14 May 2014

Emma leaned back in her roller chair and dropped the packet of photographs she'd been examining. This afternoon, she'd filed the report of her investigation at the farmhouse–just routine procedure, because none of her reports, nor Graham's, had ever made their way to the State, and with her mother being the mayor now, written reports weren't necessary. She wrote them for her own sake, really; following procedure gave her a false sense of security, as if there was a safety net beneath her.

She thought about refilling her coffee mug, but it was after nine o'clock and she really ought to try to get to sleep at a decent hour. Still, she couldn't help staring at those photos: the dank cellar, the kennel Gold had been locked up in for nearly a year, barely tall enough for such a short man to stand up in, the straw that had served as bed and blanket. The dog bowl the witch had served water to him in. She remembered the howls of agony that had issued from him when she and David had found him galloping through the woods, the stench of his rumpled Armani suit, the clumps in his matted hair. Far, far from the elegant Mr. Gold she'd come to know and–respect, if not love. The floating madness in his eyes.

It wasn't what he had done to Zelena that Emma was trying to figure out. However he'd managed to make it appear a suicide, it didn't matter; he'd killed the witch, all right. But what Emma was trying to figure out, as she studied these photos and tried to imagine herself trapped in that kennel for a year, was how could he have gone from that howling madman in the woods to, just a few hours after his release, his old, elegant, unflappable self?

She glared at the photo of the red dog dish labeled "RUMPLE." He couldn't have recovered so completely, so quickly. No one could.

She remembered how convincing an imitation Cora had done when she had taken on Regina's image. Was that what Gold was doing, walking around wearing a facade–a, what did the mages call it? A glamour? She wouldn't put it past him. And she understood perfectly why he'd pull such a stunt. She herself had lived under a facade, ever since Neal had betrayed her, and she'd been only a runaway, a jailbird from juvie hall. How much worse would it have been for the most powerful man in the world to have been brought to this, confined to a cage, eating out of dog dishes? A man whose motto was "perception is everything," who wouldn't be caught on the street with his pocket square crooked. A man who had a grandson and a girlfriend to protect, to shelter from the nasty details of his confinement. A man who'd been insane for a year.

That man was going to crack, all right. The pressure building up inside him had to find its release sometime. The only questions were when and who would get hurt.


It was after ten o'clock when Archie returned Regina to her home. They'd spent the day and much of the evening at the Hoffmans', going over paperwork with the CPS agent, Ms. Hall, then remaining behind after Ms. Hall left to take supper with the happy family and to see Trajan off to bed in the bunk bed he would now share with his sort-of brother Jonathan. Dragon tucked under his arm, Trajan seemed tired after his long day, but fairly content in his new home. He allowed Mrs. Hoffman to kiss him goodnight after Regina tucked him in. Just before he closed his eyes, Regina gifted him with a cell phone. "You may call me sometimes, if you like, though I suppose you'll be quite busy, with three children to play with."

"Thank you." Trajan set the phone on his nightstand, then yawned and slid down into his new sheets. He fell promptly asleep.

"Well." Regina rose from the edge of the bed and followed the Hoffmans and Archie from the bedroom. "I suppose that's that."

"He's adjusting already," said Archie. "You needn't worry, Regina."

"Of course not." Regina raised her chin.

"Feel free to call him whenever you like, or write, or Skype," Mr. Hoffman offered.

"I think we'll play it by ear," Regina answered. "Let him contact me, if he wants. If not, I'll know he's already blended in here. It's best if he forgets his short time in Storybrooke." She raised an eyebrow at Archie. "Isn't it?"

"I suppose so. He's going to be a busy boy, starting school, making new friends. Shall we go, Regina?"


As she crossed her dark lawn and entered her quiet house, Regina half-hoped that Robin and Roland had changed their minds about returning to the Merry Men's camp tonight, but a short goodnight note informed her they hadn't. Just as well, probably. She was tired. She'd pour a glass of wine, soak in a bubble bath, then go to bed. She'd see her men tomorrow.

But, wine glass in hand, she caught herself standing in the open doorway of the guest room. The twin beds in which Roland and Trajan had slept were unmade. It wouldn't take long to tidy up, but she chose not to. For tonight, she'd leave things just as they were.


The sheets were impeding her—from what, Belle didn't know, but they were holding her down, preventing escape. She kicked them away in frustration, and then the chill night air shook her awake. She sat up, shoving her hair from her face as her eyes adjusted to the absence of light.

She'd been dreaming. She could recall every detail vividly: dressed in her gold ball gown, she was kneeling in a thin bed of straw, scrambling about, searching for something. Her dream self couldn't remember what it was she'd lost, but she knew it was something vital, something that was hers alone, something no one must ever be allowed to take from her, something that she feared and abhorred but couldn't survive without. She sensed the presence of others. When she looked up, perhaps to ask for their help in recovering her precious object, she saw first that she was locked inside a cage, and that the cage was shrinking. But on the other side of the cage were three women: they would rescue her, wouldn't they? Or if they could find the precious thing for her, she could use it to free herself, she was certain. "Help me," she tried to beg, but the words became birds as soon as they left her mouth, and they flew away, through the bars of the cage.

The others stared down at her from their great height: a raven-haired, middle-aged woman in a black pantsuit; a red-haired woman with shocking green skin; and a petite, auburn-haired lady with sky-blue eyes. They began yelling at her, a cacophony of demands that made her ears bleed. She couldn't make sense of what they were shouting, let alone guess what they expected from her, but she dragged herself to her feet, brushed off her gown and stared them down. "No one," she declared, "decides my fate but me."

The three women laughed at her. "Oh, really, dearie?" they said in a single voice.

And she looked down at her hands, which should be holding her precious object but were empty. . . and the skin of the back of her hands, gray-green and dusted with gold. . . and the nails of her long, artist's fingers, grown razor sharp and black.

She knew now where her missing precious had got to. "Give it back," she whispered.

But the women just laughed, and the blue-eyed one flicked her wrist and the precious appeared in her grip. She turned its face toward Belle so she could see the name etched deep into the blade, and she giggled, "No one decides your fate but me."

And into the surface of the blade was branded her name: Rumplestiltskin.

"Not me," her dream self insisted. "I will never command you, Rumple." And her waking self unwound from the sheets carefully, unwilling to disturb her mate. She soon realized she needn't have bothered: his side of the bed was empty. She pattered across the bare floor to the bedroom that would have been Bae's; the windows there looked out over the garden. Rumple was there, of course, sitting on the trellised bench, just staring blankly, just a darker shadow in a waning mooned night, but she knew it was he.

Lately, night after night, it always was.