Love Lingers, Lost
A Once Upon A Time Tale

A.N: If you're getting a notification about a new chapter...this one! Then I highly recommend going back to the prologue, I had to make some changes... Also, I've had a LOT of thought go into this story. Hopefully you will all see that in my writing, I know it's not as good as Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz's delicious stuff, but this is my best plotting as of yet... Go on... you know you want to guess who Gwen really is... ;)

Chapter One
[Happily Ever After: 266 years prior to Curse]

Once upon a time, in a small village on the edge of the Enchanted Forest, the sun slowly rose over the Eastern Horizon. In the middle of the village, there sat a modest hut with a thatched roof. A small chicken coop had been built up against this modest hut; where clucking hens and a protective cockerel stretched their legs in the ethereal morning light. As this world sluggishly woke to face the chores of the day, a horse—in a lean-to around the back of this shack—peaked out of his stall to quietly observe passerby's.

The routine crowing was more than enough to wake Gwendolyn—serving as sudden reminder to the start of her own daily schedule. With a yawn, she pulled her arms up over her head, resting her palms against the lids of her eyes as she arched. The damned bed never ceased to rob her of a decent night's sleep. Groaning at her sore back, she took the spare moment to breathe in the familiar scent of her father's stone hut: straw, the faint linger of smoke, and the hint of freshly butchered chicken.

Entwined with the comforting smell of home, Gwen noted that the morning air was also damp; tell-tale signs of rainfall sometime during the night. As she ran her fingers atop the wool covers and her pillow, checking for any indications that the roof above her bed had leaked, she allowed herself a smile. Her father's patchwork last spring seemed to be holding up. That, at least, would be a positive sign to her day.

Once she was content with the dry bedding, Gwen fumbled around the edge of the bedframe for her walking stick. It was a thin piece of oak, not intended to bear significant weight. When the neatly carved rod was firmly in her hands, she slid her feet over the straw mattress. Reluctant to begin her day, Gwen calmed her thoughts and imagined her father sitting at the stove cooking breakfast: but only a pang of sadness—not reassurance—crept over her skin. Her cold bare toes curled reflexively in the cold dirt. Lingering in the past would cause nothing but agony, Gwendolyn decided, brushing away the harrowing thoughts and forcing herself to stand. Using the stick for guidance around the long-ago memorized house, she quickly found fresh clothes and shoes for herself.

Gwendolyn pushed open the door to the hut and did not conceal a grin when the sun's rays kissed her face. She reached up to comb her fingers through her hair, moving the long locks over one shoulder. From her spot here in the crooked doorframe she could hear the normal rustle and bustle of the small village, and the pitter-patter of the hungry chickens nearby. Young children ran and played in the livestock fields to her left, while their parents went about business as usual—tending to their gardens, shearing sheep, milking cattle, baking bread—

"Mornin' Gwen!"

A cart and horse had begun to pass on the dirt path in front of her house, probably on their way to the market; Gwen recognized the voice that had called out to her, for the man had been a long-time family friend. "Good morning, Lysander." She returned, nodding in his direction.

"I'm heading into town." He called from the seat of his cart; pulling his horse to a stop and turning in his seat to better address her. "I was hoping you'd barter some eggs with me when I returned?"

Gwen smiled, taking her stick and slowly moving towards him. He was only a several feet away, as she gathered from the strong scent of his horse. When her stick hit the solid wheel of his wagon, she reached her hand up and rested it on the edge of the wooden bench. "You know my price." She winked, playfully.

"You and your cheese." Lysander laughed, patting her hand. His palms were dry and rough from working in the fields all his life. "I suppose I can manage to bring you back a few loafs, my love." He snapped the leather reins, urging his horse forward, but watching carefully to make sure Gwen stepped back. The last thing he wanted to do was run the poor girl over.

Her smile continued to caress her cheeks. Since her father had passed, she had hardly made her own way to the market to trade goods. She was ever thankful for those in the village who were willing to bring her provisions—or in this case, cater to her cravings. On that thought; "The sharp cheddar!" Gwen called after him, before he drove off too far. "Don't let them talk you into the shite from Jotunheim, again!"

She heard the man laugh, but his cart continued onward down the long road.

"Giants just can't make decent cheese." Gwen muttered to herself, tapping her stick gently against the ground.

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Holding the heavy cloth bag close to her body with one arm, Gwen took carefully counted steps down the worn path through the village. The sun was beating down today, and her thick skirt provided her legs with little comfort or draft from the heat. She had loosened the top button on her blouse while rummaging through her small chicken coup, and though she was wary of the amount of collarbone showing, it was much too warm to fret over modesty.

A child–with the shrill voice and the distinctive fluttering skirt of a girl–ran past Gwen, nearly knocking the walking stick from her hand. Arm tightening around the bag at her chest in refusal to drop what she was carrying, Gwendolyn steadied herself. She did not chide the oblivious girl; though the thought crossed her mind.

"Baelfire!" The young girl laughed heartedly, skidding to a stop in the dirt. "Come and play!"

After gathering her bearings, Gwen moseyed those few meters forward, not needing to finish counting her steps as the young girl had addressed the very house Gwen was making her way to.

"I can't." Baelfire's voice was easily discernible. As she moved nearer, she could hear something soft rustling in his lap; most likely he was stuffing freshly sheared wool into a bag. In all her years, she'd never considered the boy anything but sweet, and seemingly above his age in many aspects—fairly like his late mother.
"I'm helping father." He whispered, clearly worried that Rumpelstiltskin might overhear; Gwen had known that the two had struggled since the abduction of Baelfire's mother, and he was doing all that he could to aid his father in the chores that sustained them.

"You're always working." The young girl pouted, scooting to the blind woman beside her. She allowed Gwen to pat her on the top of the head, and looked up—with undoubtedly pleading eyes, wishing for Gwen to express similar sympathies. Despite her efforts, Gwen did not offer her own thoughts on the matter.

Baelfire muttered under his breath something that the young child did not catch; and something that Gwen did not intend to repeat.

"Go on," Gwendolyn shooed quietly to the girl; listening for the tiny feet to scurry off before placing the butt of her walking stick atop her own boot. She rubbed her cheek against the smooth wood and smiled in Baelfire's direction. The young girl had been right; Rumpelstiltskin should demand his son partake in more childlike activities. However, she of all people understood what it was like to struggle jointly with grief and financial stability. "Is your father in?" Gwen addressed to Bae.

She could hear Baelfire set aside what was in his lap and stand from the seat he'd been resting on. "Yeah, he's spinning inside." He replied, "Want me to fetch him?"

Gwen shook her head and held out the bag she'd been holding. "Actually," she told him, as he came forward to take the satchel from her. "If I'm not intruding, I'd very much like to speak with him." The large eggs in the bag rattled as Baelfire tucked them under his arm. "Would you walk me in?"

"Sure." Baelfire answered, more cheerfully.

His long hair brushed the top of her shoulder as he took her arm. The boy was getting tall; in fact, his fourteenth birthday was readily approaching within the next few weeks. She fought to refrain from furrowing her eyebrows; the soldiers would come for him soon, to join in the fight against the Ogres. Gwen dreaded that day just as much as Baelfire's father.

Ignorant of Gwen's innate sentiments toward his family, Baelfire slowly helped her into his house, careful to remind her about the slight upheaval of the threshold. Gwen had tripped over it once before; and Baelfire had never heard the end of it from his father. "Papa!" He called, carefully leading the blind woman into their cramped living area. "Gwen has brought us fresh eggs!"

"What a wonderful surprise." Rumpelstiltskin voiced from the other side of the room. He stood stiffly from his wheel and limped over, his own cane scraping on the dirt floor. Gwen could hear the smile in his words, and feel the warmth of sincerity when he took her hand to relieve Baelfire to tend to the satchel under his arm. "To what do we owe this kindness?"

As she suspected, he'd realized that her weekly barter with him was early. "I was hoping I could have a moment of your time?" Gwen tossed him a smile, indulging in the familiar smell that wafted from him and from his house: loose wool, forest, baked apples and smoldering wood.

"Of course." Rumpelstiltskin didn't hesitate to gently lead her off to the left. "Please, sit." He requested, after a short moment. His strong accent never failed to charm her, and she had always wondered if his parents had immigrated down from the North.

Gwen's hand snuck behind her to feel for the chair that he'd implied was there. Once her palm touched the smooth wood of a stool, she slowly lowered herself to it. "Thank you."

It sounded like Rumpelstiltskin was dragging something close; likely another stool. "I can give you a spool of wool—" she heard his clothing ruffle as he sat across from her. He sniffled, probably from a recovering cold.

She frowned, chewing on her lip: it bothered her that he was so business-like to her, even in the confines of his own home.
Her mannerism must have been enough to cause him pause, for he didn't finish his offer. "I'm leaving in a few days." Gwen told him, fiddling with the walking stick she'd drawn up across her lap. The idea to venture off had struck her several weeks ago, but she had not voiced her plans to anyone until now.

Rumpelstiltskin was silent for a long while, and then he sighed, rubbing at his bad leg. "Where?"

It was a fair enough question, but Gwen felt guilty about her reasons for departing. "If you can care for my chickens," Gwen replied, dodging his inquiry. "Any eggs they lay while I am away are yours. I've allocated a few to Lysander, but I promise those damn things will give you more eggs than you'll know what to do with—"

"Gwen!" He reached out to cup her shoulder, stopping her rant. "I will care for your chickens." Rumpelstiltskin let out a breathy laugh, his hand rubbing down her arm. "Just tell me; where are you going to go?"

Gwendolyn wetted her lips, nervously; she had known Rumpelstiltskin for many years, so the concern was not unwarranted, and yet she found it so hard to explain matters very close to her heart. "The Western realms." She answered, after a quiet reflection.

For years, Gwen's father spoke of a man in the West that had unmatched powers of sorcery. This man, her father had told her, had the power to allow her sight. Though Gwen had been born blind, and had been mostly able to care for herself, it had proved to be a burden on her family. No man of merit wanted a wife that could not alone take care of her children and household—no man was willing to pay a significant dowry to her family in exchange for her hand. And naturally, because of her lack of sight, Gwen—unlike Rumpelstiltskin— was not asked to part-take in the Ogre wars when the villagers had been drafted. However, despite the everyday inconveniences, Gwen had no desire to see—not until the Duke demanded children fight in the Ogre wars.

She had grown up with Rumpelstiltskin, played in the same fields, attended his wedding to Milah and the birth of their child. Not only did Gwen owe Rumpelstiltskin for his friendship in spite of her handicap, but Baelfire was the closest thing she had to a child of her own. And this ability to see might yet allow her to save him from fighting—and undoubtly dying—in the wars.

Rumpelstiltskin withdrew his hand, his lips parting, but before he could say what was on his mind, Gwen interrupted his train of thought.

"My father's horse knows the merchant trails by heart." She explained, agitated and rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand: Gwen was well aware of her disability and its limitations, but rarely did that stop her once an idea took hold. "I have a plan—"

She heard him draw an exasperated breath of air, "Those roads are dangerous." He warned, his voice low. "The wars are raging too near them—"

"I know." Gwen whispered, jadedly. Despite knowing that he did not return whatever affections she had once attempted to voice in the past, there was a part of her heart that tightened when he showed his concerns. It would have been so very tempting to believe that he had a genuine worry for her. "If I don't return, the chickens are yours to do with as you please—"

"If you don't return?!" Rumpelstiltskin repeated, brashly. Then, quieter, he continued as if he'd leaned forward near her. Suddenly a different kind of unease lined his words; "When did you start speaking that way?"

The air was beginning to thicken between them. Deep seated emotions threatened to bubble to the surface, but—like countless times before—Gwen forced them down into the pit of her stomach. She hadn't really meant for her words to seem dark, but the best case scenario did not involve Gwen returning home to stay. "I promise you'll at least hear from me in two weeks' time." She told him finally, unwilling to unearth old wounds.

An awkward silence fell over them, and Rumpelstiltskin cleared this throat. She heard his nails gently scratch against his skull, as if he was running a hand through his hair. Gwen was about to rise from her seat when Rumpelstiltskin shifted. "Bae's birthday is nearing." Gwen caught the waver in his voice; he knew he did not have to remind her of that fact. She had been involved in their lives far too long to forget. A small part of her could not help but wonder if that was his way of saying: I cannot risk losing both of you.

Her restless fingers abandoning the stick on her lap, her feet balanced her on the edge of her chair as she scooted forward, their knees lightly grazing. Judging by the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body, Gwen allowed her hesitant hands to find his careworn face. As she did so, his soft hair caressed her wrist and tickled the back of her hand. It had been awhile since her fingers had last traced out his facial contours, and though he had a few extra worry lines around his eyes, her memory of him had not changed. Gwendolyn held him and offered a comforting smile.
"You must trust me." She whispered with confidence. "We won't let them take Baelfire."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his lips twitching to form a half-smile.

"One more thing." Gwen smirked.

He made a noise in his throat. "Hmm."

She breathed him in deeply before dropping her hands from his warm cheeks and shifting herself back into her chair. "In exchange for eggs, Lysander's bringing me back cheddar from the market. Don't. Eat. It." She scolded playfully, delivering a modest poke to his chest with her walking stick.

"I wouldn't dare!" His homely, breathy laugh would remain steadfast in the back of her mind, for the rest of Gwen's days.