I held back in updating for two very good reasons: A) because 37 took so long to just show up. It's very frustrating. The site has been wonky lately-multiple people's stories have been technically uploaded, "show up," but they're impossible to access. B) It is the eve of spring break, and I had an Anatomy test, an Advanced Algebra test, a sculpture, and a massive research paper to study for/work on.

If you're bored and missing me, however...I've got about 6 one-shots, three more on the way, on my page. Most are Rumpel/Belle, some involve Regina, and I want to install a Snow White short soon. Check 'em if you're interested. Also, remember that there are a lot of budding stories on the site that need some love. This last week alone I've found some lovely ones. And, finally, as always, I encourage you to join the FB fan group. They're an awesome collection of folks. We're thinking about getting t-shirts, which would be the coolest thing ever!

On a different note, Robert Carlyle responded to one of my tweets this week. That is all.

And one last thing-if you are a Tumblr addict, check out my blog, listed on my account page. I've been vacant recently, but once school slows down I will be back up and running. I may even take one shot or drabble requests.

Okay, I feel a though I need to outline the types of dreams Ophie is having, as they're becoming muddled even to me:

Visits with the imp. Ophelia is in her Storybrooke-mind, not recognizing Rumple.

Flashbacks. Ophelia is still in her Storybrooke-mind, but is seeing past events through her pre-curse POV.

-XXX-

Everyone is laughing and dancing. The entire scene is one of merriment. Even I, the bookish youngest daughter, have been pulled into the circle of firelight to enjoy the setting. My sisters have both found partners who are all too willing to sweep them into a dance. A loud fiddle, flutes, and a crude drum sound out a traditional reel. The twists and turns of the dancers in the center of our village green delight me. Tonight, all of the village has turned out in their best, their brightest. Gwen, who calls village dances "quaint" but clearly loves them more than court balls, wears one of her looser gowns, something old, but a bright yellow that sets off her dark hair nicely. Christian looks splendid in his trim vest and fawn-coloured breeches. My father claps beside me, beaming. Mother has her arm tucked into his. I suspect that they will soon be with the others.

I'm not a dancer, so I hang back, letting the fire warm my face, listening to the music and the murmur of good-natured voices. It's the spring solstice, so the temperature is still a little nippy. Hugging myself, I rub my arms.

Mother and Drouina insisted that I wear something nicer. Of course, most nice things are made for formal events, things that take place indoors, so the fabric of my red dress is rather thin. I'd much prefer wearing my blue homespun day dress, the one worn on less formal trips to court, or to the summer fairs by the lake. But no, Drouina had produced this from her trunk: another court-lady's cast-off. She was, Drouina proclaimed, just my size. Which is most likely the reason why my sister didn't keep this dress for herself.

It is fine, much finer than most of my simple clothes. The fabric is smooth—a linen of a quality that I have only seen used in covering books—and sheer. The sleeves flare out nicely, allowing me to hide my hands. The skirt is wider than I am used to, causing me to trip, which is a normal thing; I am quite clumsy. The chest, however, is a little tight (the court lady being less endowed than myself), as is the waist. Mother says this is perfectly fine. It makes me look trim.

The night moves on. I find myself dissatisfied with my lack of company, and move toward the outer rim of the crowd. Dances, I muse, really serve to remind you how many people occupy the village. It's easy to forget there are upwards of three hundred people there. Especially when you're so often without companionship.

I'm at a point on the edge where there are only three or so layers of bodies separating me from the dancers when my elbow is caught in an icy grip. Pivoting to see my groper, I find my waist is next to be captured, and I'm being snatched, pulled toward the dancing. At first, I think perhaps it is Rich or Gerard, being "good" brothers. But then I realize that the build of my partner is far too short, too small, too slim. I make to shriek, but find that my mouth has a great deal of trouble opening.

Yellowed teeth flash in the firelight, and I realize whose pebbled, narrow face I am staring into. My imp squeezes my waist, tugging me closer. One hand slides from my elbow to my wrist. "Dance with me?"

Looking into the faces of the townsfolk, they clearly are missing Rumplestilskin's odd figure. He's done some sort of enchantment to cast their eyes away. He could do anything to me right now, and nobody would be the wiser.

But looking into those unnaturally large pupils, I know he's not going to do anything like that. Not tonight.

His mood swells with gladness. For some reason, the imp is miles of happy. I wait for him to speak as he leads me though a mad, fast series of twists and twirls. But nothing is forthcoming. Instead, he chants in time with the music. His voice rises and falls, and when he senses me watching him, he begins to play on silly voices. I laugh.

When we've gone through four songs, he slows the pace. I take this as an invitation to speak.

"Why have you come?" I refrain from any scolding, just using a tone of mild curiosity. Truly, his coming doesn't bother me a bit.

"It's the solstice," he says simply. "And who doesn't love a good country dance?"

I peer at him. The flickering light of a dying fire casts a shadow over his angular face, and I'm forced to tilt my head. "I don't, usually."

"But tonight?"

No answer. Instead, I slide my hands from his shoulders, running them down the length of his arms, over the curious leather jacket, till I'm at his wrists. We're standing in the middle of the dancers, but they all manage to circumvent us easily enough, so I make no hurry to move. Rumplestilskin blinks, as though trying to discern my expression.

"Come," he says, and I find my wrists seized in his long fingers and he's pulling me away from the crowd, away from the lights, away from the village, into the forest. For some time he leads me.

Wrists have always been sensitive areas to me. They're easily broken, delicate. People use them when tying up criminals, slaves, or captives. Blood pulses on that spot, and the slim features allow for a person, just the right person, to take you by them and carry you away. Under his grip, they arch and bow. When we stop, he traces the blue veins with his rough thumbs. We're deep enough in so that I can faintly hear the sounds of the dance, but the lights are blind to me. I can only just make out the curve of his face in the gloom.

"How long as it been?" he asks.

Since what? I want to know.

This time he's the one who doesn't answer.

-XXX-

Gold

My tale did not appear to strike her in any way. She found it to be a lovely trifle, something that I shared with her for the sake of sharing. A piece of my made-up cultural past. A pretty, sad story. Nothing broke through. Not a memory, not a name. As we walked up the stairs that evening, I clenched my fist in my pocket, tightly gripped the gold top of my cane, and quietly raged as she bathed. She fell into sleep quickly, but I remained awake. Were it not for the pain in my leg, I would have paced the night away; however, I was forced to resign myself to twisting my fingers and staring at the ceiling.

The dreams, the stories—nothing was breaking through. If anything, they were sending her to a bad place. She's gotten better, over the last several months, now that the dreams have died down, but who knew how long that was to last? Her mind is at war with her sensibilities. I fear one will ultimately be the victor, rather than both coexisting. Which would ultimately destroy…everything.

-XXX-

Ophelia

I wake from the dream in one start, my body thrust upwards from the mattress. But I don't scream. No, this time, I gasp loudly. Oh, oh, my. The entire room spins. I sit up, throwing back the duvet. Pillows litter the floor. The scene is set.

In a single beat, as always, Gold is up too. He doesn't bother in attempting to assess the situation; he knows what is at hand. Hands find their way to my temples, pushing back my hair as I retch silently. My lungs and throat are screaming. Gold continues rubbing my forehead and scalp until the heaving stops. Then, he leans over to the bedside table, taking up the water carafe and pouring me a drink into the cut crystal cup. At first I shake my head violently. But he forces the cup into my hands, making me drink. After one long draft, I lower the cup, breathless. Gold shakes his head. Filling the glass again, he aids me in lifting the glass, taking up my hair again.

When the water is gone this time, I sit, shuddering in the middle of the bed. For a time, we sit apart, cautious. Though distressed, I am not crazed—merely tired, and frightened. But this is routine. We'll both be fine in a moment.

Years from now, when we're older, I wonder if perhaps my merciless night terrors might lead my partner to have a heart attack, or something of that nature. It's not a pleasant thought.

"What was it tonight?" he asks wearily, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"A dance," I whisper. "In the village."

"Right." Gold pauses. "Was he there, my dear?"

"As always."

"As always," he echoes softly.

I'm tired. "Let's discuss it in the morning."

We both know we're not going to bring it up again, not tomorrow morning, not ever. These dreams are not breakfast-table topics. Nor will they ever be. We both can concur on that point.

My partner grunts. The covers are pulled up once more. Without a word, I curl against him. Gold leans over to flick off the lamp. The light now extinguished, our breathing slows and we quiet all motions. I snuggle closer. My eyes fall shut heavily. I don't bother in opening them again until morning.

-XXX-

Review, please, my lovelies. Last chapter's reaction was sad, and I hope you guys have something to say about this one. Anything. Seriously.