Note: Usual disclaimers apply. I made up the book title on death and religions mentioned. Enki I borrowed from the Babylonians. I changed the whole scenario with Neal and the vault of the dark one because I'm just not ready to deal with that yet! Comments welcomed
Belle sat in the garden, head bent over the book she was holding. It was always almost deserted at this time of day and the quiet solitude among the roses made an excellent reading spot. Not that solitude really mattered, once she became engrossed in a book her surroundings faded: noisy tavern or tranquil garden, it made no difference. The words were the only thing that mattered: they lifted her like a flying carpet, transporting her away from the boundaries of her reality, if only for a moment in time.
"Orpheus and Eurydice," a voice said, startling her out of her reading.
"What?" Belle said, looking up.
"The book you are reading," the stranger replied. "I'm sorry if I startled you, but I am something of a collector of stories myself. I am called Enki."
"Belle. And it's quite all right," Belle replied. "So, you collect stories?"
"Yes I do. Some men collect wealth, some secrets, others names. I collect words. Stories. And the one thing they all have in common is that they are all a form of power."
Belle looked at the man before her as though she'd seen a ghost.
"Is something wrong? Did I give you offence?" Enki asked, suddenly concerned.
"No…" Belle stammered. "It's just what you said, about names and power; it just reminded me of someone, that's all."
"Someone dear to you?" Enki asked. Belle just nodded her reply.
"Ah, a lover? I would be quite honored to meet such a man as this. It seems we would have interesting conversations."
"He's…He died." Belle said, her lips having difficulty forming the words. She could feel a lump forming in her throat and her eyes burning as she fought the tears.
"I am so sorry. Do forgive an old man his foolishness…Now I understand why such a tale as Orpheus's would interest you."
Belle shook her head but did not look up. This stranger assumed that she was looking for some way to bring back her lost love. He didn't know she had already trodden that path, had found the answer hidden amongst her precious books, had almost succeeded. In the end the price had been too high. She could not pay it, could not let Neal pay it. And then every attempt after that had been fruitless, every lead she thought she had found turned out to be flights of fancy and fiction.
"No, that's not why I'm reading this. Anyhow, it's just a story."
"Ah…but all stories have a grain of truth. But I think I can find a more suitable tale for you." Enki said as he opened the satchel he was carrying and pulled out a slender volume bound in worn, brown leather. The spine was covered in faded gold characters that were not familiar to Belle. He brushed the surface of the book with his hand before handing it to her, bowing slightly as he presented his gift.
"It was such a pleasure meeting you, my dear. I hope you accept this small token as a symbol of a fool's apology and friendship for a fellow appreciator of stories."
The small group of wandering souls had stopped near the edge of a cliff. They watched as their strange companion surveyed the valley below, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Why are we stopped?" Joran asked after a while.
The man, formerly known as the Dark One, ignored him. He was deep in thought remembering something from literally a lifetime ago. He closed his eyes and opened them again, seeing not the dead world stretched out before him, but his home in the dark castle.
He was at his spinning wheel, feeling the straw move through his calloused hands, listening to the soothing creak and waiting. Waiting for her to ask something. She always did…always wanted to know about his day, the places he visited, about himself and the strange things he collected. He had thought he would be irritated by this, in fact he felt he should be-he had a reputation to maintain after all- but he wasn't. In fact he had secretly come to enjoy her curiosity and reactions to his tales. So he waited now.
Silence.
He spun some more, waited some more and then finally it was his curiosity that got the better of him. He stopped spinning and turned around. With just a thought and a flicker, he was standing beside her, looking down at her, her head bent in a book.
"What are you reading?" he said at last.
She jumped at the sound of his voice and dropped the book. He caught it easily before it could hit the floor.
"I'm sorry," she replied, startled.
"No matter," he said casually, glancing down at the title on the book's cover.
"The Mortal Paths: A Comparative Study of Death from Xaronism to Elostism," he read aloud.
"Some light reading before bed, dearie?"
He regretted the quip as soon as he saw the pained expression on her face. But somehow he knew it had nothing to do with his teasing. She had been different today, withdrawn and distant. Of course he'd pretended not to notice, or told himself that princesses trapped in castles and forced to be maids were supposed to mope about, and this was long overdue for her. And then he'd avoided her until he saw her reading and assumed she was back to her usual self. But the tears that were swimming in those big blue eyes told him he had been wrong. He had to resist the urge to wipe away the one that had escaped, and was now streaking down her cheek. With a small wave he produced a silk handkerchief and handed it to her.
"Thank you," she said, drying her eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just today…today is the anniversary of my mother's death."
"I'm sorry," he said and was surprised to find that he genuinely meant it.
"It was such a long time ago…some days I can't remember her face anymore, but what I remember was overhearing one of the Clerics tell my father that her soul would never find peace in the afterlife because she was still a heretic who believed in the Old religion."
"Those Clerics are ignorant old farts who prey upon the gullible. They know little about life and even less about death," he snorted derisively.
"I know," she said, sniffling, "after that I decided I didn't want to listen to what they had to say, I wanted to find the answers for myself…my mother had always told me that the first step to truly believing something was to question it first. That truth should always be able to withstand scrutiny."
"She sounds like she was a very wise woman," he replies. He hesitates, then, before he could stop himself reaches for her hand. Somewhere, deep inside of him, under the scales of the monster stirs the man, the meek and gentle spinner who remembers what it was like to give comfort to a motherless child. This is the first time he has ever initiated a touch between them. He feels his panic rise and tries to pull away but she stops him. She places her other hand on top of his and squeezes it gently.
"Thank you, Rumplestillskin."
Their eyes meet and he feels himself falling into those magnetic blue depths. He breaks the contact first, looking down at the book again.
"Find anything interesting in this?" he asks.
"They writers say that all of it, all the versions of the afterlife exists. He thinks it's just a shadow, created from belief and it's just a temporary place for the soul. They all move on from there. And what's more, they all intersect at common pathways, one being someplace called the Valley of Regret."
"What is it? Why are we stopped?" Joran asked again.
"That, dearie," Rumplestillskin replies, "is our way out. The Valley of Regret."
TBC