Disclaimer: As you can probably tell from the fact I'm rewriting seasons in fanfiction, I don't own Once Upon a Time or any of its characters.
Sometimes, he didn't feel human at all.
He wasn't uncivilized, nor did he generally hate people. He could fit in with the best of them when he felt like it. The problem was, he didn't feel like it very often. The banal conversations that happened over and over and over again seemed like a waste of time. He didn't care what the weather was, he wanted to know why it was. He wanted to go beyond complimenting a painting; what techniques had created it? What was the meaning behind it?
But his questions were labeled "intense" and "not the point"; there were rarely answers, and no desire by most to find them. The complete lack of curiosity frustrated him and drove him to adopt silence as a defense. While the other guests at a party chattered away, he half-listened, disappearing inside his head to entertain himself.
The door to his hideout swung open, banging against the wall, "Maurice! Are you playing with your toys again?!"
He sighed, setting down his tools and closing up the clock he had been working on, "Yes father."
"You're supposed to be up there with the rest of the welcoming party!" He thundered, "What is she going to think when her own fiancé's not there to greet her?"
She'd probably be relieved, he thought, getting up from his stool. He couldn't imagine how terrified she must be to be sent off to marry a stranger. And hiding away in his workshop held off the inevitable disappointment when she saw her betrothed was about as handsome as an especially smooth potato.
Ladies wanted a brave knight in shining armor. They did not want a withdrawn bookworm.
With one last longing glance at his haven, he followed his father out.
"You won't have time for such foolishness when you're a husband," he said, "It's time to put away your childish fancies and grow up."
"Yes father."
"I won't always be around. One day this will be your manor, your fiefdom to control. And you will have to rise up to the occasion."
"Yes father."
He grabbed his son by the collar, forcing him to look him in the eye, "This alliance is important. If this marriage falls through our people will suffer."
"I know, father. I won't let them down."
"Good." He released him and together they walked out into the courtyard.
A carriage was rolling across the cobblestones to the waiting party; a gathering of his father's most important persons. He avoided their eyes but still felt the weight of their gaze. Don't mess this up Maurice, they begged, Be a proper lord for once in your life Maurice. His throat had gone dry, maybe because all of the moisture had gone to his palms. He discreetly wiped them against his cloak as the carriage stopped.
Maurice set his shoulders back, tilted his head upright, and strode towards the carriage's door with a courage he didn't feel. Hello Lady Callista, I trust your journey went well. Please do not cry, my lady, for I know you were hoping for something better than an ogre. Rest assured, I am a vegetarian monster, and do not indulge in human flesh.
The cannibalism joke was a risk, but he'd at least get a sense of her humor.
He opened the door and his mind was completely emptied, both of witticisms and basic vocabulary. The lady within was more beautiful than he could ever imagine, her fairness akin to a porcelain statue. Tiny, delicate, with the largest green eyes he had ever encountered. Her auburn hair was swept back in a plait and he wondered if there had ever been a shade like it before.
She stood and her smile weakened his knees, "Hello."
This was what it was like to be dumbstruck. Nothing in his head but her face. The world didn't exist, time didn't exist, just this magnificent creature. He was acting like he'd never seen a woman before, he should do something. But what was he going to do? He had opened the door for a reason!
Help her down. He thrust his hand awkwardly up and she took it, still smiling.
"Thank you."
It was so soft and elegant, clasped in his meaty fist. The contrast was obscene. She stepped down.
"Are you, by chance, Maurice?"
Yes, I'm sorry. Actually it's Crazy Maurice, according to the village. No, the Maurice you're looking for doesn't exist, please try elsewhere.
None of the retorts made it to his lips. Just an undignified grunt.
His father laughed and came up beside them, "You'll have to forgive him, my lady, he doesn't get out much. Welcome, I trust that your journey was pleasant?"
Lady Callista made small talk with the lord of the manor as Maurice struggled to regain any composure. Her hand did not pull away from his, and he did not have the strength to let go.
II
Belle had carried the curse alone before, during the long months between Rumplestiltskin's capture and being swept away to the Land Without Magic. She was aware how slippery the hold on her conscious could get, how vigilant she had to be of every thought, every emotion, lest it find a way to overwhelm her and turn her into the monster it wanted her to be.
Despair had cracked her open and the dark curse had feasted like a vulture whose prey had finally given up.
She might've been in that back alley for minutes or hours, she couldn't tell. It was a blur of blood and bruises, pleading and crying, a nightmare she was aware of but unable to wake from.
"Enough!"
No. She'd decide when she'd had enough. She brought her leg up, ready to drive her stiletto heel right through her victim's eye.
Two arms wrapped around her, dragging her back. She struggled like a child.
"Belle, stop!"
The trance-like state she had been in retreated, and with disgusting clarity she stared at what she had done. The former Sheriff of Nottingham was as curled up as he could manage, beaten almost beyond recognition. Her knuckles were raw and her dress was spattered with his blood. She had thrown him around easily with the element of surprise on her side, and by the time he came to his senses he was too battered to even defend himself.
And for what? Some mild flirting? An off-hand request that Rumple had already made sure he paid for long ago? The alcohol in her gut flared, threatening to come back up.
She turned to see blue eyes staring at her, ruggedly handsome features horrified. Shame burned her cheeks; it must be quite the act of barbarism to shock even a pirate.
"Come to check on me then?" She hissed, "Make sure I didn't get out of hand again?"
"Belle..." He murmured again, as if that was the only word he had left rattling around in his thick skull.
The magic welled up instinctively, but it had nowhere to go. She couldn't attack him even if she wanted to, and oh how she wanted to. Her mind clawed around, for a loophole, for an exception that she could weasel through.
No harm. No unsolicited magic.
All she could do was scream. Loud and primal and filled with the vitriol that was consuming her. She was past caring if she caused a scene. Let them come. Let them witness. It'd all be over soon anyway, as soon as Cora decided to pull her strings.
"Stop it!"
And then, she wasn't even allowed to scream. She glared at Hook with all the malice in her heart, completely impotent. His smug attitude did not return; if anything barking orders had only unsettled him more.
"We need to get back," he finally said, "Come on."
"Yes master," she drawled, enjoying the grimace he made.
She stomped along behind him, trying to ignore the crowd starting to gather at the alleyway's entrance. She brushed by an especially tall man but didn't think much of it until he grabbed her shoulder. She paused, glancing up.
There weren't many people she'd want to see right now, but Gaston had to be very low on the list. Confused and concerned, he stared uncomprehendingly down at her and her bloodstained dress. For a brief moment, the shame returned, reminding her of how far removed she was from Lady Belle, daughter of Sir Maurice and future bride of Sir Gaston.
It was replaced by the icy dread of being mere feet away from an enemy she couldn't protect him from, who was connected to women Gaston couldn't possibly hope to best with brute force.
She jerked her shoulder out of his grasp and gave a small, slow shake of her head. With her eyes she desperately tried to convey how much he needed to not be a hotheaded war hero right now. Don't make a scene. Don't pick a fight with him. Don't let him know you know me. But please, please make sure Papa's safe and out of the line of fire.
She turned away from him and continued to follow Hook, not even daring to glance back. Playing the Enchanted Forest's version of Game of Thrones since marrying Rumple, it was easy to think that Gaston and her papa were too small of fish to fry, too estranged from her to be useful as leverage. But Regina would remember them soon enough; it was a miracle she hadn't used them as pawns already.
Please Gaston, she thought, for once in your life be careful.
III
He was obsessed with her.
Lady Callista and her entourage were set up in a different wing of the palace while wedding preparations were made. Still, Maurice made plenty of excuses to try and bump into her, or even just to see her in passing. Of course, there were always chaperones hovering nearby, so the best he could do was stilted small talk.
Not the stuff of poets, and nothing close to swoon-worthy. He couldn't sweep her off her feet with his visage, or charm her with his tongue. He would never measure up to the knights in the stories, and oh how she deserved that.
She wasn't just pretty. She was kind, and friendly. She had the staff and family alike wrapped around her fingers within the week. She had a tendency to look people in the eye and truly listen to them when they spoke, an overwhelming concept to a man who had been dismissed all his life as foolish and weak.
He wanted so badly to be worthy of her, but feared what he could offer would never be enough.
At least, shut up in his workshop, he could relax a bit. The mantle clock was coming along; he might even finish it before he'd have to give up his playthings for good. He just needed to make sure that the timing was right between the winding up and the time displayed on its face. He'd have to find an opportunity to-
"What are you working on?"
The clock slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the table. He twisted towards the intruder, screwdriver in hand... Only to see it was Callista.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
His grip on the screwdriver tightened as he dropped his gaze, "Get out."
"I only wanted to-"
"Get OUT!"
He tore open a drawer and dumped the clock in there, slamming it shut. His cheeks burned at the humiliation that she had caught him steel-handed, tinkering instead of practicing swordplay or discussing battle plans or whatever real men were supposed to do. If she did not know the sort of man she was about to marry, well, now it was painfully obvious.
Lady Callista was quiet, remaining perfectly still for a few long seconds. Then, she opened the drawer he had just closed, pulling out the object of his fascination.
"If you'd like me to leave, I will," she said, setting it back on the workbench, "I wasn't aware this was a private space."
"It's not. I mean, it is, but no one..." He shook his head as if that would correct his stumbling, huffing, "...I don't mind you staying."
"Thank you."
He set the screwdriver down and sank back onto his stool, bracing himself for derision as she took in his little lair. There wasn't much room to wander but she shuffled around as best as she could, examining both his successes and failures.
"You're an inventor?"
He squirmed, "Not really. Inventors make things for others, I...just do it as a hobby."
"Incredible," she paused in front of his biggest endeavor, a furnace on a cart with a kettle on top, an axe in the front and handlebars in the back, "What is this?"
"It's, ah, supposed to be... A woodchopper. Steampowered. It's really only for splitting logs and it's unreliable. The bits fly everywhere and it loses as much thermal energy as it creates, it's practically useless."
She beamed, "It's brilliant. Imagine how much easier it would make for woodcutters, to have a machine help them," she looked back at him skeptically, "Unless I misunderstood your explanation, this sounds an awful lot like making something for someone else."
"It's just a toy," he replied half-heartedly, "A waste of time."
She picked her way through the clutter back to him, ignoring his response, "And what is this to be, hm?" She pointed at the mantle clock.
Why was she pretending to be interested? This went beyond just being nice to her future husband. She genuinely seemed to be curious about his oddities.
"This will be a clock," he said, then waved his hand dismissively, "But not just any clock. If I can nail down when exactly the end of a winding cycle occurs, then I could set off a small bell inside of the clock to the precise minute I want it to go off. So say I wanted to be sure to wake up at 6:15 every day. If I know how far I have to wind it back, I can be sure that the alarm bell will ring at 6:15 and wake me up."
He clasped his hands together, all too aware of how much they moved when he was excitedly explaining something. His mouth kept going though, unable to stop, "It's an idiotic concept, having that sort of precision, and no one's going to care, but I feel like it's within my grasp and sometimes I can't help it. Sometimes I...need to see if it works."
He didn't dare check for her reaction.
"I think," she began haltingly, "...it's a very clever idea."
"You do?"
"Yes. It's more self-sufficient than depending on servants, and more consistent than depending on yourself."
"My thoughts exactly!" He scrambled through the sheets covering his desk, finally finding the schematics for a new candelabra, "What about this? How does this strike you?"
She stared at the diagrams, her attention moving around the page with an uncomfortable blankness.
"It's my handwriting, isn't it?" He apologized, "My father has always said it's like someone gave a quill to a donkey."
"No, it's..." She played with her fingers, biting her lip, "...I can't read."
"What? At all?"
She shook her head, and the shine of tears threatened her bright green eyes, "My father doesn't believe in it. Says it gives a lady too many ideas and then she starts thinking... That's not what a lady is for, in his opinion."
"I have never heard anything more stupid in my entire life," Maurice insisted.
Callista gave a watery laugh, "I'm glad you feel that way. Seems most would prefer a pretty face that will accommodate them at night."
"If that's all I wanted I'd just marry one of the garden statues or my hand."
He clapped said hand over his mouth after realizing what he had just said to a highborn lady. Callista laughed harder, her shoulders shaking as she threw her head back.
"Don't worry, my lord, you won't have to marry either of those," she teased.
"Thank the gods," he muttered.
That evening, he sent a dozen roses to Lady Callista's chamber, wrapping a sketch around one of the roses in the center's stem. It detailed where the rose bushes in the garden were and, behind them, a tiny version of the mantle clock showing ten o'clock.
He arrived ten minutes early, sweating and fidgeting as he waited. He didn't dare to be too blatant as to his intentions but he desperately hoped she understood. Right on time, Lady Callista glided behind the bushes, easing herself down beside him.
"What's this about?" She asked, eyes glittering with excitement.
Maurice lit a candle, covering its glow as much as he could while still illuminating the leaflets he had brought, "I am going to teach you how to read," he declared, "Because I will not stand for an empty-headed wife."
Every night that followed, they both snuck out to their hiding spot, pouring over the written word until their eyelids drooped. The excuse that it was just a stroll for fresh air was ready on their tongues if someone stumbled upon them, but Maurice had picked his spot well. If her handmaidens or his servants ever noticed their absence, they never said a word.
By their wedding day, Callista could read a very basic children's story, and they were both desperately in love with each other.
II
The Game of Thorns was dying. The potted flowers and wall ivy on the front of the building still flourished but inside, there weren't many plants left to speak of. After the initial rush of post-curse reunion sales, the proprietor didn't attempt to restock. Instead, a hodgepodge of artisan crafts, refurbished gadgets and hunting paraphernalia lined the shelves. The foreboding mix of marionettes, antlers, VHS players and succulents made it look unhinged.
In a post-curse economy, where most people were changing jobs and new highly specific services were being instated, anything went. So Moe French decided he was going to be happy. If his friends wanted to join in his insane venture, then they were welcome to, and were encouraged to bring their passion with them.
The sign was flipped to "closed" but the light in the backroom was on. Miscellaneous tools were lined up on his work table; basics like saws and drills, with more pertinent tools like files, chisels and woodstain nearby. He worked slowly, every carving or sanding deliberate, examining twice and striking once. He smoothed the reformed joint and carefully tested it, rocking it gently and stretching the limb out.
"How's that feel?" He asked.
"Good, actually," His patient replied, "More limber."
"And you're sure this won't give you hip dysplasia or something equally as bad?"
"Nah. If, and that's a pretty big if, I turn back, it tends to smooth out any damage I pick up."
Moe released his leg and August tested it for himself, swinging it out and back in.
"I burned my feet off before," he said offhandedly, "Papa had to carve me whole new ones. I don't think a little sanding's going to cripple me." Moe grimaced and August frowned, "Sorry, I uh, forgot about... Anyway, thank you, this'll make it much easier to get around."
"It'll need to be restained, and I don't think I can work on the other leg tonight."
"I appreciate it."
Moe picked up a brush and started dusting off the equivalent of August's hip bone, "...you know who should really be doing this..." He started, sideyeing him.
It was impressive, given his primarily jerky creaky movements, how effortlessly the wooden man could roll his eyes.
"I know, I know," he sighed, "I just...can't face him. Not like this."
"He's worried sick about you," Moe reprimanded, "He's asked everyone in this town where you are, and I don't like lying to him."
"What's worse, not knowing what happened to me or knowing and realizing how much of a wood pile of failure I've become?"
"Not knowing," Moe said without hesitating, "There is nothing worse than not knowing what happened to your child."
"Really?" If he was capable, Moe was sure August would've raised his painted eyebrow," Because from what I've heard the way you've shut Belle out sounds pretty horrific."
"That's completely different," he hissed, "You made a mistake, Belle made a choice."
"You're right," August sat up, looking Moe in the eye, "Belle chose to save her people, I chose to have fun."
"You were a child."
"We're getting away from the point."
"We are not." Moe's hand balled into a fist, "As far as I'm concerned my daughter died soon after she left with that beast. He keeps a ghost of her around, but that's not my Belle."
August opened his mouth, no doubt to continue to argue, but was interrupted by the office door flying open and a man barreling in.
"Sir, Belle-"
Gaston stopped dead in his tracks, gaping at the living puppet sitting on Maurice's table. August self-consciously reached for his clothes, even though his lack of flesh and general Ken doll anatomy made this less awkward than it could have been.
"He's Marco's son," Moe explained.
Gaston turned his slackjawed expression towards him, "...I understand even less now."
"Magic thing," Moe said dismissively, "Just don't tell Marco you saw him."
Even with the short explanation, Gaston continued to stare blankly as his brain restarted. Finally, the shock was processed, and he remembered his announcement.
"Belle's in trouble."
"What makes you think that?"
"She assaulted a man."
"Again?" August asked incredulously, buttoning his pants.
Gaston cocked his head, "What do you mean, again?"
"Nothing." August turned to face him, "You think he might've deserved it?"
What kind of a question was that, Moe wondered. Gaston considered, his face twisting as his shoulders moved up into a shrug.
"Well... It was Keith," he admitted, his shoulders dropping back down, "But beyond that. She was so...angry. I've only seen her like that once before."
Gaston glanced at Moe briefly. He knew exactly the moment he was implying; the day Belle stormed in and begged to heal him of his failing health. She had been unhinged, trying every tactic to get him to budge. But how could he ask for more magic, after what it had already taken from him? What if it had taken its price from her, again?
She had won in the end; here, where they knew more about the body and didn't have to rely on a force of nature as fickle as magic.
"And where was her ball and chain during this?" Moe asked, "Getting his kicks watching her? Waiting for his turn?"
Gaston shook his head, "Dark One's nowhere to be seen. Rumor is he left town."
"Without her?" August wondered, "No wonder she's pissed, if he's going where I think he's going."
"There was a man," Gaston continued, "Tall, dark, leatherclad, missing a hand..."
"Missing a hand? Any chance the prosthetic was a...hook?"
"Yes!" Gaston exclaimed, "You know this man?"
"Not personally, though if he is who I'm thinking of, Belle is very much in danger." August stepped closer to Gaston, "Think very carefully now. Did Belle act like she was under duress?" Gaston frowned and he rephrased, "Do you think she was acting of her own free will? Was he commanding her to do things and she'd do them?"
"He wasn't there long, just towards the end," Gaston said, "But...he did tell her to stop and to come along...and she did do both those things..."
"This is not something to take chances with," August warned, turning to Moe, "We need to get Belle out of the way, and we need to get Captain Hook to give up his buried treasure."
"Just call Rumplestiltskin," Moe said, shaking his head dismissively, "I'm sure whatever's going on he can sort out."
"Not this time." August paused, his head bobbing back and forth as if he were weighing two options. Finally, he sighed, "I think Hook has the Dark One's dagger, which means he can control the Dark One as well as any underlings to the Dark One."
"The Dark One can be controlled?" Gaston asked.
"Look, don't spread that around, we don't need the whole town trying to get the dagger for unlimited monkey paw wishes," August warned, shrugging on his jacket, "I'm going to give the Blue Fairy a visit; if there's anything that can stop a Dark One she'll have it."
Gaston straightened, eyes lighting up excitedly, "I will go face this Captain Hook and interrogate him."
"Easy buddy," August fished his keys out of his pocket, "Why don't you stop by the Sheriff's station? The acting sheriff is David Nolan, affectionately known as Prince Charming. You let him know to warn Emma, tactfully, so she can keep Rumplestiltskin out of town."
"And to sound the alarm, perfect," Gaston nodded.
They both looked at Maurice. He dusted the wood shavings off of the table and into his waiting palm.
"I...am going to bed," he announced.
"What?" August asked incredulously.
"There's nothing I can do," he pointed out, "I'm no soldier, no sorcerer, no man of any great power or influence..."
"You are her father," Gaston stormed over to Maurice, towering over him, "How can you even sleep knowing she's in danger?!"
"She's been in danger since she left with him," Maurice reminded Gaston, "Just because you pretend she's fine it doesn't mean she is."
"You are the one who continues to pretend! You shut your eyes and cover your ears and tell yourself stories about how she's miserable without you as if that will change the past!" Gaston slammed a fist down on the table and Maurice noticed out of the corner of his eye August slipping out the door, "Belle found happiness! And maybe if I didn't witness it myself I wouldn't believe it either, but I have! Just because we don't understand it doesn't make it less true! And what business is it of ours as long as he doesn't hurt her?!"
Maurice clenched his jaw, letting Gaston rant and rave. He didn't understand...wouldn't understand, even if Maurice was honest with him. And despite Gaston practically being a song to him, the thought of sharing the truth, the whole truth, was unbearable. He could barely face it in those quiet moments he allowed it to surface in his mind. Saying it out loud was too much.
Gaston, fuming at the lack of response, turned on his heel, "Fine then, I'll save her. And when she asks where you are, I'll let her know you were too busy being a coward."
He slammed the door on his way into the front of the shop, pausing briefly only to grab the first sword he could find hanging up, before continuing on towards the sheriff's station.
Maurice clenched August's wood shavings in his hand all the way to his apartment. He shuffled into his room and grabbed an empty flask to sprinkle them into. He flicked the desks' lamp light on and set the flask alongside the myriad of other ingredients he had been collecting. Mostly they were scientific, but there were a few magical items he had come across. A book of spells from the library donation bin. A wand from a fairy who no longer wanted it and was more interested in building a life with her dwarf boyfriend.
Above his workstation, clippings from The Daily Mirror were pinned to a corkboard. Small things at first; an announcement of a new children's story time hour, a brief mention of a wedding. Then there were actual articles, starting with "Rosaline Gold Donates Kidney to Dying Father", then "Evil Queen's Trial Goes Haywire: 3 Missing Including Snow White". The last one was just a few days old; "Hero's Welcome for Emma, Snow White; Caretaker Quietly Returns". He reached up and gently stroked the photograph of Rosaline Gold in her hospital bed, weakly smiling for the camera.
Maybe tonight he'd make some progress.
III
He was certain fear would kill him long before the ogres got a chance.
Maurice lay stiffly on his cot, every muscle in his body aching from the week's work. Blisters on his feet and hands had developed blisters; he bled through the thin strips of cloth he tried to protect his hands with, after giving his gloves to the captain of his guard. His soft life meant he was next to useless but he wasn't about to stand by and watch.
This was his plan, after all. Why shouldn't he dig alongside the men who were risking their lives on his order?
Had it really been six months ago he was back in the manor, staring up at his bedroom ceiling with the same dread he stared up at the tent's poles now? Seemed like a lifetime since he had seen his dear Callista...since he had left her.
Damn his father. Of course he would only die so that Maurice would have to make the call whether to help their allies at the risk of his own people and resources or wait and see if their hand would be forced. The council that had surrounded his father, and now de facto surrounded him, had advised to wait until the battles drew closer to interfere.
But by then how many men would have died? How many women and children, who could not help that they were so much closer to ogre territory? What if they could have saved more lives than would be lost?
He consulted statisticians and mathematicians, men of theory in addition to his father's preference for battle-hardened veterans. Lastly, he spoke long into the night with his wife, who had no experience on the battlefield or in the classroom, only a keen insight that cut to the heart of the matter with a razor's precision.
She reflected the truth of his own heart back to him while he tried to ignore it; he wanted to fight, to save lives if it was at all possible. And so he had gone off to war in some vain attempt to help.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment well-creased and accidentally smeared with dirt. It was almost too dark to see, but he had read it enough times to fill in any gaps.
"My deerest Maurice,
I am not nearly as good of a student with out you but I hope youv seen some improvment. I look forward to your return and your corrections. I miss you moor than words can express. The bed is too cold and large the nights drag on and your responces can not fill the emptyness. I do my best as lady of the manner but I am still a stranger to them. The cownsill does not aprove of me but I do not want you to worry over that. There are so many things I want to tell you but not until your home. Keep your head up follow your heart and find your own way threw this storm. You are clevur in your own rite you do not need to be your father.
Your beluved,
Callista"
He had to make it back to her. She deserved that much from him.
He rose and prepared himself for the day. The men sharing his tent followed suit. They ate biscuits that could be mistaken for rocks and drank muddy water from a nearby stream. Scouts returned with the news that the herd was following the bait and would be on their doorstep by nightfall.
Wary and weary eyes stared at him as he barked orders, divvying up the last of the responsibilities. He didn't blame them for their skepticism; he was grateful they had listened to his plan in the first place. Soldiers were used to their blades and axes, to confronting the enemy head on.
But treating these beasts like they were an army of men would be suicide. He had read the histories, knew how difficult they were to kill. They would never overpower them. Their best hope then was to outwit them.
Maurice did his best to concentrate on making sure the field looked untouched, and not on how many pieces he might end up in if this didn't work.
It had to. If it didn't, they were all done for.
The baying of the scouts' horns echoed across the fields and the soldiers readied themselves, arrows knocked, spears hoisted. Maurice squinted through the dying light, having to remind himself to breathe. Torches danced along the horizon, followed by the lumbering shadows of the ogres.
The men around him shifted uneasily, watching the riders barely outpacing the beasts. In darkness, the thick forest behind them and death before them, he couldn't fault their nerves. His eyes darted from scout's torch to scout's torch, praying that the markers were enough to keep them safe from the traps. Both groups drew closer, close enough for the ogre's hulking size and the scout's frantic horses to demonstrate the scale of their enemy.
One of the generals, frustrated with the inaction, nudged his horse and made to break out of their hiding place.
"Stay put," Maurice instructed, with more calm than he felt, "We can't let them know we're here."
"This is insane," The general hissed back, "If we wait too long there will be no chance to maneuver and we'll be trapped."
"If we go now we risk triggering the traps ourselves," he insisted, "Wait."
Maurice worried the more experienced general would blow it for them anyway, lead their troops into a catastrophic charge. But the leader remained with the rest of his men, his horse shifting uneasily beneath him.
Finally, the ogres started to fall.
The shallow coverings of their deep pits gave way under the weight of the herd and they toppled gracelessly into the holes. The stupid ones kept running, revealing more and more of the pockmarked field; the smarter ones tried to go around, but their poor vision and their fellow monsters dragging them down with them meant they were no more successful at chasing their prey. Maurice's grip tightened on his reins as the last few ogres came within a dozen yards of the army but they had been so thorough, devoting so much time to this one trick, that every last ogre found a pit to be trapped in.
He had been right. Even the tallest of the ogres couldn't scramble out, and the thought of helping each other never seemed to occur to them. They now had the higher ground and could kill them with ease.
Victory cheers rose up, startling him, as the scouts shared their light. A ring of torches surrounded the battlegrounds, shining like stars in the darkness.
"No time to waste!" Maurice barked, "Take your shots but don't get cocky! Keep an eye out for all remaining pits!"
The general slapped him on the back in congratulations before joyfully leading the soldiers on. Maurice stayed back, keeping his own torch doused.
He didn't want the embarrassment of the veterans noticing he was crying.
With a fresh trick up their sleeves, the war turned in their favor, and soon the ogres were either dead or had retreated into unclaimed lands. And while it spoke to the character of the army's leaders, he loathed it as they tried to give him the credit and the accolades for a plan that frankly, he thought was too simple for any grand recognition.
The only thing he wanted, all he had ever wanted since he left, was to go home to his wife.
It would have been proper, polite even, to stay with his men as they ambled home. He should have led them in a procession where the townsfolk could come out and cheer and celebrate the victory. But a group that large moved far too slow and taking so long would surely kill him. He left a note so his guard would not worry, and then he rode like hell back to his castle.
The streets were empty; the bakers were just rising as he thundered past. The closer he got, the more sure he was that there was a light on in the tower, in their bedroom and that she was waiting for him.
"CALLISTA!" He roared the moment he was in the courtyard, his bellow echoing off the stone, "CALLISTA MY LOVE!"
"Quiet, my lord," Groused the porter, trying to still Maurice's mount, "The lady needs her rest."
"She's waiting for me," Maurice said breathlessly, fumbling out of his saddle, "I saw her, she's waiting for me!"
"A handmaiden, perhaps," The porter said, "Welcome back, sir."
The doors swung open and as soon as she could fit, Callista was squeezing through. Still in her nightshift, her hair falling out of her braid, Maurice had never seen her so beautiful. He charged for her and scooped her up.
"I knew it! I knew you'd come back to me!" She crowed, giggling as he kissed her.
"If I had to crawl through streets of broken glass and salt I would to come back to you," he professed, hugging her tightly to him.
"Easy love, easy," she warned but who had time to be gentle? He was home, he had been a hero and while he didn't remember her being quite this big around, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but her.
Then, a tremor against his stomach. A firm tap as if to say "excuse me, do you mind?".
Maurice stepped back and took in his wife fully. Her belly was swollen and taunt, so unmistakable it was a miracle he had missed it. His jaw dropped and he looked at Callista for confirmation. She laughed and, tears of joy in her eyes, she nodded.
He was going to be a father.
II
Mr. Gold supposed parenting was like riding a bicycle; it didn't matter how long he had been without a child, the instincts kicked back in as he was left in charge of Henry. He made sure he ate dinner, showered, brushed his teeth, and got him to bed at a decent hour. It was easier to focus on Henry's needs than the dark thoughts haunting him.
What did he have if Belle had forsaken him and Baelfire had turned his back on him? Was this the undoing the Seer had warned him of so long ago?
How could things possibly get any worse?
Oh but they could always get worse. He still loved his wife and son even if they hated him. And Bae was mortal…so very very mortal…
He stared at the innocent boy he had tucked in, wondering if… Just if… He was capable of…
But that was his grandson.
By blood, perhaps. That didn't mean he got a seat at the Thanksgiving table. No, it would be the one thing Regina and the Charmings and Emma would all agree on; keep him away from Rumplestiltskin. He would not get to be a part of Henry's life if they had anything to do with it.
Why prioritize his grandson's life over his son's?
The hotel room door opened and Emma stomped in, throwing her jacket over the back of a chair, "Did Neal get his lawyer shtick from you, or is fine-print negotiating just something you develop after one too many magical deals going south?"
Mr. Gold gestured for her to lower her voice and Emma finally noticed their sleeping beauty. She went over to sit on the edge of his bed while he remained seated in the hotel desk's chair.
Emma locked her eyes on him, "Neal and I had a nice long talk about everything and I gotta say, I was not expecting him to beat me out of first place in the Shitty Backstory Olympics," He avoided her glare though he still felt plenty of its heat, "At least I was a baby who didn't know my parents. At least they were trying to save me from a curse."
"It was a mista-"
"I don't care whether it was or wasn't. Frankly, I hope he follows through and never speaks to you again. Or you drop dead. Whichever's most convenient." Emma leaned forward, bracing her arms on her knees, "Right now though, how I feel isn't relevant. How this is going to work, with Henry, that's what I care about."
"He wants to be in Henry's life."
"Of course he does. Even if Regina's not in the mix the logistics are going to be a nightmare." She pantomimed holding a phone to her ear, ""Sorry, I can't send Henry this weekend, the Wicked Witch of the West is holding hostages until we figure out who killed her sister"." She shook her head, hanging up the imaginary phone, "I don't know what to do. We both want what's best for him but Neal's not interested in getting sucked into the drama."
Mr. Gold opened his mouth to protest but Emma's phone went off. She whipped it out and answered as fast as she could.
"Hey, Mary Margaret, sorry I didn't call you back. We've been…" Emma glanced at him and he mouthed "discussing matters", "…talking things over. …oh well that's good to hear, I guess." She frowned, "I don't know, we were going to do some sight-seeing tomorrow since we still have the room for another night. Did you need us back?" She arched an eyebrow, "…oh. Well, okay, if you think David has…everything handled…"
"Belle?" Mr. Gold whispered hopefully, then mentally kicked himself for being so pathetic.
"How's Belle doing?" Emma listened to the response, making a face he couldn't quite interpret, "…I mean she's been weird for awhile so I guess that's…good?" A voice muffled from his distance, but still loud enough for him to know it was male, butted into the conversation. Emma's face twisted in confusion, then lowered the receiver, "Uh, Gaston says "hello beast"."
"Oh, well tell him hello back then."
She raised the receiver back to her mouth, "Rumplestiltskin says hello back… Why is Belle's ex in your apartment this late at night? …oooookay… Uh huh… Yeah sure, I'll call you tomorrow afternoon. …okay… Bye."
Emma hung up, looking at him mystified, "So I guess they were at the station because Gaston beat up the Sheriff of Nottingham…" Mr. Gold snickered, "What's so funny?"
"Nothing, just an amusing image." He could think of a number of things that dirtbag would have said that would've drawn such ire.
"Mary Margaret's being weird, telling us to stay as long as we like and not to worry about anything "back home"," Emma said, "Makes me think there's something we definitely should be worried about going on."
"Whatever it is, I'm sure they have it handled," Mr. Gold insisted, "They were fighting these sorts of battles long before you arrived."
And they still had Belle… If they needed anything, they knew they could count on Belle.
Belle, however, was feeling less than reliable after her altercation with Keith Nottingham. She had barricaded herself in the bathroom once Hook escorted her home, too defeated to do much more than stare at the wall and wonder how this would end. Would the Charmings find a way to incapacitate her? Would Cora finally kill her and take the power herself? Could she even become the Dark One if she only killed his underling?
She refused to think of a future in which Cora succeeded in making her the reaping scythe of all the Queen of Hearts' enemies. And the only slim hope she clung to was that Rumple was stubborn enough to stay in New York City, to keep trying with Bae and not come back to the imminent slaughterhouse.
A low cry for help came from the other side of the door, making her lunge onto the empty bathtub's rim.
"You leave him alone!"
"Let me in and I will."
She flung the door open with a sweep of magic. Of course it was Hook standing there, holding Figaro at arm's length by the scruff of his neck. Though his body was limp, his tail lashed aggressively and there was murder in the young cat's eye.
"Give him to me!"
"Certainly. For some reason he doesn't seem to care for me."
He crossed the tiled floor and dumped Figgy onto her lap. Figaro hissed at the pirate before settling down on his mother's chest.
"He was waiting outside for you. I thought I should check and make sure you hadn't drowned."
"How noble of you."
She stroked Figaro, who started up a distressed purr. Hook shifted his weight from one foot to the other, refusing to either leave or say whatever words were knocking around in his head. Belle sighed, figuring she would break the awkward silence if he wouldn't.
"Is this revenge everything you ever wanted and more?" She scratched Figaro behind his ear, "It's a bit of a slow burn, I suppose. But why rush it?"
"It's not perfect," he admitted reluctantly.
"Is it not? His son won't speak to him, as far as he knows his wife can't stand him. You are well on your way to taking everything from him."
"It isn't...personal," he complained.
"Do you really think killing Milah was supposed to be personal to you?" She brushed her curls back with her free hand away from her face, "...what on earth are you going to do with all the free time you'll have after killing Rumple?"
Hook shrugged, "Drink myself to death, maybe, who knows."
Belle considered keeping the truth to herself, let the captain find out what was in store for him when his revenge was "complete". But, maybe if he knew, he would turn against Cora, maybe even successfully get the dagger from her. Truthfully, he was the lesser of two evils.
"There's something I should warn you about, if you're hellbent on this," she said. He folded his arms and arched an eyebrow, "...the curse transfers upon death. If you kill Rumplestiltskin, you will become the next Dark One."
Hook guffawed, "You're lying. You're still trying to save him."
"Why would I bring this up now, at the eleventh hour, if I was lying?"
"Because you just made it up."
"I didn't." She looked him square in the eye, "I wouldn't be surprised if Cora knew, and that she plans to kill him herself. I doubt I'll survive long enough to see who wins, but I wouldn't wish a Dark One Cora on anyone."
He was silent, shocked and mulling over all the implications this presented. Belle felt as if she had played the last ace up her sleeve and prayed Rumple would forgive her, that he'd understand. She could not think of a way to save them but maybe, just maybe, she could save other lives before she was gone for good.
III
He was prepared for the consequences of war. He knew it would take months, if not years, for his people to pick up the pieces left behind. Men healing physically and emotionally, building their businesses and farms back up after their absence. Families trying to fill the void left by fathers, brothers, sons who would never come back from the front lines. He was ready to throw his entire being into healing his fiefdom.
Maurice was not prepared for the wave of infant losses that would add insult to injury.
Callista's arm was tucked in his, and there was a certain pride straightening his spine as he helped steady his wife. Her gait had changed to a waddle as her pregnancy progressed, but she remained determined to see how their village's restoration was going. Huffing and puffing her way along the road, she forged ahead, stopping only to speak with the townsfolk. She remembered so many of these faces and names, one would have thought she had been born and raised here instead of him.
He was happy to let her do the talking, speaking only when addressed. If she had always been at his side, perhaps he would've been more social as his father wished.
A scream shattered the peaceful afternoon. A few houses down, a man stepped out with a basket until his arm, chased by a frantic woman.
"YOU CAN'T TAKE HIM FROM ME! HE'S MY SON!"
Conversations stopped. Villagers froze. The grip on Maurice's arm tightened.
"Exactly the point, my dear. Your firstborn, as was agreed upon."
The man turned on his heel to face her, and Maurice realized it was just the shape of a man. A creature with mottled scales and reptilian eyes, a delighted grin exposing rotting teeth.
"I never agreed to this!"
"Oh yes you did, dearie. That contract you signed, to make sure your husband," he pointed at the house where a man stood in the doorway, leaning on a crutch, "Returned from the front lines alive. I can show it to you again, if you actually want to read it through this time, but nothing's erasing that signature," he waggled his finger.
The newborn started to wail in the basket. The creature ignored him.
"Please," The mother begged, "I'll give you anything, just please give me Colton back."
The beast trilled, gesticulating and shaking his head like a jester performing for a crowd, "No refunds, returns or exchanges. All sales are FINAL! But one piece of advice for free... All magic comes with a price, and asking for a life is going to come at a steeeeep cost."
Maurice took a step forward. Callista's nails dug into him.
"Please," she breathed.
She was trembling, paler than a corpse. Her green eyes stared up at him, pleading him not to intervene. He opened his mouth to object; someone had to stop this, babies couldn't just be taken from their mother's arms because of a piece of parchment. It wasn't right.
But... What could he do? If it was as simple as the knife in his belt then surely someone else would have stepped up. He knew nothing of magic, only of its power, and confronting a beast so well-versed in it that he could save or destroy lives... He didn't stand a chance.
The mother collapsed, sobbing at the monster's feet. The father glared impotently from their home. Anyone else in the vicinity looked away or stared in horror. And the glittery imp just laughed at their pain, as if it was all a great joke he had pulled on a desperate wife.
For a brief moment, those dragon eyes looked their way. He sized Callista up, a predator contemplating its next meal. Callista shrank behind Maurice and he drew himself to his full height. Magic or no this thing would not lay a finger on Callista or their unborn child.
The monster's eyes moved over him but clearly didn't see Sir Maurice as anything more than another face in the crowd. In a plume of purple smoke, it disappeared, and took little Colton with it.
Callista sank and he caught her before she fell, scooping her up and carrying her back towards their home without another word. She was shaking so hard, silent tears streaming down her face as she stared blankly into the distance. He brought her to their safe space in the gardens. It felt ridiculous now, a married couple in broad daylight hiding behind rose bushes, but Callista's muscles were finally starting to relax. He held her in his lap, unable to speak after the evil they just witnessed.
She finally broke the silence, "This is just the beginning," she murmured, "Everyone has either made a deal with the Dark One or knows someone who did. He swept through this entire kingdom no better than a thief and took what he could."
"Did..." He couldn't get the question out; his mouth was too dry.
She shook her head vehemently, covering her swollen belly, "No. No I couldn't." Fresh tears spilled out, "The council wanted me to, but I couldn't. Not even for you." Her shoulders shook as she sobbed, "I'm sorry Moe... I'm so so sorry."
He squeezed her tightly to him, "No, no, you did the right thing. I would have never asked for you to trade our child away."
"I could have ended this war."
"It ended anyway."
Maybe it was selfish, to be glad his child wouldn't be taken from him, to be grateful his little family would remain whole while so many others were broken. But it felt equally callous to refuse to celebrate just because some weren't able to. Life was about treasuring these moments, knowing how easily they could be stolen.
She looked up at him, chin quivering, "Promise me. Promise me he'll never take our baby."
It was an absurd request. He would never give his child away to some beast. Even if it was a daughter, he would find her the strongest, bravest, most handsome knight he could, and give her the comfortable life so many parents only dreamed of. Their child would be adored, and would never wonder like he had as a boy if his father even cared about him.
"I promise."
II
Sleeping in a bathtub wasn't Belle's brightest idea but the soreness in her back was a welcome distraction from, well, everything else. Her temples throbbed a reminder that yes, dehydration was still a problem she had to consider when going on an alcoholic binge.
She managed to change her clothes and brush her hair before a rush of magic took her outside of the house. Facing the two queens right away wasn't exactly making this morning any better.
"Good morning," Cora purred, smirking without humor, "It sounds like you had a busy night."
"Not really, I just went out for a drink," Belle said, folding her arms against the chill.
"Seems there was a disturbance at the tavern last night."
"Now that you mention it, I do think there was something going on with Keith." She shrugged dismissively, "He's always getting into fights."
"Do you really think it's wise to be calling attention to yourself like that?"
"I don't think any of this is wise but now is an odd time to question it."
"Belle."
Regina's soft interjection sounded less like an admonishment and more like a warning. Belle finally took in their surroundings. Downtown, in broad daylight, and yet... It was far too quiet. Nothing was open, or even occupied. They were the only ones on the sidewalk.
"...where is everyone?" Belle wondered out loud.
"It appears while we were sleeping, your ex-boyfriend was busy telling anyone he could get a hold of that Captain Hook was in port and blackmailing you," Cora said, "Even if that story held up to any scrutiny, the pirate will squeal the moment the mob is at his door. Honestly this charade has gone on far too long already."
That. Idiot. Bless his stupid little heart, but Gaston was about to drag the entire town down with them.
A door opened across the street and a man carrying a sandwich board shuffled out, letting Storybrooke know that "Game of Thorns" was now open.
...no.
Belle's head whipped towards Cora, who was grinning, "I'll be right back, I just need to get an insurance policy. You know, in case you decide to do anything else...unwise."
NO.
But Cora was already crossing the street and Belle's heart was pounding. She grabbed the other Mills woman by the wrist.
"Regina please," she begged, even now keeping her voice low as if she could hide her desperation from Cora, "Please Regina... You know he's not involved with any of this. He's innocent."
Regina refused to look at Belle, keeping her eyes on the horizon, "He's connected to you, that's sin enough."
"He's my papa," Belle's voice broke over the word, tears welling in her eyes, "I know you hate me but please... Think of your own father."
"I killed my own father to get what I wanted," Regina hissed, "Are you willing to sacrifice him to give Snow White a few more hours? You'll run out of slippery words eventually."
Belle turned her head towards her father who, while tense, seemed to be taking his conversation with Cora in stride. Despite their estrangement since her deal with the Dark One, if it was between him and Snow White... She knew who she would choose. And so did Cora and Regina.
In New York City, the tension in the hotel lobby was palpable. Even before Henry, Emma, and himself had arrived, Neal had been on the phone pacing around and speaking rather emphatically to someone.
"I know I'm being vague but trust me, you don't want to know. Just...some big complications have come up I need to deal with... I don't have time today but I'll..." He turned and noticed the trio, "...call you later."
He snapped his phone shut and, after tentative glances at both grown-ups, he smiled at Henry.
"Hey, you ready to go see the sights?"
"Yeah!"
Mr. Gold jolted as something brushed against him. It took him a moment to realize that Henry, as casually as if they had been close all his life, had slipped his hand into Mr. Gold's. Neal bristled, his smile wavering.
"I, ah, thought this was going to be a father-son thing."
"It is." Henry stepped forward, stretching the connection between grandfather and grandson, "Mom can hang out at the hotel."
"Henry I don't think-"
The boy gave him a look that Mr. Gold swore Belle had taught him, "We have a mission, remember?"
Neal's smile completely faded, "Are you putting him up to this?"
"I'm not putting him up to anything," Mr. Gold protested, "I have no idea what he's talking about."
"He doesn't know yet, I just came up with Operation Rose this morning," Henry assured Neal.
"Operation Rose?" Mr. Gold and Neal echoed.
"Oh god," Emma muttered, "It's too early for this."
"I've got to get you up to speed," Henry told Neal, still insistently tugging on Mr. Gold like a stubborn puppy on a leash, "Grandpa Gold's having marriage problems."
Neal shook his head, "Grandpa? Marriage?"
"Come on," Henry said, trying his best to get Mr. Gold moving.
Mr. Gold glanced back at Emma, hoping for a voice of reason. She frowned before stepping towards Henry.
"You go ahead, kid. Mr. Gold and I will... Catch a show or something."
"I'm not going without him," Henry insisted, "He's waited so long for this, it wouldn't be right."
He suddenly felt very hot in his jacket, pleadingly looking at Neal. Neal's look back told him exactly what he feared; he didn't believe that Henry wasn't being manipulated. The boy was trying in his own sweet misguided way, but was only digging a deeper hole for Mr. Gold to try and crawl out of.
Neal shrugged, "Fine, they can come. Someone's gotta carry the souvenirs and pay the tabs."
Henry cheered, missing the sarcasm. Mr. Gold reluctantly followed along as they left the hotel, Emma keeping pace beside him. Once Henry was sure Mr. Gold wouldn't turn back around, he let go of his hand and ran to catch up with his father.
"She's still not talking to you?" Emma asked gently.
Mr. Gold shook his head, "I...left a pretty nasty message yesterday. I should apologize but... I don't think I'll get anything other than the answering machine again."
"I think something's in the water," she confided, shoving her hands into her pockets, "Hasn't felt right since we got back. First it was just Belle, but now Mary Margaret's doing her squeaky "definitely not up to something" voice. You think they're hiding something?"
He shook his head, "I think the separation cleared Belle's head and she's realizing how unhappy she's been."
"Shut up," Emma rolled her eyes, "Take it from someone who had to bunk with the two horniest Disney princesses to exist, she's head over heels for you. When you love someone as much as she does, you don't just wake up and change your mind one day. It clings to you like...like gum in your hair and no peanut butter or scissors in sight."
"Poetic," he remarked.
"What do you want?!" She snapped, her attention focused straight ahead.
Neal, who had been glancing back occasionally, shrugged at Emma, "I heard something about Disney princesses and was curious."
"We're talking about your stepmom Belle. As in Beauty from Beauty and the Beast."
"What?"
"It's true!" Henry piped up, "He's the Beast!"
Neal tripped, having to steady himself against a streetlight, "...so you locked a girl in your dungeon because her dad stole from you?!"
"No!" Henry insisted.
Mr. Gold shrugged, "Sort of, the first bit anyway. It's a long story."
"Yeah, I'm sure," Neal whirled back around, stomped forward a few steps, then twisted back around, "Did you turn people into singing furniture?!"
"No!" Emma insisted.
"...well not singing furniture..." Mr. Gold said.
Neal threw his hands up in the air in exasperation, "You haven't changed at all," he gestured wildly at Emma, "Why are you letting our son around him?!"
Emma shrugged helplessly, "Because at least he's not actively trying to murder the other set of grandparents like the adoptive mom?"
Neal sighed, facing forward again, "I'm so sorry, kid. I failed you big time."
"It's alright," Henry said, "Now, left or right to the library?"
"Left."
Mr. Gold was becoming painfully aware how much walking was going to be involved in today's excusion. A few city blocks could hardly compare to the small town main street he was used to, strangers nipping at his heels and brushing past him with irritated scowls. He kept his cane close so no one would get the urge to kick it out from under him. It was claustrophobic and he wondered if maybe it was best for him to find a quiet corner to hide in, let the young able-bodied family enjoy their bonding.
But then he'd see Bae turn his head ever so slightly to look back, hear him shout "slow down kid" or "I promise the library's not going anywhere". He wondered if his boy remembered him saying similar things when they went to market. Maybe, deep down, there was still a chance for the son he knew and the father that used to be to truly reconcile.
Finally, the lions came into view. Henry ran up to one and spun around, looking as though he were heading a tour.
"Phase One of Operation Rose; you need to woo her, remind her of the man she fell in love with. Now, if you're going to show someone you love them, what do you give them?" He asked.
Thrown for a loop, the three adults glanced amongst each other.
"Flowers?" Mr. Gold ventured.
"Chocolates?" Emma offered.
"Promises you don't intend to keep?" Neal muttered.
Henry sighed, "Amateurs. No, you give them something meaningful. Belle likes books sooooo..."
Mr. Gold glanced up at the building, frowning, "...Henry this is a public institution, I can't just buy her a New York City Public Library." ...maybe one of the smaller ones...
"Not a whole library," Henry insisted, as if that were obvious, "There's a gift shop in the library. Get her something so she knows you were thinking of her."
"Overpriced tchotchkes aren't the way to a woman's heart," Emma said.
"No, but the right novel might be," Mr. Gold mused, heading towards the steps.
The library was breathtaking and it pained him to see it without Belle. She would have gushed over the collections, explaining to him the significance of this manuscript or why such-and-such was of historical value. Photographs could not do it justice but he tried, and vowed to bring her here someday.
If he could win her back.
He spent far too much time in the gift shop, resisting the urge to buy everything that reminded him of her. He settled on a singular book; Massimo Listri's The World's Most Beautiful Libraries. It was the closest he was likely to get to giving her every library in the world.
Emma supposed things could be going worse. The bar was admittedly just a couple inches off the ground, but there'd be no fighting and the tension was only intermittent. Neal had been charmed by Henry even faster than she had and seemed determined to make the most out of their time together. It hurt to watch them together, to be forced to see how much of Neal was in their son. Things seemed to roll off them like water off a duck's back, but they were just both exceptionally good at masking their pain.
There had been a brief spat when Neal had presented her with a keychain he had gotten from the gift shop. She still refused to accept it after promises that he had bought it and could even show her the receipt; that wasn't the point. But he moved on to the topic of lunch, and where the best place to get pizza was, and Emma was feeling like a third wheel on the father-son trip, as she feared.
She glanced over at Gold to see if he was feeling equally awkward and saw him stepping back, pulling his vibrating phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the number, puzzled, but answered.
"Hello." The puzzled expression only intensified as the speaker on the other end relayed their message, "...excuse me?" The caller then apparently repeated themselves. Mr. Gold stood there, staring off into space, the color draining from his face, "...I see. Yes. I'll pick it up as soon as I can." He hung up, his body starting to shake.
Emma broke away from Neal and Henry, moving towards him, "Mr. Gold?"
He didn't register her at first, his expression flitting from shock to fear to panic before finally settling on rage. He met her gaze, his voice thick and his lips curling back in a snarl.
"It was Cora," he seethed, "It was Cora all this time."
Bile rose in Emma's throat, "She's in Storybrooke?"
"She has Belle." His voice broke over the name.
No further explanation needed, he turned on his heel and stormed away.
III
The Dark One collecting on promises made spread through their community like a plague, stealing what was most valued from those who had signed contracts in a moment of weakness or dire need. It became taboo to ask after newborns and no one made eye contact with pregnant women in the streets. It wasn't just the children; herds shrank, family heirlooms suddenly misplaced, treasure vanishing into mid-air.
Maurice asked his council several times what could be done to stop the vulture picking clean the bones of their people. The answer was always the same; nothing. Nothing could be done about contracts signed willingly but not read. Nothing could be done to ward off a monster who fed off misery and desperation. No power existed to rival that of the Dark One except perhaps the Blue Fairy, but no one dared to trouble her.
Generations upon generations upon generations had dealt with this menace and their best tool remained avoidance. Don't speak the Dark One's name. Do not attract his attention. Keep your troubles to yourself and ignore temptation for a magical solution.
All Maurice wanted was to keep his wife from waking in the middle of the night screaming from nightmares, stumbling towards an empty crib while their child wasn't yet born. Her terror infected him and he had his own nightmares of an empty castle and a childish voice taunting him.
All magic comes with a price.
"If I go down I'll never get back up."
"Of course you will, dear."
"I can't take that chance."
Callista leaned against the tree he was propositioning they sit under, trying to coax her into rest. They had paced the gardens several times over but that didn't seem to be settling their little lord or lady down.
"I'll go to the kitchens, fetch you something for indigestion," he offered.
She shook her head impatiently, "It's not indigestion."
"Well you said it wasn't the baby's positioning, or your feet, or your back, so what is it?"
"You can't just fix everything, Moe," she hissed, fingers digging into the bark, "Some things just are."
"But-"
She bent forward, a strangled whimper slipping past her lips. His jaw dropped as it suddenly clicked into place.
"Is this, are you in your labors?"
"I don't know," she lamented, "I didn't want to trouble anyone if they're false."
"By the gods Cal! I'm going to get help."
"No, please." Her face turned towards his, holding both the pain of her contraction and the fear of the trial ahead, "Stay with me."
He hesitated, his wife's pleading a strong argument to stay. But he couldn't, wouldn't let her go through this with just his untrained hands and her and their child's health at stake.
"I won't be gone long," he promised and then ran.
He went through the castle, grabbing whoever he could and sending them back to the gardens. He warned the midwives and made sure everything was in order in the room they had prepared for this occasion. He found a chair and set it by the bed.
Maurice heard her before he saw her, crying out as her handmaids and servants ushered her to the birthing chambers. The sound sliced through his heart and he didn't know how he was supposed to endure that noise for however many hours it would take. Callista's wild eyes searched the room.
"I'm here!" He called and she looked over to him.
She kept her eyes as best as she could on him as they eased her onto the bed, stripping her down to her underdress. He reached out his hand and she took it, grasping it with all her strength.
"My lord."
Maurice turned towards the midwife and straightened, ready to receive his instructions, prepared to do whatever was asked of him in order to help.
"You will need to leave."
Except for that.
Maurice stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, "Whatever needs my attention can wait. This is my priority right now."
"Childbirth is a ghastly sight, my lord."
"So is watching men be torn apart by ogres. I will not miss my first child's birth."
"You'll be in the way." One of the maids insisted, "The focus is on her ladyship, not you."
Callista's nails dug into his palm, "Moe please. Don't leave me."
They were right, though. He would be no use to those trying to help Callista, and what if he didn't move out of the way fast enough? What if he distracted them and something were to happen?
He turned to her, "I will be right outside the door, love."
"Please."
"Right outside."
He squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead before letting go. Her grip lingered for a moment before she let him go, and he felt her eyes on his back as he abandoned her to go through the ordeal alone.
He posted himself right outside the door and stayed put, a living statue politely refusing food and drink and distraction. The screaming and crying continued through the day and well into the night; he could only imagine what was going on through the other side of the wall. His exhaustion seemed a weak comparison to what poor Cal was going through and while he wasn't a religious man, he still sent prayers to any gods that were listening to help her.
Towards the break of a new day, he was aware of the silence that had fallen in the room. Fear gripped him but he resisted the urge to barge in. One by one, servants and midwives filtered out, giving him reassuring smiles.
Finally, the maid that had exiled him opened the door, "They're ready for you, my lord."
It was an odd feeling, being shy as he entered the room. As if the child would remember their introduction or judge him harshly if he fumbled. Dawn's first light filtered through the window, but wasn't nearly as bright as the shine in Callista's eyes. A bundle was resting on her chest, her arms loosely supporting it.
When she looked up and smiled at him, all of his exhaustion faded away.
"It's a girl," she croaked.
He approached the side of the bed, heart hammering. He shouldn't be relieved; every man with a title wanted a son. But he also didn't have to worry about causing the same hurt that had been inflicted upon him as a first born son. Girls were easier, everyone said so. And if she were half as lovely as her mother, then she would be a blessing.
The light blue wool blanket swallowed the tiny thing on Callista's breast. A fear of accidentally crushing something so new and fragile overwhelmed him, especially as Callista spoke.
"You should hold her."
"I'll break her," he protested.
"No you won't. Just make sure you support her head."
Gingerly, he accepted the bundle into his arms, Callista lightly correcting his posture. The child didn't cry out, or struggle to get away from him. She shifted a little, and then her big blue eyes looked up at him.
He was lost, completely defenseless against the little girl in his arms. A pulse of love and devotion so strong, he couldn't keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks. This was his daughter. His child. He loved her instantly, completely and unconditionally.
And he would protect her no matter what. Nothing was going to hurt her as long as he had the power to keep her safe from harm.
"What should we call her?" Callista asked.
Maurice blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Belle. Because she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
IIIIII
Here's my yearly-ish reminder that I am, in fact, not dead, just buried under the weight of adulthood and capitalism. At least I'm stubborn?
Sneak peek: Queue up "The Mob Song". The calvary's finally on the way but will it be soon enough? How much more can Cora mess things up by chapter's end?