Love Lingers, Lost
A One Upon a Time FairyTale

Chapter Two
[Happily Ever After-266 years prior to Curse]
Three Weeks Later

Gwendolyn crouched at the stream, stretching her sore legs. The constant rush of water should have been comforting. But her chest felt tight, and she clawed at the broach holding her cloak around her neck. It had been a long ride home, despite driving her poor horse to his limits. Her fathers' horse wasn't built to run great distances—he was a Draft horse—but Gwen had no choice. The allotted time she was going to spend in the West turned out not to be enough. And now, because of that, Gwen was running far behind schedule.
Her lips quivered and she dipped her hands into the cold water, her frizzy hair falling over her shoulders. Wet fingers caressing her hot cheeks, she stood.

Baelfire's birthday had passed, two days ago.

Gwen let her hands trail down to her throat, where a knot was beginning to form. She had been unable procure the name and location of the man who could restore her sight and thusly fulfill her plan ensure Baelfire's safety. Of course, Gwen's ears undoubtedly caught the whispered rumors of a 'dark one' that held powers beyond any mortal, but there was not a single person that could aid her search further.

The smooth stones of the riverbank clattered under the hooves of her father's horse. He had meandered along beside her, leaning his great head down to lap at the cool, refreshing water. Drinking his fill, he snorted and shook out his sweaty mane; his bridle clanking with the movement.

"Just a bit further." She promised him, tying back her hair with a thin leather strap that had presided around her wrist. He turned his head to her, pressing his nose into her chest, his lips still dripping with water. Gwen knew he was exhausted. The village was not far now, perhaps a little under five miles, judging by her memory.

A part of her warned her that returning home would only cause heartbreak; knowing that little Baelfire would likely not survive to see her again. It seemed terribly cowardly to forsake her promise to return, though. Rumpelstiltskin needed her friendship and comfort, no matter how dreadfully powerful the flight tempted her.

Angrily wiping the tears that were building in her eyes, Gwen mounted her horse. Once in the saddle, her thighs protested, and she roughly rubbed her palms against them in attempt to relieve the sore muscles. She could not help but feel that Baelfire's fate had been placed in her hands, and that she had let it fall through her fingers. Rumpelstiltskin had trusted her. And she'd failed.

"Let's go home." She whispered, giving the reins a firm tug, leading him away from the stream. His hooves were loud against the stones before he hiked up the slight incline to the side of the dirt trail. Gwendolyn urged him into a trot; and he did his best, despite the exhaustion.

The jostling forced her to stand in the saddle, and she tried to enjoy the smell and sounds of the forest around her: Birds chirping happily in the late afternoon sky, a breeze swirling around in the leaves overhead, the creaking of tree trunks, and the steady four-step beat of the horse's gait beneath her. It was a welcome peace to the recent looped pattern of her self-deprecating thoughts.

The air suddenly turned much warmer as she rode out of the shadowy comfort of overhanging trees. However, as the sun kissed her face, a discomforting smell reached her. The forest must have masked it, but out in the open the scent was unmistakable: smoke.

Gwen knew in her heart that the village was within sight. A sense of fear struck her, and she wished that for just a moment, she could be able to discern from whence it came.
She pulled her horse to a skidding stop. He opposed the sudden command, lifting his head with endeavors to wrench the reins from her grasp. But with gentle cooing from Gwen, he ultimately stood pawing at the ground, breathing through his nose to try to catch his breath.

The smoke that had reached her nose was not simply wood from a few contained fires; it was much stronger. Straw and flesh and wood and crops. No matter which direction she turned her nose, the stench rolled in thick layers atop the air. The wind could have carried it for miles from the neighboring village, Gwen pondered nervously, perhaps…

An infallible, leisurely clicking of leather boots on the empty trail directly ahead caught Gwen's ears: she twisted, perking up in the saddle to listen.

Her father's horse began side-stepping—unnerved by the oncoming stranger—but Gwen tightened her hold on his reigns and steadied him. "Hello?" Gwen called out. It wasn't the first time she'd not detected the presence of a person, and it definitely would not be the last. This person nearing her, Gwen concluded, must have at least hiked through her town. "The smell of smoke, pray tell; is it coming from the village up the road?"

The footsteps slowed. Turning her ear slightly towards the stranger, she expected them to reply to her calls: they did not.

Without ample warning, her horse reared up, whinnying in fright and striking out with his front legs. Her sore thighs did not have time to tighten their grip about his ribs, and the reins slid from her flailing hands as she tumbled backwards. Gwen cried out as she felt her back crash to the hard ground but as her head whipped against something solid; her world was thrust into silence.

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Her head was pounding unmercifully. While the world around Gwen slowly began to reappear, the sound of crickets singing grew in her ears. The left half of her body was warm; a crackling fire nearby surely responsible. While trying to rationalize what had happened, it occurred to Gwen that she was not in the spot she'd fallen. Gwen squeezed the soft moss beneath her fingers; where there should have been dry dirt. The forest once again reverberated around her. She had been moved. Gwen could hear her own heartbeat increase through her throbbing headache, and fear coursed through her suddenly cold veins.

"Ahh…" A playful male voice cooed. "The rider awakens."

Gwen pushed herself up onto her elbows, almost immediately regretting it after her head began to spin almost uncontrollably. "Who are you?" She choked out, her voice dry and hoarse.

"A friend." The man replied, a clear grin in his words. Gwen, however, did not recognize his voice. He had a confidently deep toned voice, and a slight accent, similar to Rumpelstiltskin's—probably obtained from spending a liberal amount of time in the North, as well.

Gwen's own train of thought brought back exactly what had happened with her horse, and the agony associated with her journey home. "I really should be getting back to my village." She told him firmly, wetting her lips and sluggishly sitting up. The spiraling sensation increased; nausea washing over her. Gwen let out a groan, reaching up to grasp her head. There was a tender lump in the back under her tangled hair. With the fall, she must have smacked her head fairly hard.

His clothing rustled as he moved closer… or shifted. With all the spinning, it was reasonably difficult for her to pin-point his movements. Cold metal touched her knuckles, reflexively Gwen recoiled. However, when the man pushed it against her hand once more and made a noise in the back of his throat, she explored the object with her fingers: a flask. Graciously twisting open the lid, Gwen wafted the bottle under her nose. It was definitely not water. But her mouth was parched and dry.

Gwen coughed as the liquid burned down her throat. She held the flask away from her until the man plucked it from her.

"Your village is no more." He whispered, harshly.

Her back was cooling from loss of contact with the warm moss, and the fire no longer felt as warm as when she had awoken. As Gwen digested his words, the memory of the stale smoke still lingered in her throat and nose. She took a deep breath of the refreshing forest air before replying. "What do you mean?"

"It's been consumed by the wars, dearie."

Her cloak once again was too tight, Gwen pulled at the broach, unhooking it and gathering the cloth bundle into her arms. She sat it in her lap and played with the seams. Had she not dawdled behind in the West, Gwen might have at least gotten to hold the two men that she had left in her life, one last time. "Were there survivors?" She asked after a moment, fearing the answer.

She heard him take a swig of the alcohol. "Eh, several." Gwen felt him scrutinize her. "What's it to you?"

Rumpelstiltskin had a bad leg. He had been considered a coward to most in the village because of his past. If anyone was able to escape, Gwen would not assume him one. Her lip quivered, and she reached a hand up to cover her mouth. She shook her head in a simple reply.

"You've traveled far." The man commented. He stood and precisely stepped away to her right. "Your horse was evident of that."

Gwen wanted to kick herself. Of course, her horse! She could not grasp why his whereabouts had slipped her mind. "Where is he?"

"Ran off; the devil wouldn't let me touch him."

Her father's horse was anything but skittish. Normally he wandered right up to the first being to grant him attention. Something about this man had surely frightened him—something not seen by human eyes. But without her horse, she had no way of knowing which way to travel, should she require an escape. "Where am I?" Gwen asked, skeptically. The air seemed to tingle against her skin, though she was unsure of whether it could have been the man in her presence, or from her immense headache.

"Safe." He answered shortly. Gwen opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted. "I took the liberty of moving you to somewhere, more… comfortable, than the trail."

Gwen had a difficult time reading this man's less expressive voice; making it near impossible to tell if he meant her harm. "Thank you." She whispered, after a moment. She found it disturbing that she'd been awake for several minutes, and not once had the man asked for her name—albeit elusive about his own. "I'm called Gwendolyn, by-the-way."

Silence followed her words, and Gwen swiveled her head to try and determine where the man was standing—the tranquil crickets song increased in speed, the crackling and spitting of the fire, and the haunting hoot of owls, disturbed her already challenging ability to fix on his position.

"I know." Finally came his reply.

His mysterious statement delivered an eerie chill down her spine. If he knew her, why did she not recognize his voice, Gwen mused. "How could you, possibly?" The thought of him being a friend of her father's crossed her mind; but the man did not declare himself as such. On the other hand, any person wishing her harm would have already done her harm.
The tingling sensation returned to the surface of her skin, and gradually the realization dawned upon her: she, in fact, did know who this man was. "You're the Dark One." Gwen uttered.

"Merely a name." He breathed out.

It was more than enough of a confirmation for her. Through all of her searching, he came to her. She could have laughed at the irony of her situation. "I've been looking for you." Gwen settled on saying, as she rested her elbows on her drawn knees.

"Is that so?" The inflection in his words played a different tune. He seemed almost amused as he shuffled back around to his spot across from her.

She nodded, and quirked half a smile. "For what it's worth, anymore."

"Magic can be pricey." He was fiddling with his flask again; taking another swig.

"I was willing to pay whatever you asked." Gwen told him, truthfully.

He let out a sharp breath of air, relishing the burn of the alcohol, no doubt. "But not now?" He questioned.

The village was destroyed, and with it, the people she cared about, the purpose of making a deal with the Dark One in the first place was senseless now.
Gwen assumed that he would be watching her, she so gave him a slight shake of her head before reaching up and attempting to smooth out her hair. The locks had gone a bit wild and slipped from the leather band since her last stop at the river bank.

"I can give you what you've always wanted." The Dark One cooed, voice low and menacing.

Gwen worried her bottom lip. She had heard stories of men being brought back to life and the horrors that followed. She was not willing to make others suffer at her own selfish extent. But… It did not stop Gwen from wondering just what would have been his asking price had she found the Dark One in time to reach Baelfire. "Hypothetically," She started, "What would you ask of me?"

"Simple." The Dark One answered, drawing out his reply. "I've recently become in need of a consort—a messenger, if you will."

A frown caressed her cheeks, she was not sure she had heard him correctly. "A messenger?"

He hummed in reply. "In the near future, I will have need of someone to deliver a few admonishes for me."

His request did not seem as terrible as the rumors of his cruelty had originally led her to believe, however, while it was a condition Gwen might have gladly accepted in the past, she knew presently—should Bae no longer be with them in this world—her wish would be null void...

"It's a fair deal, dearie;" He snapped, when her silence undoubtedly caused him anxiety. "Sight for a few quick errands."

Gwen's brows furrowed. "And what if, what I want no longer applies to my situation?"

The Dark One stirred, sliding closer; a more impish air about him. "Ooooo, you have my attention..."

"There was a young boy in my village—"

He drew back, suddenly. "I cannot make someone love you." The Dark One barked.

"That's not what I'm asking at all!" She retorted, frowning. "This boy, he is to me, as any child of my own. I was going request my sight from you, in order to trade my own life for his so that he would not be forced to fight in the wars."

"A noble request." He sniffed, allotting himself a moment to contemplate her whim. "And you fear he has perished while you were dillydallying." He commented, coldly.

"I was looking for you." Gwendolyn responded through clenched teeth.

Her words gave him pause, one that seemed longer than necessary—a pause that roused her skepticism. "Who?" He whispered. "What is this boy's name?"

"Bae." She told him, resting her chin on her drawn knees. "His name is Baelfire."

"You are indeed in luck." The Dark One declared, suddenly, with a bold air of someone gesturing grandly. "I have knowledge of his whereabouts; he is alive."

Despite suspicions of deception, Gwen could not stop her heart from leaping. If there was a chance this man was truly the Dark One; it was not altogether impossible to hope he spoke the truth and knew what had happened in her village before her arrival, and known who had survived. Maybe her journey had not been in complete vain. "And his father?" She tried, light-hearted.

He did not hesitate. "Consumed."

The news stung, yanking the pit in her stomach wider than she ever could have. Tears welled in her eyes, and a sob built in her throat. Gwen rubbed at the bridge of her nose to try and control herself. If Baelfire was alive, she would strive to keep him safe—for Rumpelstiltskin's sake.

"I'll tell you what." The Dark One bobbed, quite obviously seeing her distress. "I will grant you your sight, and the guaranteed safety of the child—for a few… extra …errands." He twitched, pulling out a crinkling object from either his coat or a bag. "A drop of blood is all I need." He finished, innocently.
The distinctive swishing of unrolling parchment reached her ears.

Gwen swallowed, palms rubbing at her cheeks. In all her life, she had never been exposed to magic. However, should this man claiming to be the Dark One really possess the powers to aid her, what harm could a few errands prove? And what could she possibly lose if he was an imposter. It was Bae they were talking about, and while he may be safe from the wars at the moment, she could not guarantee in her current state that she could keep him in that state—not without help.

Mind made up, Gwen searched her belt for a dagger. Her sheath was empty—the knife had not been secure in its holster, as she used it often to slice food—she could only conclude that it had fallen during her decent off the horse earlier. "Do you have a dagger?"

"Of course."

She heard the slick metal slide from his sheath, and held out her hand for it.

The hilt was clad in old soft leather, the blade curvy. Gwen's fingers traced across the face of the knife; intricately designed, it held elaborate engravings along the edge and an inscription down the middle. As Gwen was illiterate, she paid little attention to what it might have meant, and merely regarded it as aesthetic. "Baelfire will be protected from the War?" She clarified.

"And you will have your sight, dearie! I dare say—it's a win, win."

She brought the sharp point hard against her palm and held her breath before briskly sliding it across her skin. It cut smoothly into her tender flesh. Gwen drew in her breath and tested the wound with the tips of her fingers: warm, sticky blood oozed from the stinging laceration.

The parchment again sounded itself before her, placed somewhere on the ground near her feet. With her free hand, she searched it out. Then, with little thought as to what actually might be on the contract, Gwendolyn flattened her bloodied palm near the bottom of the thick paper. "You have a deal, then."

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Storybrooke, Maine

"Mephistopheles: I'll be your servant here, and I'll
Not stop or rest, at your decree:
When we're together, on the other side,
You'll do the same for me."

Penelope slowly traced her fingers over the bumps in the thick paper. She had closed her eyes—mostly as a courtesy to those around her—and imagined she could hear the voices of the two men in the story. It was one of her favorite passages within the play; desperate Faust willing to confide in a stranger about the troubles in his life, and making a deal he never intended to keep. The words always drew a sharp, mysterious twist deep in Penny's heart.

The heavy, furry head that rested atop her shoes let out a loud breath, providing an ever constant reminder that Penny was not in Faust's study. Even in the rustle and bustle of the always busy café, there never failed to be times, like these, when it was difficult to separate herself from her books without a little help from her good buddy. Over the years, it had become all too easy to escape to the fairytale worlds to which Penny did not belong. No more here, than there, I suppose, she told herself.

As she contemplated this, a small, warm body sat down in the booth beside her. "'Morning Penny!" The young boy's backpack ruffled as he scooted closer between the table and seat.

"Good morning, Henry." Penny answered; throwing a smile in the boy's direction as she mentally bookmarked her place.

"Morning Max." Henry greeted affectionately as he bent under the table to provide the—now panting—sheepdog with a few pats on the head. Penny could hear Max's foot twitch happily against the linoleum floor.

Reaching to her right wrist, Penny flipped open the glass window on her watch and felt for the time. While she did so, Henry busily unwrapped the saran plastic off some sort of pastry he'd brought with him.
Max, recognizing the sound, stood from his spot under the table and shuffled to wedge his head onto Henry's lap. Penny chewed on her lip as the Mayor's boy slipped the dog a few scraps.

"You may find that amusing now," She whispered, gently, before sipping at the lukewarm cup of coffee beside her book, "but just wait until I make you take him home for the night." Despite the boy's repeated attempts, poor Max had a sensitive system—something that would not likely change with time.

Henry giggled, nibbling on his breakfast as he nudged Penny playfully in the arm. "I wish." Truth be told, he would gladly take the dog home—regardless of stomach issues—if his mother would allow it. Regina had a strict regime, however, when it came to house pets.
Then, with a mouthful of pastry, Henry lightly touched the open book in front of them. "Whatcha reading?"

Regina's regal voice suddenly filled the café as she reminded Ruby that her latte was to be extra hot.

Penny closed the heavy book and reached out for his hand: it was not an uncommon practice, so Henry quickly wiped his fingers on his jacket before laying his palm against hers. Carefully, Penny rested his fingers over the brail on the cover. "F-a-u-s-t." Penny spelled out for him, as she guided his hand across the title. "Faust."

"What's it about?" Lifting his free hand and taking another bite of his breakfast, Henry leaned forward to study the book further. Brail or not, he never passed up the opportunity to learn about a good book.

Max let out a breath and nudged at Penny's elbow until she brought a hand down to scratch his ears. His warm tongue lapped at her knuckles. "A depressed man," She told the boy, "who makes a deal with the devil so he can be happy." It was a simple explanation for a complicated story, but she doubted a 10 year-old boy would be terribly interested in the details—Penny remembered she sure hadn't been when her father had brought it home for her.

"Huh…" Henry bobbed, carefully considering her summary. "Kind of like Rumpelst-"

"Henry." Regina's scolding tone startled both of them out of their moment of peace. "I hope you're not bothering Miss Porter." She did not address Penny exactly; merely one of the ways the mayor used to deploy that sense of invisibility.

Henry stumbled over his words as he swallowed what breading was in his mouth, "No, I-"

"-Not at all, Madam Mayor." Penny interrupted, vouching for him. "Henry was just curious about Faust." She quirked a smile up at the harshly-spoken woman, and raised a hand to gently clap the young boy's shoulder.

The café seemed to grow quieter, as many on-lookers chose to pause their conversations.

"Yes. Well." The mayor took a deep breath and directed her attention back to her son. "Come along; we wouldn't want you to be late for school."

Henry placed his hands on the edge of the table, dislodging himself from the booth. "See ya, Penny." He groaned.

"You too." She called after him, as he started out the door before his mother, tossing his left-over wrapper into the trash beside the entrance.

Regina tapped the table where Penny sat at with the tips of her neatly manicured nails. "Good day, Miss Porter." Her attitude was less than appreciative, her tone bordering threatening.

"Good day, madam mayor." Penny replied calmly, pulling the coffee mug closer and downing its remaining contents. Regina's perfume lingered in the air long after she left. There was something about that woman that rubbed Penny the wrong way; apparently Regina shared that sentiment.
Checking the time again, Penny fished out several of quarters in her jacket pocket for the coffee and tip, placing them beside her cup. Scooting out of her seat, she beckoned Max out from his spot and fumbled for the long metal handle on his chest harness.
Standing, Penny unclipped the sunglasses from the collar of her shirt, with one hand, and slid them onto her nose. She tucked her novel conveniently into her buttoned up jacket.

"Leaving so soon?" An instinctively seductive and pouty voice asked. Ruby's heels clicked loudly against the linoleum floor, approaching her.

"Rent to pay, bills to deliver." She quipped, as Ruby rubbed a friendly hand against her back. Ruby made a noise in the back of her throat; indicative of a chuckle. Expressing her thanks for the routine morning coffee, Penelope allowed Max to lead her out of Granny's Diner and down the steps onto the sidewalk of Main Street.

The sun was shining today but the chilly, late summer air was beginning to ease its way into their little town. It was reaching the season when bundling up would become a priority. Penny murmured to herself, as she shrugged her thin jacket tighter around her. Max tested the harness, eager to continue their day.

Before she could start her half a block walk to the Post Office, a powerful male voice called to her from behind. "Ms. Porter!" There was only one person in the town with a slight Scottish hint to his words.

Penelope turned in his direction, listening as the butt of his cane ticked in unison with his rubber soled shoes. "Good morning, Mr. Gold." She prompted Max to a sit and waited for the hobbling man to approach. He stopped within a few feet of her and placed both his leather-clad hands atop his short cane. His pawn shop was down the road opposite her direction, but she could assume he was headed into the café.

"And to you." He replied, politely. It would have been inaudible to most, but he slowly caught his breath as he stood before her: his injured leg undoubtedly drew copious amounts of energy from him. "Actually, I'm quite glad I caught you." Penny heard him reach into his jacket, his fingers brushing against paper, pulling it from the inner folds of his coat. "I would very much like this letter to go out first thing this morning…"

Penny chewed on the inside of her cheek. There was no doubt; the man made her nervous—and not just because he technically had the whole town, including her house, in his pocket. "I don't start my rounds until eleven…" She tried. Max shifted on the pavement, nuzzling her leg with his snout.

"Yes, I realize." He replied, wearily. "Perhaps an exception can be made?"

Her answer did not come right away. Truthfully, Penny couldn't refuse his request as he was not the only person she favors, like this, for. With a sigh, she reached her hand out for the envelope. "When did I become your personal courier, Mr. Gold?" Penny quipped. She knew Mr. Gold paid handy-men to do his some of his bidding—could they not drop his mail off, as well?

He let out a breathy laugh, his gloved fingers lightly brushing hers as he passed the feather light letter off to her. "Much obliged, Miss Porter." Mr. Gold whispered, leaning slightly towards her, a clear smile to his dodge. The touch had sent a tingle up her arm, but one that was forcefully ignored. The man was charming, she'd grant him that. But Penny couldn't quite think of a worse socially diminishing act than to start a personal relationship with Mr. Gold. She may be blind, Penny told herself, but she was not foolish; she knew of the unsavory things he did to procure his money.

Thumb tracing over the script on the front of the letter, Penny checked to make sure it was correctly filled out and had a stamp in the right corner. She opened her mouth to throw another quip at him, but he had already turned and started up the steps into Granny's.

Thinking better of pestering the man, she tapped the envelope against the top of Max's head. "Ready, Freddy?" The sheep-dog licked his chops and panted heavily. Penny took that as an agreement, and urged him forward.

The signature roll in Max's body could be felt through the handle on his harness as he walked with her, but unlike most, Penny enjoyed the feel of the constant back and forth motion. Perhaps it added a little sway in her step, but regardless, tottering along with him was much more comforting than wandering with just her probing cane—she also didn't have to count her steps as much with Max; he knew exactly where she needed to go.

A building later, Max led her up the paved footpath to the entrance of her workplace. Penelope dropped the handle on his harness and sought the keys in her jacket pocket. Once unlocked, she pushed the ancient door open and bent down to detach the dogs harness, patting his rump before he bounded off to his fluffy bed and pile of raw-hides in the corner of the Post Office.

The building had the musty smell of old paper and wood floors, but of all the jobs Penny sifted through as a teenager, this was the only one she'd held on to well into adulthood. One might suggest that it was the modest seclusion, or the daily walks that peeked her interest; either way, Penelope was in her late twenties and could not imagine performing her civic duties elsewhere.

Her hands rested on her thighs as she stood, taking in the quiet serene of the small building. She could not deny her innate joy of practically running the Post Office—granted, she had a helper come in once a day to aid in chores Penny could not possibly complete—but the sense of responsibility in her life seemed to fill a mysterious void.

Penelope removed her jacket and hung it on the coat rack beside the door, smoothing out the uniform beneath. With a breath of air and the excitement of beginning a new day; Penny took carefully counted steps into the back room, listening as Max gnawed away on his spoils as she went.

Her hands came into contact with the large bin for unsorted, outgoing mail. She took one last feel of the letter Mr. Gold had passed off to her, the tips of her fingers tracing the face of the envelope. There was not a single part of her that did not wish to be able to read the cursive lettering of his penmanship—or of anyone's handwriting for that matter—Penny caught herself, reprimanding the odd stray notion. Paying her rent and finding out when it was due, were the only reasons Mr. Gold should be ever caught entering her thoughts.

Shaking off the sudden twisting pit in her stomach, Penny hesitantly slid the letter over the rim of the container; allowing it to flutter soundlessly to the bottom of the plastic tub.

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[A.N: For those who don't know, Faust is an AMAZING classic written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe... Bucketlist that shit.]