The Prince and the Beast – Part 2 of 4
Parts of this section use dialogue from the full uncut script of the episode 'Skin Deep'.
With many thanks to the incredible Robin4, who kindly helped this chapter to get out from under the shadow of writer's block.
Before David had time to think, the threatening sound of a sword being drawn echoed in the crumbling stone hall. Its metallic ring jolted the prince instinctively into action, and he swirled around—only to find that the wielder of the weapon faced away from him.
I wouldn't try that, dearie.
"You sent me a message," Rumplestiltskin announced, and David stared at him in confusion, trying to consolidate the words he'd heard with the movement of the imp's lips. Ahead of him a young, dark-haired man advanced, his sword angled toward the intruder's throat.
The Dark One—glimmering greyish-green scales and all—was lounging fearlessly in a large ornate chair, playing with a wooden carving of some sort. Raising his hand in a mockingly bland impersonation of his audience, he continued, "Something about, um, 'Help, help! We're dying! Can you save us?'"
It lacked originality.
"Rumplestil—" Charming began, but the words died in his throat, for, to his bewilderment, a large, well-dressed man passed straight through him, fur-lined red robes skimming the floor. The prince started in surprise at the strange sensation. It's like the fire dreams—as Henry said. Just like when Snow and I tried to kiss.
But full points for effort.
"Well the answer is . . ."
David snapped his head back up, in time to see the leather-clad imp impatiently swat away the knight's blade, "Yes. I can."
You were right before, dearie. Ogres are not men.
Something in the imp's twisted mind was laughing darkly. I can hear his thoughts, Charming realised with an uncomfortable lurch, recalling Belle's warnings. He glanced apprehensively at the future librarian—she did look different here, albeit only slightly. More innocent.
But then again, neither am I.
A small object flew through the air. Having carelessly tossed the wooden carving—a castle figurine from the strategy table, David belatedly noted—to a startled guard, Rumplestiltskin proceeded to ooze around the room, exuding his usual disconcerting self-assurance.
"So, you've got ogres," the Dark One exclaimed in a rougher imitation of a country-born peasant's accent, before giving a casual shrug, his voice returning to its higher nasal pitch, "It happens."
Reaching the head of the table, he picked up a large blue volume from atop the maps and flipped it open. David tried rapidly to drink in the debilitated room, and he saw Belle half-start forward from the corner of his eye. It didn't take a genius to figure out who the book belonged to, and the prince glanced at her. "You watched me enter this netherworld Belle," he murmured hazily, "I didn't expect your past self to supervise me too."
The imp eyed the tome's cover, and didn't bother to conceal a snort.
'Her Handsome Hero'. Not quite so dashing after the ogres.
"They're fun in adventure stories," he drawled as he slammed the book shut, "but in real life they pull your legs off."
Heroes and ogres both.
His sharp titter made several guards flinch back, but Belle stepped forward, her eyes dancing with hope and . . . David's brow furrowed. Curiosity?
"You've faced them?" she asked, and the imp looked up at her, as if noticing her presence for the first time, "In battle?"
He raised a nonchalant brow, looking her over.
Well she's brave, I'll give her that.
David cleared his throat. They don't know each other? This is . . . this is how they meet? He shifted his weight. In a war-room?
Intrigued, the Dark One eyed her, "Oh, I might have been in the Ogres War."
If you count stopping it single-handedly.
He returned the book to the table and continued to pace, addressing the hall at large, "Yes, I can protect your little town." The imp pointed at the red-robed man, and Charming realised with a jolt that he recognised another face in the room. "For a price."
All magic has one. And stopping a war—preventing so much pain—requires an equally painful sacrifice.
Moe—Maurice to this realm—started forward, "We sent you a promise of gold."
Rumplestiltskin's eyes strayed briefly to the young woman dressed all in gold before him, and David followed his gaze with a growing sense of unease, "Ah . . . No. You see, um . . ." he drew it out, letting them wait, ". . . I, uh, make gold."
Make them suffer a voice whispered, and the prince couldn't tell for a moment where it had come from.
Staring up into Maurice's impassive expression, the Dark One crooned, "What I want is something a bit more . . . special." He continued with a callous smile, "My price . . ."
Take her. Let the gold become rags.
Charming looked between them. The words echoing in his mind sounded a little different, a little deeper than Gold's, though they certainly had his infamous sardonic bite. Perhaps—
The imp pointed a finger, his own tone dropping lower: ". . . is her."
If Belle felt horror at the revelation—if she was repulsed to find the Dark One's eyes fixed upon her—she masked it with impressive haste as her father spluttered in protest, "My—no—my daughter is not . . . a commodity."
But she is what you treasure.
"A deal?"David stared at the imp incredulously: frustration at his own spectral form mounting. "You got Belle to be with you in a deal?"
He flexed his fingers, wishing he could feel the weight of a sword. Even for the Dark One, that's low. The prince shook his head and, despite knowing that his words wouldn't be heard, his voice grew low and threatening, "Does she know now—in Storybrooke? Did you take her memories?"
Rumplestiltskin treated the nobleman to a slow, cruel smile as the deeper voice coiled in his mind, "Which is exactly why I want her."
Make her scrub the flagstones . . .
Maurice barely moved, "No . . ."
"The young lady is engaged," the broad-shouldered knight declared flatly, as he threw a possessive arm across Belle, his elbow barging into her throat, "To me."
My, and what a lucky young lady she is, the Dark One's own mind drawled, dripping with sarcasm.
Passing him, the imp choked back a giggle as his voice pitched higher, "I wasn't asking if she was engaged." He pressed his hands to his chest contemptuously, "I'm not looking for 'love'."
David snorted. Tell that to Gold.
. . . until her knuckles crack and bleed.
Spinning around, Rumplestiltskin faced the silent room, "I'm looking for a caretaker . . . for my rather large estate," he smirked nastily.
The prince grimaced and fought to repress a shudder, "Gold . . ."
Let them chew on that.
Turning to Maurice, the Dark One's voice grew soft and dangerous, "It's her, or no deal."
The noble shook his head slowly, "No. I'm sorry, but I cannot."
David eyed the future flower-peddler. Is that regret in his voice? He didn't know much of the man in Storybrooke, beyond the fact that he was willing to send his daughter across the town line to end her association with Gold.
The prince crossed his arms. Much as I disliked Hook initially, I would never have tried to do that to Emma.
"You're going to lose her either way," the Dark One taunted, his voice low and menacing, "To me. Or to the ogres."
And pulling the legs off my own caretaker would be a touch counter-productive, no?
Maurice glowered, not bothering to mask his disgust, "With the ogres I know what I'm facing. We have a chance—"
"No you don't," Rumplestiltskin sang merrily, and the man's patience snapped.
"Get out," he roared, "Leave!"
The imp's reply was quiet as he walked slowly to the door, "As you wish."
Hesitant, Charming began to follow him, trying to recall the rules of this realm. I've got to follow Gold, haven't I? Or something will happen . . . and not something good. His memories of Storybrooke felt increasingly vague—or perhaps he hadn't paid enough heed to the librarian's words. As he drew level with Gold, the prince caught sight of the knowing leer on the imp's scaled face.
If that was your final answer, the smoke from my exit would have dissipated by now, dearies.
As if right on cue, Belle called out.
"No, wait."
Smirking, Rumplestiltskin turned to face them once more. David watched as, pulling free of her fiancé, Belle stepped slowly up to her future-husband, and looked him right in the eye, unflinching.
Bold girl.
A moment passed.
"I will go with him," she nodded, her voice firm.
The imp clapped his hands and released an almost childish giggle which, David found, still had the ability to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"I forbid it!" the dark-haired young man boomed.
Maurice's response was almost inaudible, a desolate murmur. "No . . ."
Belle span to face the room, her eyes flashing with a fierceness that Charming immediately recognised, perhaps for having felt it so recently himself.
"No one decides my fate but me." Rumplestiltskin watched her fearless announcement with interest, "I shall go."
Brave is good, where you're headed.
"It's forever, dearie," he warned, steepling his fingers.
Bright blue eyes met his own reptilian gaze.
"My family, my friends—they will all live?"
And more intelligent than most. Terms and conditions apply.
The Dark One inclined his head, his gold-flecked eyes gleaming, "You have my word."
Belle nodded firmly, and Charming watched her resilience with a sudden flash of respect. If the stories were anything to go by, very few people had ever dealt so deftly with the Dark One, particularly when their own life hung in the balance. The Dark One.
My daughter. The delayed association came with an uncomfortable lurch, and he corrected himself almost immediately. No. Emma won't have her name on the dagger long enough for calling her that to feel natural. Besides, she won't be like this, will she? Serpentine and scheming.
"No," he murmured, speaking aloud to reassure himself, "My daughter doesn't have scales, she wouldn't—"
"Then, you have mine," the imp's eyes widened slightly as Belle spoke, and Charming had to force his attention away from the present, and back to the past, "I will go with you—forever."
"Deal!" he squeaked, practically skipping with an unnerving, warped form of delight, "Nyah!"
The price is paid.
Her father launched into protest, drawing her gaze from the strange mesh of monster and man before her, "Belle. Belle, you cannot do this," Maurice intoned as she turned to comfort him. "Belle, please. You can't go with this . . . beast," he glared, and Rumplestiltskin patted a hand to his heart, feigning offense.
Turning to the noble and the knight, Belle's voice was steady, "Father. Gaston. It's been decided."
And so the high-born becomes the help.
David looked between them uneasily.
"You know—she's right," the imp gloated, pointing at the young woman, "The deal is struck." Almost as an afterthought, he tittered, "Oh! Congratulations on your little war."
Fools.
David followed as the imp ushered her out, watching him place a hand near the small of her back with discomfort. Glancing back, he could guess what the crowd of stunned onlookers were thinking. Their lips were clamped shut, but the accusation in their eyes was loud enough:
Monster.
"Hey—Belle, slow down. I might be a part-time quadruped but right now I only have two feet and both of them are rocking killer heels."
The librarian turned back with a rueful smile, "Sorry Ruby. I guess my mind's just racing still and my body feels obliged to keep up."
Leaves and woodland debris crunched underfoot as the waitress made her way down a slope, the road and the sheriff's car disappearing from sight.
Ruby glanced at her friend's conflicted expression, and sighed softly. "I'm sorry, Belle," she murmured again, brushing back a lock of her dark hair, newly streaked with red highlights, "About before; what I said at the station—it was probably a bit full on, and you were so happy . . ."
"No," Belle returned after a moment, "You uh, you were right to bring me back down to earth. Being in Rumple's mind I just—well, I guess I assumed that because my own feelings felt so . . . so true, again, that his would be the same."
"Hey," Ruby put a comforting arm around her friend's shoulders, and they continued down the forest path together, "Henry said he was some peasant before, right? For all you know, when Mr. Gold wakes up all Dark One-less, he'll never even have to think about choosing power over you again, 'cause magic won't even be an option." She'd intended to sound reassuring, but the librarian just winced slightly. The trees grew thicker, and after a moment they parted to walk in single file.
I shouldn't have said anything, the waitress thought with regret, especially not just before she went to Gold's bedside. She watched the tail of Belle's scarf shift in the breeze, irritated at her own interference. I'm pretty sure wolves are supposed to have good timing.
When the librarian had come bounding into the Sheriff's office that morning, Ruby had been startled to find her previously heart-broken friend acting as if she'd fallen book over boots in love that very day. She hadn't exactly wanted to burst the petite brunette's bubble, but she did want to protect her. And quoting back Belle's own words about Gold always choosing power certainly sobered her up. As did mentioning the gauntlet: an object which seemed to have been crawling through her mind for weeks. She'd headed off to meet David at the hospital with her optimism severely checked. A pinch of salt, fresh from Granny's diner, Ruby thought with a grimace.
But friends—real friends—were meant to be honest. I've watched her get pumped full of drugs because I thought ignorance would keep her safe. Keep Storybrooke safe. And I was wrong to do that.
She shivered, recalling how the nurse had pinned Belle down and tranquilised her, just moments after the librarian had begged for honesty. "Were we really friends?" "Yeah, we were." "Then tell me the truth."
The waitress sighed softly, fingers brushing the sheriff's badge attached to her belt as she scanned their surroundings. She could smell rabbits, and instinct told her that their warren was nearby, but she pushed away the influx of information from her heightened senses to concentrate on her human thoughts. I did the right thing this time.
After Belle had banished Mr. Gold and locked herself away for a week, Ruby had been one of the few people there to help pick up the pieces. Just small things; making her syrup-smothered pancakes at the diner in a none-too-subtle bid to remind her to eat, dropping by the library to ask for book recommendations when, with the shifts Granny was throwing her way, she knew it would just mean another paperback lying unread on her bedroom floor. She'd even suggested a few times that they hit up The Rabbit Hole for a girl's night out, though each time Belle would decline, blushing and muttering something about 'Panama'.
I've seen her cry because of that man more times than I can count, I just didn't want it to happen again, she justified. Though perhaps bringing up that damned gauntlet hadn't been the right way to go about talking sense into her book-loving friend. It was probably at the bottom of the ocean by now anyway.
"Belle?" she called out softly, her sharp eyes picking out the increasingly familiar patterns of the trees, "Where is it that we're going?" This track reminded her of Henry somehow, of Regina and Gold. Of the burn of magic.
The shorter brunette turned to smile sadly at her, "To a place where lost things are restored."
David was not used to teleportation, and apparently neither was Belle.
With the crowd gulping fearfully and staring at their backs—or at least at the two backs they could see—the trio had left the war room and walked through the castle's deserted hallways. The building was clearly in a dramatic state of disrepair; indeed, it looked almost as if the floors had become waterlogged, and only recently dried out. As they'd passed a large room with broken bookshelves and blackened walls, Belle had initially looked away, blinking hard. But at the final moment she'd turned her head and murmured something.
Charming would not have caught the words if they hadn't echoed in the Dark One's own mind, and even then the prince hadn't understood the meaning.
Vale et matrem.
In the ensuing silence David had allowed himself to outpace them slightly. At least Gold took his hand off her back as soon as we left the sight of the crowd, he'd mused uneasily, struggling to read either of their expressions. He may have seen the librarian and the pawnbroker interact tenderly in Storybrooke, but at that point he never would have guessed that Mr. Gold had actually bought his lover—now his wife. Traded for her.
As they'd descended the stone steps, a flock of startled sparrows had taken flight into the early evening air. The imp had giggled and made some quip about griffins, but soon enough he was pointing a black fingernail at Belle and telling her to stay still. The image of a desolate estate flashed in his mind. "Wait!" David started as a cloud of thick smoke enveloped the pair, "Gold! Don't—"
But his panic was short-lived. Moments later, the prince was standing beside the imp and the noblewoman, arms raised, at the foot of the Dark Castle. Clearing his throat, he lowered his hands sheepishly. Well, I guess I'm not going to get left behind that way, at least.
"Where . . . where are we?" Belle breathed. She had barely a second to take in the mountainous landscape covered in drifts of snow; the towering walls, a glimpse of stone gargoyles and dried flower beds, before the heavy wooden doors creaked open.
Hell.
"Home," Rumplestiltskin smirked, as David looked back at the winding, solitary path leading away from the estate. A path he'd taken up here on multiple occasions. Numerous quests.
But the imp was already pacing into a large, damp entrance hall—the same one in which the baffled prince had bargained away his cloak more than thirty years ago. As the Dark One gestured impatiently for his latest acquisition to follow, David forced himself to focus and keep pace with the future librarian. Which, it turned out, didn't require much effort.
Barely inside the hall, Belle was standing still, staring at the heavy locks barricading a number of doors. With a mocking bow, Rumplestiltskin flourished his hand. A set of double doors swung open. He strode ahead into the Dining Hall, increasingly piqued by the girl's dawdling.
I may be immortal, but I don't have all day, dearie.
David blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Have I been in here before?
Trotting to catch up, the young woman tried hard to drink in the shadowy room. It was filled with glass cases and pedestals—with countless curious objects on display, yet it was impossible to look at everything at once, and her eyes roamed frantically. The imp barely glanced at her.
Nosy, nosy. But not for long.
A scattering of sparse candles cast strange shadows on the walls, and the former shepherd felt his skin prickle. They passed a dining table with one chair at its head, and another turned toward the fireplace. Noticing a spinning wheel in the corner of the room, Charming realised with an uncomfortable jolt that he had indeed been in this hall before. And not too long ago.
Gold was there. He stared at the wheel. In a cage. A captive in his own castle, as Belle is now.
"Uh, where . . . where are you taking me?"
"Let's call it . . . your room," Rumplestiltskin pointed a scaled finger toward her, and to her credit the girl didn't seem to be quivering in terror as much as he'd expected.
I can fix that.
Does that mean that the Vault of the Dark One is around here somewhere? Has this always been the Dark One's dwelling? Did Emma . . . would Emma come here?
As they reached the dungeons David cast a concerned glance at Belle, but she didn't seem to share his suspicions; didn't seem to expect the sight of a cold, inky prison—even when the door swung open moments later, with a gleeful gesture from her captor. She stared in shock at the dank cell and he tapped his fingertips together, watching.
Not such a fairytale now, is it?
"My room?"
"Well, it sounds a lot nicer than dungeon," the imp returned with a dark smile, before shoving her inside. Slamming the heavy wooden door shut, he turned the lock, a manic giggle escaping his lips as he began to stride away.
A week in the dark should help dampen her spirits.
"You can't just leave me in here!" a thumping echoed behind them, "Hello? Hello?"
The cell had magical barriers of its own, but Rumplestiltskin made a mental note to put up more complex wards when he returned; spells which could detect her intentions, and perhaps an enchanted clasp, should she ever make it outside. Just for good measure.
She'll run, when it is done.
Charming followed the imp with a disapproving frown, as Belle's desperate pleas grew quieter.
Or rather, she'll try.
They end up together, he tried to remind himself, disconcerted as he was by the transaction required for their relationship. This . . . this is the beginning of a romance. He sighed. And it's off to a pretty rocky start. Though I guess this is the guy who bought duct tape and rope on Valentine's Day.
"I sure as hell hope this memory is rated PG," he muttered with a shudder, and looked up to find Rumplestiltskin standing still, the large dining hall empty and silent before him. Belle's cries lingered distantly in the air.
To make them suffer.
"Gold?" he drew level with the leather-clad imp, and tried to decipher his expression.
Not to fill the silence.
The Dark One's eyes lit on the heavy curtains obscuring a window, and he strode over, pulling the fabric aside to stare out at the red-tinged sky. David watched as he raised a blackened fingertip to brush against the window pane. He joined the imp warily, and looked out at the scarlet-streaked expanse.
"Ogres," the prince's eyes narrowed in understanding as he murmured the word. That must be the fire from the battlefields.
That's the blood of children.
". . . What?"
Something about the sorcerer seemed to falter slightly, but as Prince Charming shifted to look at him, Rumplestiltskin was already turning away. Within minutes he'd unlocked another room, and was waving a hand over a pile of wooden spools, concentrating on envisioning a new shape.
Gold it may be . . .
The glimmering thread around them shifted into coins; the imp's mind barbing at the intellectual capabilities of ogre-kind all the while.
. . . but if it doesn't look like a coin those brutes will likely eat it.
Leaning against the doorway—which he'd passed through several times before adjusting his mindset as Henry had mentioned—David watched the imp gather the heavy coins into a brown leather pouch. No matter how many he scooped in, the unassuming little bag never seemed to become full. There was something strange in the Dark One's eyes as he stood, tucking the pouch away.
If only it had been this easy before.
Charming opened his mouth, not even sure what he wanted to ask, but before he could utter a word Rumplestiltskin was already teleporting—the brief flash of an image, an idea, reeling through his and thus the prince's mind. A damp, marshy field, the smell of burning. The sound of screaming.
And then there they were, wisps of smoke coiling about the imp's ankles. David tried to catch his breath, still unused to the sudden jolt—to the fraction of a second in which it felt as if his body had no place in the world. But the Dark One was already pacing ahead, muttering incantations without feeling the usual pull of energy from his body: the price for this excursion had already been paid, and was no-doubt weeping in her cell. David lurched forward to stride beside his shorter companion, who seemed to be following the sound of a guttural grunting. He froze when he rounded the trees.
Seeing one ogre was a fearsome enough sight—the towering muscular body, the milky eyes and stomach-churning stench. But here—Hell, there must be fifty of them, in this clearing alone.
That sniveling bean-procurer might have failed at his task.
Charming flexed his fingers. I don't need a sword. He clenched his jaw, steeled himself, and walked forward to join Rumplestiltskin, who had conjured a cloak and was pulling the hood up as he approached. I'm a ghost here, trying to fight would be beyond futile.
But knowing his verminous voice has its uses.
A gigantic makeshift tent had been erected at the end of the copse—huge, billowing sheets stretched out between the pine trees, still barely high enough to allow the ogres within to stand straight. Strips of tree-bark were lashed to their arms as amour, and human bones dangled from their leather loincloths, clinking softly in the breeze.
And a rat is just what I need.
As the Dark One passed through the camp the grunting ceased, and an eerie silence followed. One by one, the huge creatures turned to follow Rumplestiltskin's passage with blank eyes. Charming stared back at them cautiously. "Gold, I may be a phantom here, but you're not," his words were cautious, "What are you doing?"
He turned his attention to the imp's boots, which seemed not to make a sound against the damp grass. A sound-proofing spell? But . . . ogres can still sense magic?
"Harth," Rumplestiltskin drawled, as he entered the tent, "You're looking well."
Inexplicably, the Dark One's voice sounded different, and not because he was sardonically imitating a rural peasant. His tone seemed several pitches lower, and rolled effortlessly over a different dialect—the drawl became more of a simper. The ogre he addressed glowered back toward him. Unlike the others he wore a full set of clothes, his thin grey hair slicked back by the rain.
And you've yet to pledge allegiance to Regina. The two may be connected.
Emerging from the shadows of the tent, Harth stepped boldly up to the imp, his heavy movements causing the earth to shudder beneath his feet. His voice was low and rasping, "Who are you, magic human?"
Ogres can . . . talk?
Charming realised his mouth was open, and closed it. No. He shook his head, glancing around the tent. It must—it must be simply within the Dark One's powers to understand them. Surely he and Snow couldn't have ruled together, and defended their kingdom, without knowing that their old enemies were capable of conversation?
Your worst nightmare.
Overturned churns of milk were scattered across a crude attempt at a table, accompanied by a half-eaten dish of charred flesh. Which particular variety of flesh, David had no desire to discover. His eyes flicked back to the future pawnbroker.
"I am b-but a humble m-messenger," the imp bowed, allowing his voice to stammer and wheedle, "come to warn you." As he straightened, he let a scaled hand brush very deliberately over the leather pouch beneath his cloak. The chink of coins was quiet, but it was enough.
"Speak your warning, human."
Rumplestiltskin smiled darkly under his hood, though he sculpted his words to sound fearful, stripped of any humour, "They say that he is back."
His warning had an immediate effect. Although it was delivered softly, murmurs sprang up in response even from far across the camp. Well, they do hunt by sound alone. Charming shifted uncertainly, and watched as Harth's bludgeoned features drew together in a mixture of fear and distrust. I guess eavesdropping is second nature to ogres.
And this time he's had a tad longer to hone his abilities.
"No." The force of the word and the ogre's gravelly tone made David flinch, as if he'd walked into a wall of granite, "He has not interfered with us. Many years it has been."
"Many years it may be," Rumplestiltskin returned, "but do not forget the warnings of your ancestors. Centuries can pass, but the Dark One lives on." He spoke softly over the outbreak of alarmed grunts and distressed bellows above him, "Ogre-Slayer, war-ender, demon, Dark One—call him what you will, rumour has it that he's out for blood again. Yours." His eyes narrowed viciously under the hood, watching the panic spread among the lumbering creatures. The folklore in their culture had made it clear.
Ogres were not always blind.
"My warning is simple," his words were both soft and hard at the same time, "Fall back."
Monosyllabic grunts were eventually replaced by muttered recollections of the stories, and Charming watched the increasingly superstitious exchanges between the restless ogres with a strange mixture of disgust and awe, catching errant phrases.
" . . . lore says . . . most savage of humans . . . his terrible eyes . . . last thing elders saw . . ."
These are brutal, barbaric creatures, David tried to remind himself, unsettled by their fear. The prince was not a short man, but even he barely surpassed the nearest ogre's knee in height. Their mere stench was enough to make him recoil, let alone the endless tales of how they could tear a person limb from limb. Staring into the milky blankness of their gaze, he recalled the cautioning words oft shared by humans—shared in a disconcertingly similar fashion to how the creatures themselves talked now. "Legend says that when someone is killed by an ogre, the last thing they see is themselves dying in the reflection of the beast's eye." Now though . . .
He released a breath that he hadn't been aware he was holding. The Dark One is a story used to frighten young ogres into good behaviour. Such an idea was . . . well, it was suddenly so much more astounding now that the Dark One was his daughter. And a story told to humans and ogres both. Physically, he might be invulnerable here, but the weight of the concept made him shudder.
Emma is the monster under their bed. He felt his fists clench, knuckles cracking as he flexed his fingers.
Pawns again.
Charming had barely noticed that he'd tuned out of the imp's thoughts, let alone the continuing conversation. As Rumplestiltskin continued to ply the creatures with partially-veiled threats, implied omniscience and persuasion of a more tangible kind—namely in the form of heavy metal coins—the prince gazed at him with a strange, and growing, sense of déjà vu.
"You . . . you're going to do this again, Gold." Even with his heart in the possession of the Evil Queen—the tyrannical Snow White to whom he was considered a pale imitation of his brother James—Charming had maintained some autonomy over his ears. He'd heard the stories of their realm's saviour in Isaac's alternate world. Ogre-Slayer. Light One. Hero. Rumplestiltskin the knight. He's fought ogres in every realm, the prince realised. Even if more recently it was only some warped fantasy of his and Isaac's, it would have felt real enough.
Rather large pieces, but still pawns nonetheless.
Rumplestiltskin was watching the ogres with something akin to regret, and David frowned at the rings of mushrooms sprouting up amid the grass where milk churns had been set. But he did do it here, for real. And it wasn't considered heroic. The rasping arguments between the creatures were becoming louder. Because he charged a price, or because he used words rather than a sword?
Among the growing dissent, Harth spoke out fiercely, "Even in legend, Dark One did not come for years. Many bones were crunched. How do we know he now comes?" Others snarled in accord, and Rumplestiltskin leant a little heavier on his maimed ankle, the pain long-dulled by magic.
Many bones, indeed. But not all were crunched by ogres.
David was staring at Harth with a strange sense of unease, blue overalls and the smell of petrol at the back of his mind. The more the fearsome creature spoke, the less the sheriff was able to shake the feeling that they'd met before. But it was impossible. Snow said the whole race was left behind, ravaging the Enchanted Forest after the curse broke in Storybrooke.
A taller ogre, whose face was patterned with scars, was already bellowing his own agreement, "This is truth. Is said many tender human children were harvested before war-ender came. We should feast on flesh still—" Deep roars of assent met this suggestion, drowning out the speaker's words, as several greedily voiced their desire to try plump child-meat. But something, somewhere, had snapped.
Kill them all.
The sinister voice ricocheted through David's mind, and within seconds dark magic crackled around the imp. The air grew still. David shot the future pawnbroker a startled look, as the trees around the clearing began to creak and groan.
For Bae.
There was a change. It was almost imperceptible, but the sudden wilderness of magic was reined in. Not dismissed, but honed: given a target.
You, Harth—or rather a clump of your hair—may have a place in the future.
Rumplestiltskin raised a hand, and the scarred ogre suddenly stiffened, his foul breath escaping in stutters.
But the same cannot be said for your outspoken friend.
The huge creatures listened in horror as their tall companion began to twitch, clearly feeling the electric coursing of magic, even if they lacked the power of physical sight. The hooded Dark One slowly curled his fingers into his palm, and each time a blackened fingernail coiled, their comrade gave a sickening shudder. By the time that his hand had turned into a tightly clenched fist, the ogre was falling heavily to his knees, blood trickling from his nostrils.
All for my boy.
Rumplestiltskin stepped nonchalantly to the side as the gigantic creature toppled, and Charming stumbled backwards, forgetting for a moment his spectral form. There was a deafening thump as the body hit the ground, and then an even louder silence.
"Well," the imp said finally, his higher, sing-song voice banishing the guise, "that was unnecessarily messy. Must I warn you again?"
He took a step forward, and the ogres collectively flinched.
"Fall back."
It took only a matter of minutes for the Dark One to gain assurances that, regardless of the ogres' next move, Maurice and his entourage would remain unharmed. To seal that particular deal, he had casually upended the leather pouch over the scarred creature's corpse; gold coins rained down onto his bloodied chest. But it was greed, not grief, which glimmered in the blank eyes of his companions.
As the imp made his way back through the camp, it was clear that his whispers of darkness had done their work; already the ogres were arguing mutinously, and the vast majority were in favour of a full retreat.
And then, without so much as a final word, Rumplestiltskin disappeared, and Charming felt a strange tumbling as darkness closed in all around. Whatever was happening, it wasn't teleportation.
Together the two young women approached the wishing well, but Ruby held back as her friend stepped up to peer over the moss-covered edge, into the depths below.
The waitress bit her lip. It looked so much like the little well outside Granny's cottage, back home. And when she and Snow—or Mary rather, as she had called herself then—or Margaret, or Frosty, whatever—had gone to draw water, they'd drawn blood instead. The blood of the people I killed. People I knew.
As the librarian turned back from the stone octagon, the young werewolf forced herself to put aside the memories; she was here to help Belle face her demons, not to dredge up her own.
"So," Ruby forced a curious smile, "What is it that you've lost then? What are we here to look for?"
The librarian cleared her throat, her cerulean eyes full of ghosts, "My wedding ring."
She blinked in surprise. "You tossed it in?" the taller brunette braced herself and peered over the edge of the well, torn between being startled and impressed. She tried to ignore the strange relief which fluttered in her toned stomach. No blood, just an inky black.
"Perhaps I intended to," Belle gave her a sad smile, "But when I got here I just . . . I couldn't. So instead I uh, I buried it somewhere around here."
"And you don't remember where?" Ruby's gaze was shrewd but kind under her long eyelashes. It was unlike Belle to be vague or forgetful. The shorter woman's memories had been threatened so often that she held on to them with all she had. And what she had, little though people recognised it, was one of the sharpest minds in Storybrooke.
"I wasn't . . . well, I wasn't in my most lucid state to be honest. It was just the second night after . . . after I banished Rumple," she finished resolutely, and Ruby nodded.
The librarian had confided in her on the walk down to the well, outlining the heart-wrenching memories she'd witnessed: the terrible wonder of seeing through her husband's eyes. Ruby could guess easily enough where her thoughts had wandered. Banishment was rough on both of them.
"Too much tea," the waitress guessed lightly, earning a weak smile.
After a moment, Belle continued bravely, "I thought maybe you'd be able to help me track it? I know it's been quite a while . . ."
Tracking normally involves a heartbeat or a scent, not a clump of silver six-foot deep.
"You do realise I'm part wolf, right?" the waitress quirked an eyebrow, "Not part metal-detector." But as the petite librarian's face fell, Ruby found herself clapping her palms together anyway, in a show of sudden determination, "Which means . . . we'd better get started all the sooner."
I might not be able to help much as a Child of the Moon in this instance, but I can still help as a friend.
She was rewarded by a grateful nod, "Right."
Soon both women were rummaging amid the earth, focusing on the bases of nearby trees, one of which Belle thought she must have used as a marker. The rain had long since washed away any trace of digging or footsteps. Fern leaves dipped and bowed in the wind as they searched.
"So why this place? Why not just the trashcan at Granny's?" she half-joked, trying to gauge Belle's mood. The earth felt good under her formerly-immaculate fingers, the nails painted in her signature scarlet shade, and she longed briefly to shift forms, to feel the crunch of pine needles as she ran. Really ran.
The librarian's voice was muffled slightly by the breeze and her scarf, but having canine hearing negated the issue, "Actually, Rumple and I have a lot of memories here. This is uh, it's where I first remembered everything, remembered him. Where we first said we loved each other. Where we had our second kiss. Where he told me that magic is power . . ." Belle paused for a moment, careless of the damp dirt that tarnished her coat, "And he and I lost each other so many times and in so many ways, it seemed right for us to get married here . . . where the lost things are restored."
Ruby almost jibed at her friend for the lack of a wedding invite—this place must have looked beautiful in the candlelight, and she loved to tease—but stopped short when she heard Belle catch her breath.
Something glinted in the earth beneath the librarian's hands, nestled amid the roots. Ruby's sharp lupine eyes flicked over the tree which loomed above her startled friend. Of course it would be this one, she thought wryly.
Amid all the normal trees surrounding the well, the chosen marker was actually made up of two trees conjoined. One half looked older and darker, all crooked and broken: the bark moss-encrusted and weathered. The second tree was mostly straight, but had leaned in slightly, and somehow wrapped its roots around its counterpart. They seemed to be growing together, both still alive, if a little . . . different. Well, I know who they remind me of. She shook her head at her foolish thoughts. Is this the cynic in me, or the romantic?
"It's here," Belle breathed, eagerly scooping up the wedding band and barely bothering to brush off the soil before she slid it onto her ring finger with a satisfied sigh.
After a long moment she turned around, to find Ruby perched on the ledge of the well, smiling at her.
"Thank you."
"Hey, you found it—I was just here for moral support, really." And flair. That too.
"No, really, Ruby. Thank you."
The waitress nimbly descended from the well, helping Belle to her feet and linking arms with her, "C'mon, I've still got a few rounds of my patrol left, then we can follow true sheriff tradition and reward ourselves with a pastry each. I'm buying." Well, technically Granny's buying, but that's beside the point.
"Actually," Belle bit her lip apologetically, "There's something else I wanted to ask you too. Another favour."
"You want me to dig for matching earrings?"
"No," the librarian smiled, nudging her playfully as they began to walk. "I was actually wondering—well, I know that he's not exactly your friend, but I am. You're mine, I mean, and there aren't many people who would be willing . . ." she took a deep breath, trying not to ramble, "Would you consider going into Rumple's memories? After David, I mean."
"Me?" the waitress blinked at her.
Belle rushed to explain, "It's just, I can't go back, and I know that you wouldn't . . . wouldn't try to use whatever you saw against him. Walking someone else's memories, hearing their thoughts—I think it could make them very vulnerable." She glanced nervously at the taller brunette, "It wouldn't take that long, I think. Perhaps a day. But of course, I'd understand if . . ."
The librarian was visibly bracing herself for disappointment when Ruby laughed and clapped her on the arm, "Of course I'll do it, Belle. I'm just . . . surprised to be asked."
In response to the questioning tilt of her friend's head, the waitress shrugged, "Well, mostly I'm just asked to track things. Not that I mind," she added quickly, "but I don't tend to be brought along for the big things, you know? I thought you'd go to Snow next, or Regina." Or anyone, really.
Belle shook her head, "You're my friend, Ruby. If I'm leading a—a quest, you'd always be top of the list."
Touched, the waitress blinked a little harder. "Well, I guess this means Granny can't say 'no' to my extra day-off now," she gave a decidedly wolfish grin, "She loves a good cause."
"And you'd be OK with going inside Rumple's mind?" the librarian was clearly trying not to sound too incredulous, "Helping him?"
"It can't all be bad in there. I've noticed the way he looks at you," she said softly, "And you should have seen the state he was in when you were whisked off to the mines—I'd never seen Mr. Gold actually panic before. Like, full-on freak out. And he borrowed a picture from me once," she smiled, "Of you. Never did get it back."
Belle looked up at her, startled, "I—I've seen it. When did he . . .?"
"Around the same time you were using a pool cue to signal the bar for another drink."
Ruby almost stumbled at the firmer nudge that earned her, and the two friends continued up the hill.
The tumbling ended almost as soon as it began, and Prince Charming found himself in a long, dark hallway, miraculously still on his feet. From what Henry and Belle had said, landing gracefully was definitely not one of the rules of memory-walking. Footsteps echoed to his right, and he turned just in time to see Rumplestiltskin striding through the dank corridor.
It should be long enough.
Heart still thudding at the sudden transition, David made to follow him. After a few paces he began to recognise their route. The dungeons. He glanced at the leather-clad sorcerer. Have we changed memories?
The imp seemed to be wearing the same set of clothes as before, or at least something similar. Maybe. The prince scratched the back of his head. It hadn't felt like they were teleporting, but then he wasn't exactly overly familiar with the sensation. Magic and fashion: so not my fortes. He had barely a moment to contemplate the question before it was brusquely answered.
A week in the damp and cold should have taught her to fear me at least.
David rolled his eyes at the imp's back as they descended the steps. "A word of warning, Gold," he mumbled mostly to himself, "From one husband to another. You're probably going to regret treating Belle as a prisoner." He shook his head knowingly, "If not in this world, then the next."
And I should know.
His and Snow's own relationship had gotten off to a rather dodgy start—notably when he'd failed to dodge the jewellery box she slammed into his chin. Admittedly though, however much she still teased him about it, their initial animosity had only ever been discussed lovingly since.
"But I didn't imprison her." He rubbed the bristles on his chin thoughtfully as they walked. Well, not properly. "Nets don't count." And with Prince Charles strolling out of the bushes, she was hardly up there for long.
Perhaps maids do not live on bread alone, the imp's dark voice tittered in the quiet.
Flickering with candlelight, the dungeon hallway did seem oddly silent, and the prince felt a sudden twinge of worry for they'd been down here before her startled cries had been echoing from the stones, loud and clear.
A giggle curled in the sorcerer's mind.
Good thing I gave her water.
Without warning the Dark One stopped short just before the cell door, and David crashed into him—or rather, he would have done, had his spectral form allowed it. Instead the prince stumbled straight through Rumplestiltskin and stepped, disorientated, to the side, grimacing at the strange sensation, "Oof. Gold, what're you—"
Standing stock still, the imp appeared to be listening attentively to something. And, after a moment, David heard it too. A small, soft voice was talking. Scaled brows furrowed. No-one should have been able to sneak through the magical barriers of the cell, much less converse with his captive.
With a sweeping wave the words became amplified, and a few disjointed phrases carried across to the imp, bouncing gently from the walls, "Knowing not that this was indeed the legendary sword . . . He tried once, to no avail. He tried a second . . ."
Who is she talking to?
Rumplestiltskin glowered at the heavy wooden door, perturbed. It didn't help that he could feel the cost of the spell already being extracted. His own throat was stinging a little, growing slightly inflamed.
". . . there arose from the people a great shout . . ."
Herself. Of course.
The Dark One pinched the bridge of his nose, heaving an exasperated sigh.
I leave her in a cell for seven nights, and she succumbs to madness? I knew having a maid never ended well.
With an impatient flick of his hand the door slammed open, the spell dissolved, and the young woman inside jumped. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and the rich golden fabric of her dress pooled onto the floor.
"Come come, dearie," he snapped, "It's time to attend to your duties. You didn't think I'd let you lay idle all day?"
He span around and started walking before she had the chance to answer, but Charming hesitated by the door. It felt a little callous to leave Belle trailing behind, even if she couldn't see him to appreciate the attempted chivalry. But then again, he probably wouldn't be able to see anything himself if Gold got too far ahead and his own senses shut down in response. Future-Belle had warned him against such dawdling for a reason. With a sigh and an apologetic glance at her past self, who was struggling to stand, David let his long strides eat up the space between himself and the imp.
Those soft hands won't be soft for long.
Charming glanced at Rumplestiltskin. Well, he's noticed a . . . a feminine attribute. Maybe this won't take too long.
Within a few minutes they were down in the castle kitchens; Belle having just caught sight of her captor's dragon-skin coat-tails as he rounded each bend and barely managed to keep up. David glanced quickly at the room; large, made of stone, a generous fireplace and an assortment of ingredients hanging from the ceiling. Plus, no human heads, so better than he expected.
"Well now, dearie," the imp trilled, "Story time is over and servitude begins!"
Oblivious to the young woman's sudden blush, which accompanied his acknowledgement of eavesdropping, Rumplestiltskin gestured theatrically to a small stone alcove that housed a variety of colourful glass vials, in addition to mops and brooms.
"Here you will find all you need for your work." He gave her a sharp look, waving vaguely back toward the kitchen, "I trust you do know how to boil water at the least, dearie?"
So many nobles don't.
"Belle."
"You'll fin—" the imp stopped and blinked at her, belatedly registering her answer. "What?"
The young brunette swallowed, evidently nervous, but her bright blue eyes flicked bravely up to his own reptilian gaze, "My name. It's Belle. I . . . I thought you mustn't know, as you keep calling me 'dearie'."
David smirked. There was more than just naivety there. Is she testing him? For a moment the Dark One looked baffled, but then he took a step closer and the girl flinched.
That's more like it.
Rumplestiltskin clicked two clawed fingers together and a small spark of fire gathered between them. He waited just long enough for the brunette's eyes to widen in alarm, before flicking it at the fireplace.
"Make tea," he commanded nasally, "I'll explain the full extent of your duties in the Great Hall. Dearie." He leered nastily on the last word, and disappeared with a pop.
Charming lurched forward slightly, and found that whilst his foot rose from the stone flags of the kitchens, it clunked back down onto the wooden boards of the hall. He closed his eyes briefly. Is teleporting ever not going to make me feel nauseous?
A rash deal.
He turned to find the imp brooding in his lone chair at the head of the table. Or at least as much as the flamboyant version of him can brood, David thought dryly, casting a glance at the crimped hair and elaborate, form-fitting leather, which suddenly seemed so much more noticeable after thirty years with the sombrely attired Mr. Gold.
The whole purpose of a maid is to conserve magic.
Charming leant against the edge of the table, listening to the Dark One grumble to himself about not wasting energy on such trivial matters as cooking and cleaning, whilst he scanned the eclectic mix of objects dotted around the dimly-lit room. His gaze caught on a severed hand but, before he could stop to wonder if it belonged to a certain pirate, a soft female voice coiled in the imp's mind, the words frighteningly gentle. Biting.
You could always kill her. You've killed maids before, even when your precious boy was around to act self-righteous about it.
The imp scowled and twitched slightly, but before he could snark a response the sound of hesitant footsteps filled the hall. David didn't see Belle enter the large room: he was too busy staring at the greyish-green face of the future pawnbroker, the cogs whirring in his mind. A woman? The deeper voice from before he could almost pass off as a colder distortion of the pawnbroker's. But this?
"Belle was right," he murmured, his heart growing heavy in his chest, "The darkness is in Gold's head. Other voices are—are talking . . . And now it's in the mind of my daughter."
The female voice was whispering huskily, teasing and taunting.
She thinks you're a monster. Prove her right.
"You will serve me my meals, and you will clean the Dark Castle."
"I—I understand."
Would it . . . would they tell Emma to kill?
"You will dust my collection and launder my clothing."
But surely . . . surely she wouldn't listen . . .
The gentle sound of tea trickling into a china cup failed to draw David from his reverie, merely tickling at the edge of his mind. He didn't turn to see how the hands holding the teapot trembled through the steam.
"Yes."
Make her fear you. Respect you.
"You will fetch me fresh straw when I'm spinning at the wheel."
A shaky breath. "Got it."
Will Gold's voice be among them? Would he—
Test her.
"Oh!" Rumplestiltskin raised a finger to the air, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, "And you will skin the children I hunt for their pelts."
A soft exhale of breath; the gentle thump of a small object falling, the clink of fractured china.
At the sound of something breaking David's gaze finally snapped back to the young woman who, it seemed, was frozen by fear— the air in the room suddenly still.
The imp sneered mockingly at her, but, deep within his scale-covered chest, his blackened heart wrenched, if only a little. Something inside his mind was laughing cruelly. Not at the clumsy girl: at him.
You know the stories well enough, Spindleshanks. Are you surprised that people believe them?
The mask didn't slip, and the darkness in him fed on the terror now emanating from the girl, "That one was a quip—not serious." A small giggle escaped his lips.
Belle suddenly seemed able to breathe once more, "Right."
The imp may well have been mistaken, but perhaps the corner of the noblewoman's mouth quirked up in a small smile of her own.
David leant back, watching as she knelt with shaking hands to retrieve the cup. Almost immediately, he sat up a little taller. Wait a minute—is that . . .?
It was. The little white and blue teacup from the hospital. The item that connected the town librarian and the town terror.
Strange girl.
From the tone, it sounded more like a compliment than an insult.
Suddenly aware that he might be standing—quite literally—in the middle of a rather important moment for the two, David awkwardly hopped off the table and retreated to a tapestry cloaking the stone wall. Invisible he may be, but even ghosts could feel like a third wheel at the wrong moment.
Belle's fear had returned, and she held up the little teacup in quivering hands, "I'm, uh . . . I'm so sorry, but uh . . . it's . . . it's chipped."
She raised it higher, trying to turn the angle so that perhaps it would appear less broken, "Y-You can hardly see it."
Rumplestiltskin stared down at her, and Charming raised his eyebrows. You can definitely see it.
She's . . . afraid.
Several voices spoke at once within the Dark One's mind—a cacophony of reactions, his own among them.
That's rather the point, spinner. She broke what's yours. Punish her. Yes, crush her impertinence beneath your heel. But she's . . . afraid.
A long moment passed.
"Well, it's just a cup."
The other voices in the imp's mind suddenly ceased their muttering, and all was quiet. Relieved, the girl rose, clearly attempting to gather her rather substantial courage, and Rumplestiltskin leant back. Gold-flecked eyes watched her—within them a hint of puzzled amusement.
It matters not how brave the maiden.
He dropped his gaze.
The monster remains just that.
"You agree with your father, don't you?" he asked before he could stop himself. Just the smallest tinge of bitterness flavoured the words.
Distracted, Belle poured tea back into the same cup she'd just chipped, "Usually."
"You think I'm a beast." He had perhaps intended to spit the word as Maurice had done, but it came out softer than that. A gentle hiss.
As she carried the teacup over to his isolated chair, Belle raised her chin a little, toughening her voice, "No."
His words pitched higher, and the imp pointed a scaled finger, "I put you in a dungeon for the last week."
Returning to the tea-tray, the young woman gave him a frank look, "That was pretty beastly, yes, now that you mention it."
The Dark One's eyes widened. David snorted in laughter.
I . . .
Before the sorcerer could attempt to conjure a response—and given that he seemed startled into speechlessness for once, perhaps the distraction was for the best—a messenger dove fluttered into the room. It circled the hall before alighting on the imp's shoulder.
Good ah . . . good timing, Dove.
He removed the message tied to its leg, and nodded slightly as he read. The creature took off with a soft thump of feathers.
The deal is complete. She . . . She stays.
Charming crossed his arms and smiled slightly, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he watched. He felt a small flower of hope blossoming in his chest. If Gold could do it—could ignore the voices in his head and . . . and somehow win the girl, then we needn't fear for Emma. She's stronger than all of us, and she's certainly stronger than him.
The prince glanced across at the petite brunette, noticing to his surprise that Belle was eyeing the door.
"The ogres have fallen back," Rumplestiltskin murmured distractedly as she paced softly behind his chair, "Your father and your people have been spared."
It's futile, dearie.
Playing for time, the young woman responded quietly, "That is wonderful news. How did you do it?"
As the imp answered, she carefully unlocked the heavy wooden door and began edging out of it, "Ogres are superstitious and greedy. A few whispers, some gold . . ."
I kept my end of the bargain, and you shall keep yours.
Charming blinked as Belle disappeared from sight. What does he—
A movement to his left caught the prince's eye. He turned in time to see the future librarian flinch in surprise, as she found herself entering the very same room she'd just left, through the door on the opposite side.
All at once the claustrophobic whispering of voices returned to Rumplestiltskin's mind.
The Dark One glanced up, barely seeming to register her attempted departure, ". . . and the deal was done."
She will not escape. Surrounded by darkness, she'll become as scarred as we.
Prince Charming shivered at the coldness in his gaze.
"I see you've found some magical precautions I took. There is no escape."
The weight of his words hit Belle all at once, and something in her cerulean gaze crumbled.
You will sweep the ashes until you become them.
"You're going to spend the rest of your life here, dearie," he trilled, his voice high and mocking, alone in the only chair at his table. His reptilian eyes narrowed as a cruel, tight smile revealed blackened teeth.
"I hope you like my home."
Belle was fuming, there was no denying it, even as a small part of her mind argued that it made sense. But having built herself up, having finally worked up the nerve to descend those steps into the asylum which had held her for twenty-eight maddening years, she'd been faced not with the demons she chose to battle—but with a security door, a keypad, and the strict command of the nurse she'd pulled aside that she must first fetch the Mayor if she wished to enter. They'd allow no-one else in without explicit permission.
She tried not to dwell on the irony of being locked out of her former prison. Of course, keeping the witch shut away without easy public access was, most would argue, for the best. But what had finally pushed her into a shaking anger was the curt response Regina had given her phone-call, and now she had to wait until some council meeting or the other concluded before she could even begin to discuss access to the asylum with the former Evil Queen. Who was, to top it off, possibly the last person she wanted as a chaperone.
I even thought of an opening line.Belle closed her eyes in frustration, aware of how pathetic that would sound if she said it out loud. Even now she couldn't shake the memories of a seemingly sweet young midwife, new to Storybrooke and searching for a gift. "You must be Mrs Gold." "No, I'm uh . . . not."
A woman who had simpered and smiled at Belle, and watched her grieve, all the while keeping her True Love locked in a cage. She had seen Rumple's utter horror in New York, been witness to his terrified helplessness when confronted with his former captor. Whatever Zelena did to him . . . A sick feeling twisted in her gut.
It's Mrs Gold now. Her blue eyes opened with a blaze of determination, immediately locking onto her so recently-rescued wedding ring—the itch of its absence finally ceased. Returning to Rumple's bedside on her way out had certainly helped to calm her a little. She was determined to use the waiting time well; to fulfil another promise to him, albeit a smaller one. His bedside table was still bare: she'd vowed to not let it remain that way. And Belle knew just the place to get fresh flowers.
I need to speak to Father anyway. But, stepping out of the small room, she walked almost head-first into Doctor Whale, his clipboard thwacking into her chest, and springing back to hit his own. There was an uncomfortable pause.
Victor raised his hands, moving back to allow her to pass. "I wasn't trying anything, I promise," he joked half-heartedly, but she didn't miss the sidelong glance to her husband's bed.
Even when Rumple's in a coma, and potentially without magic, people still fear him? She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Maybe it'll keep the vengeful types away.
"It was uh, my fault as much as yours—the walls are glass, I should have been paying more attention. Sorry." Belle bit her lip. "And thanks for not holding a grudge against Rumple . . . for uh, before," she added, "You've been taking excellent care of him."
The librarian couldn't help flushing slightly, recalling how she'd watched in morbid fascination, perhaps even laughed, when Rumple had thrown Whale to the ground, and told the doctor to kiss his boot. Just for looking at her wrong. Admittedly, she had been Lacey at the time, but even in retrospect it hadn't been a gentle throw. He did all that for me, even with Neal . . .
Whale shrugged, "If I held any ill-will, I don't any more. Now I've seen the batterings he's taken, my own few bruises pale in comparison. I mean, I'm quite used to gruesome sights—admittedly I'm usually the one making the scars, bu—"
"Wait," Belle interrupted more sharply than she'd intended, "What do you mean? What . . . what batterings?"
The scientist-turned-doctor gave her a strange look, gesturing vaguely toward Mr. Gold. "Surely of all people, you'd have seen what those expensive suits cover?" But his confusion was beginning to match hers, as he grew less certain, "The old lacerations?"
Old lacerations? The phrase sounded oddly familiar, and Belle shivered, glancing back toward her husband. Something clicked when she saw him amid the hospital blankets, and her mouth fell open. No. No, surely he wouldn't have . . .
With just a few steps she was standing over him, heart pounding. I thought he just looked thinner because of the coma. Whale shifted his weight uncomfortably behind her, but she ignored him. Her hand reached out hesitantly to stroke Rumple's hair, and faltered. The gesture used to make him lean in, closing his eyes. But after the witch . . . whenever she'd reached up, he had flinched away, and then hated himself for doing so and apologised. And then flinched again. I didn't see him change clothes, in the memories. Did the doctor in Manhattan mention scars or lacerations? She'd been so focused on the relief of him surviving the heart attack that the surrounding noise had seemed like a distant blur of monitors and medical lingo.
"Show me," she murmured softly, and the doctor hesitated, glancing at the slumped form of the sheriff. "We don't have to move him, just . . . just show me what you mean. Please."
Whale reluctantly came forward, and pulled back the upper half of the sheets with a gentleness that surprised her. But when he reached to untie the strings of Rumple's hospital gown at the shoulder, the librarian changed her mind, "Actually, could you give us a minute?"
Mr. Gold was a private man, and so was Rumplestiltskin. Regardless of whether or not his heart was currently a blank page, there was no doubt that he would not want himself left vulnerable to the prying eyes of others. She swallowed. And it seems that he already has been.
Alone—but for the immobile body of David Nolan—the brunette carefully peeled back the front of the gown, exposing Rumplestiltskin's chest to the cool, air-conditioned hospital room. She didn't know when her hand had flown to her mouth, but she did hear a gasping sound, and realised belatedly that she must have made it.
She closed her eyes, but forced them open again almost immediately. A glamour. Of course he'd used a glamour to hide the extent of his suffering from her. Leaving Storybrooke would have uncloaked any magically hidden blemishes, and now having the darkness pulled from him had done the same. Oh, Rumple . . .
One or two scars she recognised; after all, one did not survive three hundred years without picking up a few souvenirs—as he'd once put it to her. Nor indeed an existence as the town pariah. But this? Her stomach churned briefly yet she didn't look away.
The scars were all different; some short and deep, more like large pockmarks or . . . or stab wounds, and others were long, tracing across from his shoulder to his sternum, and down to his waistline. Or . . . beyond. That much she didn't check—wouldn't check—here. They criss-crossed like a strange spider-web of white lines, though even now some were still pink and rubbery. It would have taken his own dagger to inflict such wounds, and Belle knew just whose hand the kris blade would have been in.
How could anyone be such a monster?
As she bent to fasten the gown, it was, rather ironically, the sight of a small, unblemished patch of skin on Rumplestiltskin's neck that made Belle freeze. Once, a seemingly insignificant little cut had resided there: a short, shallow gash that she remembered all too well. The librarian reached out a trembling hand—and his unshaven throat felt raw and warm under her fingers. I . . . I could be.
It had been a fake dagger, and it seemed that the wound had fully healed since. But fragments of their conversation still lingered in the back of her mind. "All I managed to do was abuse the dagger and take advantage of you, my True Love. I-I don't even know if I deserve to be with you anymore." "No, no, no—you were only doing what you thought was right." How easily the exchange could be reversed: their lines swapped. I had just a taste of dark magic whispering in my ear, and I—
The librarian could hear Doctor Whale approach, and she resurfaced from her thoughts with a sharp intake of air.
"How often . . . how often has he been bathed here?" she hated that her voice shook. I was here for three days. How did I not know? Unless . . .
Initially, the hospital staff had all assumed that the preservation spell would do just that—preserve him. But, on the evening that she'd finally left for the library, she'd been informed differently; it seemed that the casting of the stasis incantation was more focused on keeping him alive than on stilling the natural functions of the body. Any extra effects had faded further with each hour. But she could hardly fault the Apprentice for such prioritisation.
Whale gave a noncommittal murmur, but when he saw her determined stare he weakened, "Every other day the nurses do a sponge bath round for patients who are unable to clean themselves."
Belle choked back the emotion in her voice, and answered roughly, "From now on, I will do that duty. Every day," she promised, looking back at the lined face of her love. She barely noticed Whale nodding in consent, and leaving the room. But the promise hadn't been to him.
Having conjured a broom into the startled noblewoman's hands—the further to extend his insincere welcome—Rumplestiltskin had left a trembling Belle in the Great Hall, and sought out the solitude of his tower, with the spectral prince following close behind him.
I've been in here before, Charming mused, or at least in a similar room. He span round to take in the bookshelves, the alchemy tables and the glass cabinets, as the imp muttered to himself about barricading the West Wing.
Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it could do much worse to an overly-inquisitive maid.
David stooped to stare at a vial of gently bubbling blue liquid, which seemed to be producing an acrid smell. Last time I came here, Snow didn't believe in her own ability to lead. It took a fake sword to change her mind. He glanced back, in time to see Rumplestiltskin approaching a table, his gaze locked on a thick black journal.
His clawed fingers flicked through musty pages, filled with dates and concise descriptions of events, all written in his own neat hand. Some were carefully struck through, with a second date later inscribed. And not one of them referred to an impetuous young woman who told herself stories in the dungeons of the Dark Castle.
Perhaps a little scrying . . .
It would do well to check on the pieces currently falling into place. And if he happened to See his new maid, well then—surely the potential fates of the girl would be a useful tool for frightening her. Judging by her foolishly brave demeanour, at least one thread in her future tapestry would lead to a messy end.
Maybe even at my own hand.
He giggled a little, but it fell flat. Somehow, the idea didn't hold as much appeal as he'd expected.
The former shepherd watched carefully as, under the large window, Rumplestiltskin leant back against the stone ledge of the wall. He'd long since learnt that standing and Seeing didn't mix well, and as a sheriff David could understand the logic. There's a reason why we sit people down before we give them the bad news. He crossed his arms, curious as to exactly what 'scrying' would involve. Mirrors? Magic?
Spreading his hands above his head, the imp closed his eyes and focused his mind. David opened his mouth to speak, but before he could muster a word his own vision dimmed, and he staggered, casting out a flailing hand to the tower wall. A moment of pure darkness, and then, slowly, images bloomed into light. He felt his breath tear away in awe, as the Dark One grunted with concentration. How the hell will I describe this to Snow? Describe the impossible?
A vibrant kaleidoscope of colour—countless images moving all at once, like the reflection in a beetle's eye, or the pieces of a patchwork quilt drawing together. It was too much to take in—impossible to concentrate until suddenly the imp's fingers twitched and the colour dimmed, taking the brightness with it. Only a few pieces in the vast unfathomable puzzle remained alight.
Rumplestiltskin pulled them closer with his mind, and David could feel the sensation—as if the imp was tugging at pieces of rope, the weight at their ends surprisingly heavy. Four images. The sorcerer raised his left hand, hovering over the first as it played out. Unable to shake the strange intrusion of the pictures in his mind's eye, the prince watched in fascination.
The perspective was from the first person. Somebody was watching as a dark-haired woman stood above them, red lips pursed and cold fire in her eyes as she raised a jagged blade high into the air. The dagger? David squinted. The edges of the vision were blurred slightly, features familiar yet hard to discern.
No matter.
With an impatient gesture the image was cast away, flung back into the darkness as Rumplestiltskin's mouth turned down into a grimace. That particular vision he'd Seen before, soon after her first betrayal, and several times since. It had haunted him doggedly. But he would not allow it to shake him this time.
My ending may not be a happy one, but all that matters is what comes before it.
His right hand reached out, skimming over the second image as Charming waited in confused silence. There was a lurch as the perspective jolted forward, and when the vision moved it seemed strangely distorted. A reflection in water, David realised, as a young boy's face came into view. The child had deep brown eyes, which pooled with tears as another face appeared in the frame. Not a human face. The sheepdog leaned into the boy, licking at his tear-streaked cheeks. The lad's rough-spun clothes were covered in little clumps of sheep's wool. A shepherd boy. Like me. David smiled, his heart warming for the child, who buried his face in the soft fur even as the moving water disfigured his appearance. Rumplestiltskin snarled and the image stuttered and grew dark.
The past is of little use. It's the future I require.
Perhaps that's Neal, David mused. Those brown eyes certainly seemed familiar—reminded him of Henry. A blackened fingernail twitched, and the third image drew even closer. With a start, David recognised himself, running through a mountainous landscape. Wait a minute. Have we even met yet, Gold?
Ah. Prince Charming!
David flinched at the high-pitched squeak, the derisive emphasis Rumplestiltskin always used for Snow's term of endearment. He mocks my name even in his own head? The taller man squared his shoulders with a sigh. Why doesn't that surprise me? He watched with a strange captivation as his past self—who, it seemed, was his future self here—leapt over a rock, only for it to morph into a fallen tree as his surroundings gave way to woodland.
Regina.
The infinite forest. The former shepherd could sense the imp's intense concentration, could feel the draining of energy as he peered into days to come. When the baffled prince hit the ground the image faded.
I will find him there.
Well, I can tell you what happens next. I run in circles. And you wait until my fourth lap before you give me aid. His eyes unseeing, still filled only with the vision within the imp's mind, David shifted his weight uneasily, recalling what came after the subsequent swordplay: his own incredulous questioning of the sorcerer. "What do you know of True Love?" "Well not so much as you, perhaps—but not so little as you might think."
He felt a twinge of regret for his presumptuous words, and for the fleeting glimmer of hurt in the reptilian eyes. "You? You loved someone?" "It was . . . a brief flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness." The facade of indifference from the imp, and his own hesitation. "What happened?"
" . . . She died."
He shivered. Well, I guess I get to . . . to see the flickering of the light, at least. Here.
The ring, perhaps.
Finally, Rumplestiltskin moved his hand toward the last image. It sputtered and brightened, but the view it presented was hard to make out—stained glass windows shattering, the shadows of a large crowd, hands reaching through the broken panes. A church, perhaps, David guessed, but the imp was already banishing the image, his actions strangely listless.
It is enough.
The Dark One hesitated, his physical body still unseeing. He'd Seen what he'd intended; another piece of the upcoming romance between James' twin and Eva's daughter, though he needed to calculate how the fragment would fit with the others, and whether it would even reach realisation. So many segments of the puzzle ended up discarded: the what-could-have-beens, negated by just one altered word, a single unpredictable action. By not quite fitting, in the end. Yet, despite successfully scrying out one of his pawns, he didn't feel quite satisfied.
I can See the futures of many—watch their weaknesses, their fears, their desires play out before me.
He's trying to—what? Reassure himself?
David reached out blindly into the darkness, pushing himself away from the tower wall, his own thoughts returning to the conversation from the woods—to a confession of lost love that Rumplestiltskin was yet to make. And to Belle's own, more recent admission, at her husband's bedside. The prince cleared his throat, feeling a little odd for talking into the nothingness; though perhaps it was no stranger than talking to people who could not see him back.
"True Love, it . . . it isn't easy, Gold, if that's what you do have." David felt himself smiling slightly, more than aware of the sardonic response he'd get if the pawnbroker could hear him, "But it must be fought for."
Succumbing to an odd whim, the imp searched again. This time specifically for a certain brunette. He didn't care what happened to her, of course, but it couldn't hurt to know whether her heart gave out from scrubbing the castle's staircases, or from the damp in the kitchens. But every twitch of his fingers, every narrowing or widening of his Sight, every attempt to shift through the endless images—all of it drew a blank.
Well, deari—Belle. It seems . . .
As he waved a scaled hand—as the kaleidoscopic array of colours dissolved once more into nothingness—the biting female voice from before curled again in the imp's mind, latching onto his thoughts. But this time, it sounded almost mournful.
With you, for some reason, I have no idea.
"It matters not," Rumplestiltskin muttered at last, "She is hardly essential to my plans."
A.N. In case you didn't see my note on the previous post, many apologies for the delay with this chapter. Being away overseas and long work hours didn't help, but in all honesty I was struggling a fair bit with writer's block. Rest assured, I won't be abandoning SMAT any time soon (I'm enjoying writing it far too much), but if a chapter doesn't sit right with me I will keep changing it until I'm happy. I hope that after such an extended wait this wasn't too much of a let-down!
So, as long as the characters do as I ask, in the next chapter we should be getting a Zelena-Belle confrontation, and over in the memory-realms something is stolen from the Dark Castle. Any guesses as to what? And who do you reckon will get the upper hand: the librarian or the witch?
Please do review if you have time - and thanks so, so much for all the feedback so far - from both guests and account-holders! Huge thanks to Robin4 for reading this chapter first.
