Bigby staggered into the Mortar and Pestle three days later with a bloody nose, a gash across his forehead, and a black eye. Helen took one look at him and told him to take a seat and that she'd be back. He pulled out a bar stool and slumped into it as she opened a door behind the bar. Peering up the stairs and inhaling deeply, he could tell that she lived in the apartment above the bar. She jogged down the stairs, returning with a washcloth and a bag of frozen peas.
"Here."
Helen watched Bigby dab at his face ineffectively until she couldn't stand it anymore. Leaning over the bar, she took the washcloth out of his hands without a word and began to clean out the cut on his forehead. Again, a deep familiarity struck him, but he could not understand why.
"What happened?"
"Some trolls don't like being told that their parties are too loud. Especially while a party is in swing."
She shook her head. "They just take it out of you whenever they can get it, don't they?"
He let out a bark of a laugh and their eyes met. Her face was close enough to his that he closed his eyes, pushing away the discomfort and the twist in his stomach that her proximity caused. Helen continued to clean out the cut, taking in the details of his face while his eyes were closed. She had never really seen him in human form before. She finished cleaning the cut and leaned back.
"That's better at least." Helen handed him the bag of peas.
Bigby held the bag to his eye, thankful for the numbing effect of the cold. A moment later Helen placed a pilsner in front of him.
"On the house."
Bigby gave her a smile with the half of his mouth that wasn't busted, then looked around. For the first time, he noticed there were others there. An elderly man with a long white beard sat talking to Doctor Swineheart. Their eyes met and Bigby watched Swineheart let out a annoyed groan.
"Why, Helen? Why?"
"He's got a right to be somewhere calm as much as you, doctor."
"Yes, but he distinctly undoes my calm," Doctor Swineheart sighed.
Bigby turned and gave the Doctor, who was sitting in an armchair by the fire, a small wave. The Doctor rolled his eyes in return and turned back to his conversation.
Helen smirked and turned her full attention on Bigby. "What are you doing to our poor doctor?"
"Fables don't really like me," he replied with a shrug, taking a gulp of his beer.
"I bet you have some interesting stories at least."
"Oh good Lord," Swineheart huffed from his chair. Bigby smiled again, realizing what she was trying to do.
"Someone went after me with some silver bullets recently. That was interesting."
Helen's eyebrows darted up into her bangs. "Silver? That's effort. Someone really had it out for you."
Bigby nodded. "The Crooked Man."
"Bet that left a mark."
"Cluster of scars in my right shoulder."
She shook her head sympathetically. "You've probably gotten more ass kickings here than when we lived in the Homelands."
Bigby warmed to the topic, shrugging off his coat and pulling up his sweater sleeve. Warping his left arm around his elbow was a web of scars. "Bloody Mary's axe, and then boot."
"It doesn't look new…" she murmured, impressed.
"They rarely last. The silver ones will though."
And with that comment they both found themselves looking at the scars on Helen's wrists. Tattooed or not, the scars had come from ugly wounds and had never gone away.
"What happened?" Bigby asked.
Helen's eyes snapped to his face. The odor of pain and disappointment washed over him, rolling off her in waves. She moved away from him, to the other end of the bar, and began to clean glasses. With her back to him, she said, "Ask Buffkin."
Swineheart chose that moment to approach her and pay his tab. But as she took his money he caught her hand. The look on the doctor's face was a new one to Bigby: complete sympathy. Helen gave his hand a squeeze and then he was gone, followed by Grandfather Frost.
Helen did not speak to him or look his way the rest of the time he was there. Bigby finished his drink and silently left.
Back at the Woodlands he headed for the Business Office. Snow was out (mercifully) and Boy Blue was leaning back in his chair, playing a cheerful tune on his horn.
"I need to find information about a Fable. Where's Buffkin?"
The monkey flew down, more sober than usual.
"Who are we looking for, Bigby?"
"Her name's Helen."
Bufkin scratched his head. "That doesn't really narrow it down."
"She's northern, maybe Norse or Rus?"
"How do you figure?" Boy Blue interjected.
"She owns a bar called the Mortar and Pestle." After blank looks from the boy, Bigby sighed. "Baba Yaga?"
"Got it!" Bufkin said as he took to the air. Shortly he was back with a volume. As Bigby had guessed it was the volume on the Rus Fables.
Cracking it open, Bufkin read:
Helen the Beautiful - A princess of her kingdom, Ivan was required to fetch her in order to be spared by a different king. A wolf captured her and brought her to Ivan. They then traveled, riding on the wolf's back, to the kingdom. Ivan's brothers were intensely jealous as he had already captured the Firebird and the Horse with the Golden Mane.
The door opened and Snow walked in, stopping in her tracks for a moment when she saw Bigby. It was things like that, little hesitations and unstated objections to his presence, that wore on him.
"Continue," he said to Bufkin and the flying monkey resumed:
They cut him into pieces before Helen's eyes and threatened her with death. She was nearly forced to marry the oldest brother, but was saved by the wolf. She now lives in Fabletown, running the Mortar and Pestle with Jill of Jack and Jill. She was one of the first Fables to arrive in the mundy world.
It was as if a door had opened in Bigby's mind. He reeled as the memories pounded down on him like a waterfall and clutched at his head. After being alive for hundreds of years, there was so much he had remembered but so much he had forgotten. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for an explanation since he rarely wanted information without a reason.
"I… I remember her… I knew her…"
"What do you mean?" Snow pressed, sounding annoyed.
"I'm the wolf in that story."