Thirty-Four

The Gold half of the partnership of Rumplestiltskin and Gold doesn't like the plan for today. It's far too risky, he thinks, and the odds are way up there that this will blow up in the defense's face. So Gold is a nervous wreck this morning as he tries to choke down dry toast and tea. . . but Rumplestiltskin crows like Peter Pan because what a show this is going to be!. . . if it works.

Gold (and Rumple too, admitting it or not) bears in mind that he's not alone. If You don't have my back on this one, stop me now before I bring Hell down on my head.

But no ill omen is sent. The toast does not burn, Belle is dressed and ready to go in plenty of time, the house keys are exactly where he left them last night, the car battery starts, the streets are not flooded or iced over, no one's taken his parking space at the courthouse, the courthouse is not closed for a federal holiday that's been forgotten. . . Gold can't find one lousy excuse to prevent the plan from being execu—no, don't use that word; it's bad luck—to prevent the plan from being carried out.

Still, he tries. "Plea bargain?"

Regina raises an eyebrow, detecting the anxiousness in his voice. "No."

He mumbles, "When you asked for magic lessons, I should've sent you to the fairies."

Regina shrugs. "You're Rumplestiltskin, the most powerful mage in the world—or were, once upon a time. So do something worthy of your legend." She grasps his sleeve and leans into him, hissing, "Get me out of this farce or so help me, you'll rue the day."

"You still think you can beat me, do you?" His knuckles turn white as he latches onto her grasping hand and yanks it off his sleeve.

"There's more than one way to take you down." Regina glances meaningfully at Belle, who's sitting, faithfully and peacefully, in her usual seat right behind Rumple-Gold.

"You fool. I'm the only barrier you've got left between the mob and the guillotine."

"Just remember: I've still got friends out there. If I go down, she goes down, and poor widdle Wumple will spend the west of his lonely little life alone."

"Regina, so help me, when this is over—"

"All rise!"

Maybe it's just as well the day started this way, Rumplestiltskin thinks, because now his blood's on fire and he's ready to blow the roof off this joint.

"Mr. Gold, call your next witness."

Ah, but Mr. Gold's taking a back seat on this one; it's Rumplestiltskin who stands, turns, surveys the jury, then surveys the spectators, then moves to the middle of the floor and faces the closed wooden doors and declares in Gold's voice (because the lower pitch is more authoritative): "The defense calls the being known as the Dark Star, the Black Star, the Source of All Dark Magic, and the Deceiver."

For a second the courtroom is silent and heads turn to those closed doors—which remain closed. Then the murmurs begin. . . then the titters. The judge bangs her gavel and demands silence. She believes this is possible; she knows the Deceiver exists; she grants Rumple-Gold the benefit of the doubt. But as minutes tick by and nothing happens, Rumple-Gold realizes he's going to have to get bossy. He slams his fist onto the defense table, then reaches into his breast pocket, and sunlight catches on the shiny object now in his right hand as he raises it a full arm's length in the air. For weeks afterward, the spectators will debate just what it was he raised in the air, for no one's ever seen it before; only the Blue Fairy knows for sure.

Rumple-Gold's voice reverberates: "Deceiver! The Dark One summons thee!"

And then the entire building shakes, thunder rattles the windows, and the sky outside blackens. Some of the spectators stand as if to run away, but they hastily sit back down when the heavy oak doors fly open and a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome gent of indeterminate age sweeps into the room in his Armani suit. "'Summons thee'?" His voice reverberates too. "'Summons thee'? Who do you think you are, summoning me? You're not even one of mine any more; you're nothing but a weak, puny, powerless mortal—born to crawl on his belly and beg for his supper, and then to die, amounting to nothing but food for worms."

Estrilda slips from her seat to her knees, her head bowed.

Rumple stands his ground. He lowers his dagger but keeps it in his hand, though it's no more than a security blanket: nothing known to man can kill the Deceiver. "The Dark One summons thee. Take the witness stand, Deceiver."

"You will address me properly, imp." The Deceiver points a finger at Rumple, and the latter's silk tie pulls loose from its clasp, floats up and wraps itself around Rumple's throat. For a moment he chokes, until he manages to reach past the fairy dust and pull together a weak bubble of magic. He turns the necktie into a butterfly and it drifts away. His voice remains steady. "That tie cost me eighty bucks. Take the witness stand, Lucifer."

"'Witness stand'? You're asking me, the Eternal Lord of All Evil—" the Deceiver walks up to Rumple and pokes him in the chest—"the Source of All Black Magic, I remind you—the source of your magic. You're asking me to. . . testify? Like some common. . . human?"

"While you're in this world, you will respect our laws. You will testify."

The Deceiver snorts, and then something distracts him; he sniffs and his expression changes. "So," he says in a lower voice to Rumple, "you really are one of them now. You smell like honey. Churns my stomach."

But there's more he's smelling, Rumple knows it: the aroma of magic is especially strong today: the fairies' treacle smell, Regina's ash smell. . . and the smell of freshly baked bread.

Rumple slips the dagger back into his jacket and releases his pent-up breath. "Take the witness stand or I'll ask the bailiff to escort you there."

The Deceiver saunters—his pride won't allow him to move with haste—to the witness stand. He stares at it with distain, then turns his nose up at the judge, for whichever way one prefers to perceive her, as the Blue Fairy or Mother Superior, she's his mortal enemy. He slides into the chair.

Emma makes a mouth. "I don't suppose it would do any good to swear him in."

The Deceiver grunts. "You must be joking."

Rumple-Gold pounces with his first question. "We've heard testimony that you have the ability to remove a person's soul. Can you verify this?"

"Well, of course I can take a soul! It's what I do, it's my stock-in-trade. Everybody knows that."

"Why do you take souls?"

"What is this, Vacation Bible School?" the Deceiver snorts.

"Why do you take souls?"

"To control them, 'Dark One,'" he answers slowly, as if talking to a child. "You're one piss-poor Dark One if you don't know that."

It's awfully tempting to rush this, get the Deceiver off the witness stand and out of the courthouse before he does any damage. But Gold reminds himself he's got a complicated argument to lay out; if he rushes, the whole house of cards tumbles. "How much control do you have over those whose souls you've taken?"

"Depends on how much of the soul I've taken." The Deceiver leans back in the seat and crosses his legs, cluing the audience in that he thinks he owns the room. He lets his eyes roam, and most of the spectators draw back in self-protection.

"Regina Mills is the subject of this inquiry. Is she one of yours?"

"She is indeed. I claim her proudly."

All eyes turn to Regina, who squirms and glares—but not at the Deceiver; her anger is safely trained on Rumple-Gold.

"Does she bear your mark?"

"Well, let's ask her. Stand up, Your Majesty, and show these puny humans you're a chosen one." The Deceiver swirls his finger to order Regina to turn around.

The former queen grips the edges of the defense table. Her arms shudder and her back locks as she fights the command.

"Stand up, darling; don't keep us waiting," the Deceiver's voice is smooth, but a flash of his teeth reveals his growing annoyance.

Regina's body twists and thrusts, and in the end she loses: her hands lose their grip and she rises, turns, and with a groan pulls at her collar, drawing her dress away from her left shoulder. The newly exposed shoulder blade causes quite a commotion.

"Let the record show," says the judge, "the defendant has a black star, two inches by two inches, tattooed on her left shoulder."

"Burned, not tattooed," the Deceiver corrects. "It's my brand, not some Popeye press-on." He makes a sinking gesture with his hand. "You may be seated, darling." And Regina drops back into her chair, readjusting her clothes.

"How much of her soul do you own, Lucifer?"

"My flag flies over every inch of that once-pristine real estate."

"How did you acquire it?" A splash of guilt upsets Rumple-Gold's stomach, because he knows the answer and it's no different from the way his own business has been conducted.

"Contracts, baby, contracts." The Deceiver leans toward the jury box as though he's addressing them confidentially. "This one thinks he invented the whole mercenary magic routine, but I taught him everything he knows." He snaps his fingers at Rumple-Gold. "Give your teachers some credit, you scrawny ingrate."

"Show the court the contract. . . please."

"You fool. You think you're going to find some loophole to worm Regina out of her arrangement with me, don't you?" The Deceiver barks at Rumple-Gold. "I was making contracts with pharaohs centuries before you crushed your first snail, so don't you dare think you can out-deal me, runt."

Rumple-Gold jerks in recognition of that word. For a moment he's back in Loameth, under the thumb of Eustace and Abreda, his four adopted brothers and a sister, all who called him runt and kicked his deformed leg and yanked his hair and—

Rumple-Gold begins to shake, and the Deceiver grins, and Rumple knows that this weakness places him under the demon's thumb but he can't help it; he's a pushed-around reject again, a lame, defenseless runt and—

Don't.

He hears his little sister's voice, clear as a church bell: Get up, Rumplestiltskin. Stand up. The aroma of freshly baked bread is so strong it brings him back around, and though she's locked away in Wonderland and can't reach him, he senses Helewise standing behind him.

He clears his throat. "Humor me. Show us the contract."

The Deceiver snaps his fingers and a scroll appears in mid-air. It reads itself aloud and the jury listens in slack-jawed amazement. Gold listens, analyzing every word, but of course the contract is iron-clad. Realistically, he hadn't expected to find a deux ex machina in the contract, anyway.

"Every 't' crossed, every 'i' dotted; I even had two witnesses. Oh, and I could see you counting on your fingers: the date the contract was signed was two days after Regina's twenty-first birthday. You won't find a single slip in this document."

"A perfect contract," Rumple-Gold acknowledges. "So you own her soul outright, now and for all time, in return for magic that exceeded her mother's powers by double."

"The most powerful sorceress in the world—at the time." The Deceiver tosses his hand dismissively in Regina's direction. "Of course, that's all over now, but you can't blame me for it: you cast that curse of your own free will, darling, and in full knowledge of what you were giving up. I kept my end of the deal, and I was quite satisfied with the way you carried out yours. And I'd be glad to take you out of this hell-hole. Just say the word and we're out of here, darling child."

Regina is thinking it over.

"Surely you're bored with this lifeless existence. You've played cat-and-mouse with Snow White long enough, Regina. Stop wasting your time and talents on her; I have much bigger game waiting for you." He really is a charmer. The way he smiles and widens his eyes, one would think he cared deeply for his subjects, Rumple thinks, then corrects himself: for his slaves.

But Rumple-Gold has a card up his sleeve too, so he pulls it. He turns to Regina. "Don't forget Henry."

Regina scowls and stares at the table.

Rumple-Gold must get this argument back on track. "So you own Regina's soul lock, stock and barrel, and have for one hundred and fifty years. But she's an independent contractor, isn't she? I mean, she's retained her free will, right?"

The Deceiver snorts. "There's not a single damn thing she's done since she was twenty-one years old that I didn't pre-approve."

Rumple-Gold freezes in mid-step. "Say that again, please."

"You heard me."

"Well, all the evil she's done—all the brilliant schemes that led to suffering on an unprecedented scale—that's all her, isn't it? Her ideas, her implementation. She's the one who deserves all the credit."

"Like hell!" the demon explodes. "It's mine! My ideas, my leadership! You think she could've carried out any of it by herself? She's got the imagination of a gnat and the patience of a hornet. Oh, here and there, I let her do her own thing, but all the big stuff—the murders, the wars, the blackmailings and double-crossings—" he leans forward and grins nastily at his questioner—"the kidnappings and torture—yes—snatching Belle right from under your nose, starving and whipping her—and the psychological torture—that was mine! Me! The credit belongs to me! Just a little payback for your betrayal, 'Dark One.'"

Rumple-Gold starts to shake again; his hands clench and he starts forward. Every revenge fantasy he's ever had against Regina for her torture of Belle floods over him now and in another breath he will leap, thrust his hands around the demon's throat and dig his fingers in and squeeze until the life oozes out of that grinning bastard.

Except. . .there is no life in that grinning bastard. Never has been. He's a walking dead and his fate was written long before he even set foot on the earth.

Rumple-Gold draws in a calming breath and resumes his questioning. "Your ideas, your leadership behind every act of evil Regina Mills has ever done. But she was an adult when she signed that contract. She had a conscience; she could have refused at any time to do your bidding, if she thought it was wrong."

"The conscience goes with the soul, you know that—dearie."

"Are you saying Regina has no conscience?"

The demon smirks. "I suppose you could say she has one of sorts—mine. I tell her what's right and what's wrong, as I do for all my children." He winks at Rumple-Gold. "As I did for you once, my child, until you stopped listening." When Rumple doesn't react, he presses, "Did you ever wonder who your father was, Rumplestiltskin? Ever notice how much alike we are. . . son?"

In two strides Rumple-Gold has planted himself within arm's length of the demon's throat. He plants his hands on the arms of the witness chair. "Give it back. Give Regina's soul back."

The Deceiver bursts out in laughter, and the air in the courtroom suddenly grows cold. He hoots long and loud, wiping his eyes with his silk handkerchief. Rumple-Gold doesn't budge during this outburst, so when the demon has concluded his giggle fit, Rumple persists. "Give it back."

"Oh, I'm sorry: you were serious?" The Deceiver folds his hands together. "All right, let me hear your offer."

"Give it back."

The Deceiver prompts, "And? What do I get out of it?"

"Give it back."

"You're getting monotonous, son. Make your offer. Bear in mind that soul's still a nice piece of real estate; your offer had better be good."

"Give it back."

"I'll save us both some time. The only offer I'll entertain is your soul is exchange for hers." The Deceiver sits back in triumph.

"Give it back."

"Chickening out, Rumple? You won't trade?" The Deceiver rises. "You bore me, imp." He flicks his wrist and a burst of lightning emerges from his fingertips, striking Rumple and sending him flying backwards, hitting his head against the prosecution's table. As Charming leans down to assist Rumple, Emma draws her weapon and aims it at the Deceiver's chest. "You're under arrest," she says in a shaky voice.

The Deceiver flicks his wrist at her too and she lands on top of Belle, spilling her to the floor.

Rumple allows Charming to lift him to his feet. He's woozy but the scent of fresh bread helps clear his head, and when he glances to his right he finds the Bread Man is standing there, and in the jury box Beretrude is standing, and behind Rumple in the spectator seats five other people are standing, their eyes fixed on the Deceiver. The devil's eyes flick from one face to another. "Smells like a damn bakery in here." He gives Rumple-Gold a final hard stare. "We're not done by any means, imp." With a snap of his fingers he vanishes.

A collective sigh of relief ripples through the courtroom. As Rumple, staggering a little under a bout of dizziness, rushes to Belle, Mother Superior calls for a recess.

In all the confusion, Regina is ignored. She sits quietly smiling.