Forty-Four
He takes the last step and he's facing a nurses' station. A laptop, a monitor for the security cameras and a coffee maker are the only items on the desk. Waldo sits in a roller chair behind the laptop, typing away. He glances up and smiles a brief greeting as the newcomers approach.
The women turn him to the left. Now he's facing—well, it looks like a studio apartment without the kitchen appliances: there's a twin bed with a yellow and blue quilt and thick pillows, a nightstand holding a framed photo of Henry and a small television, an arm chair, an ottoman and a half-sized bookcase filled with books. Paintings representing Storybrooke scenes hang on the eggshell-white wall. Against the far wall, a curtained window looks out onto the yard behind the hospital. In one corner of the room is a closet; in another, a tiny bathroom with a commode and a shower. He can see all this because the room has a large barred window facing the nurses' station.
It's. . . nice. Despite the locked door and the bars on the windows.
Something flies at the large window; hands seize the bars and attempt to rattle them. "Rumple! How kind of you to join me in our own private Hell."
Regina. He's never seen her look so unkempt. Her black blouse is ripped at the shoulder and her hair hangs lopsided. Nor has he ever seen her so colorless: too many years of wearing heavy makeup have washed out her face's natural colors, so now that she has no rouge or lipstick or mascara, she's small and faded.
"Isn't the irony just too delicious?" When he won't answer, she persists, "You do know where we are, don't you? In fact, the cell they're taking you to—guess who lived there until the curse broke? Sidney Glass. You remember Sidney, don't you? Wonder what happened to him. And my luxury condo," she waves a hand over her shoulder, "for thirty years was home to your lover. Margie, is it? Verna? Of course, it looked a lot different then. Now, we're in a damn day spa!"
The door of his new "home" stands open. The smell of fresh paint lingers, along with the overpowering stench of fairy dust. The women urge him inside, leave him standing on a colorful rag rug in the middle of the floor as Emma unlocks his handcuffs. They have him facing the closet, where his clothes already hang. Helewise, holding his arm, whispers in his ear, "Good will come of this, I promise."
Emma hooks the handcuffs onto her belt and steps into the corridor. He notices a radio on the bookcase has been turned on in preparation for his arrival: Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream is playing softly. The book he was reading back in the sheriff's office lies open on the nightstand, next to the portable tv and a framed photo of Belle.
It's worse than Wonderland. Not because there's anything wrong with the room, but because there's everything wrong with the location. This room will torture Belle for the rest of Rumplestiltskin's life.
Helewise urges him to turn around, and then she steps out, locking the door. Under the window that faces outside is his Saxony wheel.
At noon, Waldo carries down trays from the cafeteria. Today's lunch features ham and American cheese sandwiches, carrot sticks, fruit cocktail and cottage cheese.
Rumple takes a tentative bite of the sandwich. It's dry, but it stays down. He takes another bite—and immediately loses his lunch.
When Waldo comes for the dishes he clicks his tongue at the overabundance of leftovers. "Think you could keep down some Jello?"
Rumple, lying back on the bed, shakes his head.
At 3:24 Snow comes. She's carrying a basket of wool, which Waldo inspects before unlocking Rumple-Gold's cell and sliding it in to him. Snow borrows a chair from the nurses' station and sits down to chat, describing the progress being made on the remodeling of the pawnshop. "The builders have been there since noon," she explains. "I'm sure that's why Belle isn't here yet. She probably lost track of time. But I'm sure she'll be right along." Her voice trails off.
He's sitting in his arm chair, which he's drawn up to the window. He doesn't answer.
Snow changes the topic in search of anything cheerful. "Henry's Little League team won their game yesterday, three to one."
"That's great," he says.
"Charming's learning how to barbeque. You should see him. He bought this 'kiss the cook' apron and these huge tongs. The town's throwing a Fourth of July picnic this year and he swears he's going to be ready for it," she chuckles.
"Great," Rumple-Gold says again.
She decides to drop the fake cheer. "Rumplestiltskin, Emma says you were sick again today. You're nothing but skin and bones now. If Doctor Whale can't help you, don't you think we should send for a specialist from Boston, maybe?"
"I suppose so," he agrees, but in truth, he doesn't.
Before she can set a definite course for action, though, a clatter on the stairs interrupts. It won't be Belle. It can't be Belle. But he stands anyway, his hands on the bars, and listens to the female voice giving instructions as the new arrival approaches.
It isn't Belle. It's Emma, who's brought Henry and Grace over from school. At her urging they sit on the carpeted floor at Snow's feet. The barred window is long enough that they can see in. "Hey, Mr. Gold!" Henry chirps. "How's it goin'? Did Gran tell you, the Coon Cats won yesterday. Grace pitched four innings!"
"Before you give Mr. Gold the play-by-play," Emma interrupts, "I'm going upstairs to get you kids a coke. Back in a minute. Oh, by the way, since the hospital's an extra five blocks from the school, I've decided to extend visiting hour. From now on it's three to five, so the kids don't have to rush."
"Thank you, Sheriff," Rumple-Gold says, and the kids follow suit, adding their own "thank you, Sheriff"'s.
"Mr. Gold!" Grace exclaims. "Do we get the rest of the story today? You left off with King Midas turning the dragonslayer's sword into gold."
"Yes, the rest of the story," he murmurs, and he fulfills that promise, with his ear trained on the stairs. At five o'clock supper comes and the children leave, but there's no sign of Belle.
"I want a deal," Regina begs when the children are gone. He can't quite see her, only her hand, reaching out through the bars. "Rumplestiltskin, do you hear me? I want a deal."
"What do you want?" He's too tired to put up with her shenanigans.
"Henry."
"I can't do much about your custody rights, Regina. You'll have to find another attorney."
"You know that's not what I mean. When he comes back tomorrow, I want you to start talking to him about me. Your words are every bit as spellbinding as your magic. Turn his heart around, back to me."
"Regina. . . his heart was never yours."
He hears her sobbing.
That evening, he manages to keep down a bowl of vegetable beef soup. The solid foods on his plate are returned to the cafeteria untouched.
There's a commotion at the top of the stairs. He runs from his wheel to the window. He can't see anything but he can hear.
"You can do this. Hold my hand. I won't let you go. Just one step, Belle, just one." It's Hopper, in all his soothing sincerity.
And it's Belle.
Even Regina stands to listen.
"Very good, Belle! Excellent!"
Belle laughs nervously. "I did it."
"One more. Can you do one more? Just one more and that will be all for today. Tomorrow we'll try for three."
Silence, and then a shriek and a clatter. "Oh my gods, oh my gods, I can't do this," she's sobbing, and Hopper is soothing her. "It's all right, Belle. We tried too much, that's all. We'll come back tomorrow and try again."
And then silence again.
Rumple-Gold slumps into his arm chair as Regina laughs.
At 3:30 Emma arrives, this time with Henry and four other children. Henry introduces them. "They're from the Coon Cats, Mr. Gold. They want to hear about the dragonslayer."
He opens his mouth, intending to say, "Not today, Henry." But instead what comes out is "Once upon a time there was a poor young shepherd boy. . . ." His voice shakes as he spins the tale, and they think he's acting out the dragon's fear of the shepherd boy's sword. They applaud when he is finished, and Emma herds them home.
Another day passes, and still Belle does not come.
In the morning he sits listlessly at his wheel, an empty spindle in his hands; he's too tired to spin today. Bertie arrives with more oatmeal and a note tucked around a rose. "I'm sorry. I'm trying. I really am. I love you, Belle."
He folds the note and lays it on the nightstand next to his tapestry.
At 3:00 the voices issue from the top of the stairs. "One step, Belle, one step. Hold my hand."
"I did it, Dr. Hopper! I think. . . I think I can do one more. . . ."
She makes it to the third step today.
Even Regina smiles.
Belle makes it to the fifth step. Rumple-Gold hears her hoot in triumph.
Regina shouts, "Welcome back to Hell, Ms. French!"
A door slams.
In the sixth week of Rumple-Gold's incarceration, people he's never met, as well as Gold's tenants and Rumple's old clients, begin wandering in with home remedies for his ailment. Emma sniffs and pokes at the contents each jar, cup and bowl that's delivered, lest some of his old enemies might take advantage of the situation to try to poison him. As the days pass, her suspicion wanes. It rather seems, she decides, that a sort of contest has sprung up to see whose home remedy can cure the prisoner.
Nothing works.
Eventually, other children start wandering in with Henry and Grace. They want stories too. The rules place no limit on the number of visitors, so Emma permits it, as long as the kids don't get in the way of police business. It helps, perhaps, that the more kids who come to hear Rumple's stories, the more Regina seethes.
As the summer burns itself out, parents begin to show up. At first they're curious about the convict storyteller; some are concerned that he may be corrupting the youth. But one by one, several of them decide with a shrug, as long as we're here anyway—and they ask Rumple for instruction in magic.
It drains him, but he teaches them a few honest spells: spells to find lost car keys, spells to fix windows broken by errant baseballs, spells to protect themselves from their own clumsy attempts to use magic in ways they shouldn't.
He awakens to sunlight and birdsong. He stretches across the comfortable mattress, eavesdrops on the conversation Waldo is having with Regina. From his barred window he can see Waldo seated in a straight chair beside Regina's window. He can almost see bits of Regina: an elbow, a shoulder.
"The moment you ask. The very same moment."
"You'd do that. . .for me?"
"Let us do this for you, Regina. Just say the word."
"You might die."
"Maybe. But we might win."
"I'll think about it."
When he brushes his teeth, Rumple-Gold finds blood on the toothbrush. When he combs his hair, he finds a clump of hair in the teeth of the comb.
Mother Superior carries the breakfast trays down. If he didn't know better, he would think her a former waitress, the way she balances a full tray in each hand. For Regina she has an omelet and sausage; for him, dry toast and oatmeal.
She sits outside his window as he spoons up a mouthful of the oatmeal. He feels like a zoo animal on display: Rumplecillius aureus, state monster of Maine.
"It's the magic," she says abruptly. "It's killing you."
He wrinkles his nose, Rumplishly. "To be specific, it's the fairy dust. Isn't it?"
"Our magic is attacking yours in your body, like white blood cells attacking cancer cells."
"Considering it's making me sick, I'd be inclined to say your magic is the malignant one, not mine, dearie."
"I've spoken to James. We agreed that if you'll give up your magic, we'll have the fairy dust removed. You'll no longer be a threat to anyone then."
"Do you really think I'm much of a threat now?"
"You must give it up, Rumplestiltskin."
"Gladly. Let's call the dwarves back in and have them vacuum the place today."
"No, your magic. You must give up your magic, before it kills you."
He sneers, but in his present state he can't come across as convincingly warlike. "Tell me, dear, if our positions were reversed, would you give up your magic?"
"But they aren't, and you're dying, just as surely as Cora did."
"Cora was sick long before she came to Storybrooke." He pokes his spoon at a lump in the oatmeal, tries to break it up, and when it doesn't break up fast enough to suit him, he squashes it.
"You will die, Rumplestiltskin. Is your power worth your life?"
He doesn't reply.
She presses on. "You will never use your magic again. It's worthless to you."
He finds another lump to squash.
She stands, smoothing down her skirt; it's her equivalent of his catchphrase "we're done here." He can feel her eyes boring down on him, burning through his flesh. "Give it up and live. Or if you won't, then tell me how you want me to explain to Henry and Paige and Belle why you chose magic over life."
He rises and takes refuge behind his spinning wheel. She spins on her heel and walks out.
When the children have gone, their minds full of dragons and swords, Hopper comes to him. He shuffles his feet, then makes a decision. "I don't discuss my clients'. . . situations. . . with other people, not even their own family members, but I. . . .You need to know how difficult this is for her." He doesn't have to clarify that he's referring to Belle. "How very traumatized she was, here." He strikes the wall to indicate he means these cells. "It was nothing like it is now. If you could have seen it—well, I don't think Regina would be alive today if you'd seen what this place was like then. And it's not just this place. In Belle's mind, those stairs represent a return to the dungeon in Fairytale Land."
The Dark Castle's dungeon. The one Rumplestiltskin locked her in.
But no, Hopper means another. "The things Regina did to her there, or had her minions do to her," he shakes his head in disbelief. "It's hard to imagine anyone could be so cruel." Hopper sucks in a breath. "I've already said more than I should, but you need to know what she's up against and how very hard she's trying, for you."
"Is it too much?" Rumple-Gold worries. "Would it be better for her if she didn't try?"
"I don't know." Hopper runs a hand through his hair. "With a trauma this severe, maybe. But then again, if she conquers this phobia, she will be well along her way to healing. Sometimes all a therapist can do is to trust the patient to say when it's too much."
"Tell her for me—tell her whatever she needs to do, I understand. Tell her—unless you think it will put pressure on her—tell her I love her."
Hopper seems confident of this one thing. "No, it won't put pressure on her. It'll help her to hear that."
He awakes to find a streak of blood across his fluffy white pillow. His sinuses are clogged and when he showers he discovers dried blood beneath his nose.
He sits in his arm chair and dozes. He dreams that he's scrambling up the sheer face of a cliff, but his feet can find no purchase and he slides to the bottom. Over and over he tries, because Belle is waiting at the top of the cliff, huddled in her cloak, calling his name.
Waldo brings another note with breakfast. "There are ten steps. I will not stop trying until I reach the bottom. Until I reach you. Love, Belle."
Brave Belle. If she can try, so can he.
After all his books, all his experimentation, all his interviews with other practitioners of magic—he probably knows more about magic that any living being on the planet, but he has no idea how to accomplish what he's decided to do. As far as he knows, the only way to get rid of his magic is to transfer it to someone else by means of the dagger, by means of his own death, and that kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it.
The Blue Fairy has given him the impression she knows a way, but he doesn't trust her, not with this. For her, there are only two colors in the world: black and white. He needs a collaborator who thinks in Technicolor.
"Helewise," he says softly. This must be done quietly, lest Regina interrupt. If she had an inkling of what's in his mind, she'd use his weakness against him.
The messenger appears and kneels beside his chair. She's dressed not in her Storybrooke PD uniform but in her white gossamer and silk. It's her day off. "I'm here, Rumplestiltskin."
"Help me to do it?"
"Of course."
"Is there another way, besides the dagger?"
"The dagger is the way." She squeezes his hand; they both look and find blood pooling around his fingernails. "Have faith."
He swallows hard. His eyes plead with her. "Is this the only way?"
"The dagger is the way."
He nods. "There's a cabin in the woods. A river behind the cabin. A pine tree on the east bank of the river; one of the branches was hit by lightning and it's grown back deformed. Dig down about four feet at the base of that tree. It's wrapped in a kerchief."
"I know where to go." She rises, but before she can leave he grasps her hand.
"Helewise, I'm scared."
"We'll all be with you. Good will come of this, I promise."
He's so tired; he closes his eyes for a few moments. She's gone and back again so quick he doesn't have time to change his mind. She holds the kerchief in both hands. Waldo and Beretrude flank her; funny, he hadn't heard them come in. He struggles to his feet: this moment requires the dignity of standing. As he holds out his hand he notices his fingernails have started bleeding again.
Helewise lays the kerchief in his hand. He spreads it open, removes the dagger it's been protecting, discards the kerchief. The dagger is lighter than he remembered; the handle is surprisingly warm, considering where it's been buried. He turns the weapon over and over in his hands. In the old world, he had once thought it stylish, but here, where his tastes have shifted toward simplicity in design, he finds the dagger so ornate as to be tacky.
He knows he can't do it himself: he tried before, after Bae left, a dozen times before he came to understand the magic wouldn't allow him to kill himself. "You'll have to," he smiles wryly and presents the dagger to Helewise with a Rumplesque flourish. He straightens his back, squares his chest.
"Don't be afraid," she urges, then she plunges the dagger deep into his chest.
