. A good showman always gives the audience time enough to wonder—but not enough time to figure out the trick.

Mr. Alvarez, Fairytale Land shoemaker and currently a resident of the Shady Brook Assisted-Living Center, raises his hand in question. "Uh, Mr. Gold?"

"Yes, Mr. Alvarez?"

"Can you teach me how to do that?"


The King calls for his counselors to join him in the war room—the library, chosen by Belle for its large worktables and collections of maps, so she said; but Rumple suspects that during breaks in the intense planning, she wanders over to the stacks and browses. He caught her yesterday with a paperback of Tarzan of the Apes in her back pocket (to which she replied, with faux indignity, "What are you doing looking at my backside?").

Ruby hands round tankards of mead as the war council arrives. How she's managed to find mead in this modern world, Rumple has no idea, but he's pleased; he has a particular fondness for the honeyed drink. On the sly he conjures a plate of Oreo cookies to go with the mead.

The Queen—that is, the rightful Queen, Snow—stands as the rest seat themselves around the circular table. Without preliminaries she reports, "I sent birds into the Enchanted Forest yesterday to seek news. They came back this morning." The blood drains from her face and her voice becomes a whisper, as though just to speak the next words will cause catastrophe. "It's said Regina went directly to the Source of All Dark Magic and in return for restoration of her magic, she sold her soul."

Everyone falls silent. Finally James states what everyone is thinking: "If she's sold her soul, this fight can only be to the death."

Snow's knees shake and it seems she will collapse, but James' hand steadies her. She continues, "Last night, to demonstrate her powers, she destroyed Atlantis. Sent an entire island and three thousand people to the bottom of the ocean. After which, Maleficent joined forces with Regina. Whether by choice or coercion, no one knows." She has to wave down the voices of protest. "I thought she was dead too, but my birds saw her in Regina's castle, in human form."

"But I killed her. She turned to ash," Emma argues. "I pumped her full of lead and then I threw David's sword at her and she turned to a pile of ash."

Eyes turn to Rumple for explanation. He shrugs. "Perhaps you saw what she wanted you to see."

Snow swallows hard. "There's more. Regina found Jefferson."

"The children?" Ruby cries out.

Snow shakes her head. "They're safe, thank the gods; Jefferson had the presence of mind to disperse them. They're staying with families in various realms. But Regina kidnapped Grace and forced Jefferson to take her into Oz, where she worked a deal with the Wicked Witch of the West. Regina's troops now number ten thousand: gargoyles, flying monkeys, gnomes, ogres, witches and warlocks, a few rogue elves. And Jefferson."

"The same number must come back through the hat as went in," Rumple mumbles. He doesn't have to spell it out for them: without Jefferson, Storybrooke's children can't return.

"We have to strike first, then," James surmises. "We go to them, catch them off-guard."

"With Jefferson, Regina can easily jump realms. There's no catching her," the Blue Fairy points out.

"The first problem is to rescue Grace; then Jefferson can be freed. Our children are safe only so long as he's safe," Belle says, and Rumple feels a flash of pride at her words our children. "So, how do you track down a realm jumper?"

Rumple quips, but his quip rings true: "With another realm jumper."

"Do we have one among us?" James wonders.

"Aye." The imp glances at the fairy. "Do you remember telling me a realm jumper couldn't retrieve Bae?"

She nods, looking down at the table; she remembers every detail of that conversation and she's ashamed.

"I didn't believe you. You were right, by the way, but it took twenty years of my life before I quit trying."


Belle is biting her nails. She doesn't realize she has that habit, and she doesn't notice when Rumple pushes her hand away from her teeth. She simply switches to the other hand and he gives up.

Jefferson's hat, up until now locked securely in the bank vault and guarded by dwarves, has been brought to the war room and set on the round table. The counselors stare at it. Right now it seems an ordinary, old-fashioned top hat; add Gold's walking cane to it and it's an ensemble for Fred Astair. But they've seen its power and they are appropriately impressed.

Or . . was it Jefferson's power that they saw?

That's why Belle is biting her nails. She seizes the tail of her beloved's Conan t-shirt, apparently pulling him aside for a private conference, but he knows she's also pulling him away from the hat. "Rumplestiltskin," she whispers, "how long has it been since you last used this type of magic?"

He clicks his tongue. "Now, now, dear one, if you want to find out how old I am, you needn't beat around the bush; just come out and ask."

She won't allow him to joke her out of her concern. "How long?"

He sobers. "A hundred and fifty years, give or take. But remember, Belle, I'm the most powerful mage in the world. Besides, on the ladder of magic skills, realm jumping ranks pretty low." He touches her face fondly. "It's for the children, love."

"I'm going with you."

"You're needed here. No one has your talent in planning battles. Your father has the experience, but not your cleverness." He's tempted to add: and certainly not your command of the troops. For Moe, whether thought of as Duke Maurice or Moe French, carries little weight in either world. James and Snow have the troops' respect and admiration, but Belle and Emma have their hearts.

"I won't go alone, however," he assures her. "I'll take Leroy with me."

"But Leroy despises you."

"But he cares for the children." He returns to the table and nods at the King, who calls for Grumpy. The dwarf arrives on the double, and he needs no convincing; it's enough that Snow asks him to undertake this mission. Rumple enchants the dwarf's pickaxe in preparation.

Then it's time for quick farewells. Rumple sets aside his ill feelings toward James—he's long felt bitter about the boy's betrayal of him, after all he did to bring James and Snow together—and shakes the King's hand. As he does so, he enchants James' wedding ring—subtly, so Belle doesn't notice and get worried—but just in case something happens to Rumple, James will now have a little bit of protective magic. As Snow kisses his cheek, he does the same for her wedding ring.

He turns to Moe. He has never apologized to Moe, nor, in the days since the breaking of the curse, have they spoken of the past. Now that he knows Regina lied about Belle's death, Rumple owes it to Moe—and, more importantly, to Belle—to find out the truth about Moe's involvement in Belle's imprisonment. Rumple is confused: he sees Belle working side by side with her father, studying maps and weather forecasts and troop strength reports; courtesy and cooperation flow between them, but late in the evenings, when it's time to rest, Belle doesn't go to her father's house; she comes to Gold's. She says nothing about Moe, or her capture and imprisonment by Regina.

Nor does she speak of that last day in the Dark Castle. When the war is over, they will talk it all out. For now, it must suffice that they have already forgiven each other, and nothing that will be said in that needful conversation can break their love, for their first words to each other, when the curse broke, had sealed the bond beyond breaking: "Rumplestiltskin, I love you." And without hesitation, he had, at long last, accepted her love with a simple "yes" and then offered her his heart: "And I love you too."

Someday, when the war is over and there is time for sitting around a peacemaking fire with a tankard of mead, with Belle beside him, and perhaps children playing at his feet, Rumple will invite Moe to tell his side of the story. For now, the best he can do is to offer a handshake.

Moe shakes his hand but, unlike the others, doesn't wish him luck.

Emma shifts the mood. She pushes her way past Moe—her BS detector must've detected something, because she has no particular fondness for Moe either. She grabs Rumple in a rough hug; showing affection isn't her style, but she'll make an exception under the circumstances. "Don't let the bastards get you, Gold." For good measure, as she's hugging him he enchants her necklace.

Now there's only Belle to say goodbye to. He holds her but stands apart from her so he can see her in full, memorizing the picture. Just in case. She's still Belle: confident, brave, playful, but she's also Jane Doe: slower to trust, wiser in her choices. Where she once had optimism, she now has hope. The fate of three hundred people rests on her shoulders, and she carries that weight willingly. Her innocence stolen, she can no longer be fooled: she sees the world as it is.

Yet she has chosen him.

He draws her in and the others turn away modestly, giving them some privacy. "Rumplestiltskin," she says softly, and he prepares for the words of unending love that will take him into battle.

"Yes, my darling Belle?"

"Are you really going—dressed like that?"

He glances down at his Conan shirt and laughs. With a wave of his hand he's now wearing an old favorite, his alligator jacket and leather trousers.

She comes closer. "Rumplestiltskin."

"Yes, my love?"

"I love you."

He pulls her in for a kiss. It's only their second kiss, and the first of his own initiative, and it could be the last, so he puts everything he has into it. When he releases her, she is breathless and dazed.

She blinks, straightens her fatigue jacket, seizes him and kisses him back. When she releases him, he stumbles a little. Maybe he gave up his cane too soon.

From her jacket pocket she withdraws a compass, which she presses into his hand. "So you can find your way home." A proper soldier, she wears no jewelry, so he enchants her combat boots. Of course, he has sense enough not to tell her that.

Then he sets the hat on the floor beside the circulation desk. He spins the hat and he and Grumpy disappear.