She is, or was, the key figure to a story untold.
And yet, somehow, to this day, that version of her still lives on inside his head.
Premonitions for it come around every so often. Belonging to a future that never was, and one that shall never be.
Foresight is one of the few abilities Rumplestiltskin held that remains beyond even his meticulous control and understanding. No matter how extensively he trains his own mind to prevent apparitions from coming forth he cannot always make them remain at bay or discourage certain ones from materializing to the forefront of his awareness completely. Some visions are just too strong to be held back; they demand themselves to be seen and heard, and even felt.
Emma is always amongst the most powerful of them.
When these vague visions would strike in the past—in those early years after the Dark Curse had been thwarted and lost—Rumplestiltskin had come to learn of the futility of trying to fight them back. Even though they hurt deeply, to see snippets of that strange land where he knew his son was lost to, he begrudgingly began to accept them as the rare and heart shattering occurrence that they were. At least back then, as terrible of a notion and rationalization as it was, he didn't actually see Bealfire in any of them. It made envisioning them inconvenient but somehow manageable.
Until the day he'd inadvertently stumbled upon the one component, green-eyed and fair haired that she was, that made having them slightly more bearable and, one could even say, conductive to his growing interests.
But recent choices and vindictive decisions have made that one time concession to their will and pervasive presence nearly insufferable. Making Rumplestiltskin more focused and determined than ever to push every one of those visions as far back as he possibly could. Strike them down and let each rot away unseen into the void of trivial nothingness where they belonged.
They served no greater purpose or function anymore, nor did they satisfy anything left of that once budding and boundless curiosity for the one girl who occupied them the most.
Truthfully, he could barely comprehend as to why he was still getting them. Wasn't the whole point of seeing the future was that it was a glimpse at something that hadn't happened yet, that it could still possibly happen? Not project an outcome that would not be occurring at all; not now, not ever.
That future was as good as gone.
(Despite the technicalities of it still being a forthcoming period in time, as the 28 year stretch of what should have been the cursed chapter of the inhabitants lives has not yet passed in this current stream of events— the only working theory Rumplestiltskin had to justify it; concluding that the timelines still flowed as is, running at the same pace, parallel to one another. Beyond any reach but still active in some unknown capacity. His anguish unrivaled by the futility to alter it.)
So it seemed, at its core, an unnecessarily cruel burden to bear.
He doesn't want to have to see Emma still. Not after what he had willfully and so spitefully done to her. And yet they come. And he is powerless to stop them.
Every single time they do.
.
.
.
.
She is deeply shaken when he finally gets the chance to see her.
Collecting in on the allowance reluctantly given over to the Dark One by the Queen herself to visit with the younger woman in private; to inspect with his own ever studious eyes the miserable condition she resided in.
Rumplestiltskin finds her collapsed, blonde head bowed, dressed in a long pale blue but dirtied shift, cradling herself in the furthest corner from the doorway. The room itself is in a state of utter disarray; objects having been flung and scattered all around. Broken pieces of wood and glass riddle the floor in the devastating aftermath of some chaotic symphony of unleashed violence as he steps over them with practiced ease to make his way towards her huddled form.
Emma looks up sharply through tear encrusted eyelashes as his shadow descends over her body, cloaking it with its cool embrace of darkness. She's as much of as mess in appearance as the rest of her surroundings were; having wrought down upon herself as equally as she has the items that decorated the once pristine space into its present desolation. She's visibly relieved to see him standing there.
It's sweet, really, though also a little strange, to witness firsthand such appreciation and welcoming of his appearance at one's side. Generally, people would know to rue the day the Dark One stumbled into their lives, and here this poor girl was showing nothing but unabashed relief at the mere and ongoing possibility of it.
Rumplestiltskin quickly admonishes her for the mess.
Emma pouts, fear easing from her form (because he's there now to protect her from herself, she must be thinking) while asking, "what are you doing here?"
He offers her a hand first, which she takes. Pulls her to a stand with ease. Even brushes off a few stray flakes of timber and dust from her shoulders. He speaks of it as she moves, stepping past him to survey—likely for the first time with a calmed mindset—the disaster that has become of her bedchamber. Telling her the circumstances surrounding his presence as she walks around cautiously through the wreckage, informing her of the surprising but no less pleasing series of unfortunate events that had brought him to her this day.
"Really?" Emma looked back at him skeptically. "They want you to teach me?"
"Why not me?" Rumplestiltskin argued, a little put off by her reaction. "I've taught you plenty over the years."
"Little things. And in secret. Nothing harmful," she contested, adding adamantly, "I don't want to learn dark magic."
Aggrieved by her pointedly narrow minded viewpoint, he told her frankly, "like it or not, dearie, your power is becoming a problem. If the state of your bedroom is any indication to its evolving nature; it's now beyond your limited control. Maturing alongside you as you grow older. And just like you, it's becoming increasingly restless. And so it's lashing out for attention."
He expects the harshly framed explanation to effectively silence the willful girl. Leaving her unable to argue against the reality as she stood dead center in it. But, of course Emma would never allow herself to be brought down to a yield so simply without her final say on the matter.
"Your plan all along?" she asked sweetly, overripe with accusation.
He forgets sometimes how well versed she has become at reading him after so many years of their surreptitious and unconventional friendship.
Obviously, Rumplestiltskin had deduced early on that Emma's magic would become more than she would be able to handle on her own without some measure of formal training. It was simply too powerful at its root (which was what had sparked his initial curiosity to begin with) and was growing in strength and potency at an exceptional rate; beyond even his normally infallible estimations. Should it be left to fester inside of her unbridled as it has, it would only continue to build and build until it reached its inevitable breaking point.
One could only imagine the repercussions if allowed to. The mayhem and destruction surrounding the two of them was proof enough of the possibilities.
Her parents were well within their right to be concerned.
"Honestly Rum, were you waiting for this to happen?" Emma asked firmly, her tone serious this time. "Working an angle no one else saw to get something that you want from me? Or from my parents?"
Only an ignorant fool would assume that Rumplestiltskin would not have already figured out the answer to a question pertaining to one's magic long before they themselves ever thought to ask it. He'd made it his life's work to be the de facto know-it-all to all things magic or magic related (an essential component to his centuries spanning quest to be reunited with his son) when he'd become the vessel to one of the most influential and potent forms of its darkest representations. As a dealmaker, it was just good business sense.
And Emma—by now fully aware of that reputation, having been raised around many of those unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with him and their bitter stories to tell of it—had quickly sussed out that he'd at least suspected, if not full on anticipated, that this would be happening to her. Just as she would hone in on and most certainly snuff out, as only she could, any attempts to lie about it now.
So Rumplestiltskin told her the most honest thing he could say.
"Even I didn't see this one coming."
.
.
.
.
She is intoxicated, and entirely intoxicating.
"Emma the Swan."
Rumplestiltskin observed aloud excitedly, slipping in to stand next to her dazzling dressed and feather clad form. The ball being held in her honour is a happy and grand affair, nothing less for the kingdom's most beloved and only princess' birthday celebration. "It's quite fitting."
"How so?" She inquired, turning her ivory masked and slightly glazed stare to him, unbothered by his swift appearance by her side; having likely anticipated it's eventual occurrence, considering the strings he had had pulled to allow it.
He chooses not to answer that question, only flashes her a knowing and cryptic smile.
Green eyes rolling, she turns away; taking a moment to admire and smile faintly at the the cheerful pairs dancing away together, her glowing parents centrally positioned amongst them, before taking a long and deliberate sip from the drink she held in her hand. Swallowing the large gulp, Emma glances back at his attire pointedly.
"I see you've chosen to forgo a costume this evening, despite the fact that it's a masquerade."
"Nonsense, dearie," he argued with a deliberate pout, and with a purposeful flick of his wrist produced an elaborate and darkly detailed mask to contrast with her own. "See," he held it up to his face, "I'm a crocodile."
She snorted a laugh at that.
"That's why you weaseled your way in, isn't it? You're on the prowl," she nodded, unsurprised, suspicious, but still somehow amused. "Do tell, who is the unfortunate and unsuspecting prey this evening?"
Rumplestiltskin instinctively glances at her partially covered face (a troubling tick, he realizes), then slowly down the expense of her finely dressed body. The elaborate gown she wore offering much to be admired and blatantly gawked at by many of the young men in attendance—a sight scratching dangerously close to his own corruptible and possessive heart, at the innocence the ensemble deceptively evoked to all those around who did not know better of what the woman who wore it was truly capable of. What she had nearly done—but Emma doesn't seem to notice or care. Too busy sipping away at her wine again.
He wills the jarring desires still, then forcibly sets them aside.
"No business tonight, only pleasure." Rumplestiltskin assured coming back to himself. "You see, it's a very special occasion for me."
Snatching a goblet of his own from the tray of a passing servant to set the stage for some light fun, he asked. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've had a formal invitation to attend a ball?"
He sipped at his wine, then declared scandalously, "ages."
"Longer than that, I'm sure." She quipped. Grinned at the charade despite herself, raising her own goblet mockingly to play along with a scathing salute. "Well, then, here's to your night of freedom, embezzled from my well intending parents as it was. I do so hope you enjoy yourself."
With that, Emma finishes her drink and walks away.
Some hours later, once the high of the night's joyous festivities had begun to wane and the beckoning call of sleep had taken root and drawn many of the evenings guest to seek out their beds, Rumplestiltskin finds himself sitting alone in the dark with a drunkenly swan princess.
She had attempted to sneak off unnoticed near the end. But of course, having not truly allowed her to evade his sights for too long—particularly after a brief dance he had only just persuaded her into simply to cause some amusing and irritable distress to Snow and Charming—Rumplestiltskin had seen her slip away. Had swiftly followed along, actually followed her, step for step, not just poofed himself to her side. A chase that had soon brought him here, to one of the smaller more secluded gardens not far off from the grand hall.
There Emma lays on the grass a scattered and lovely mess, shades of stark whites grinding against flushed skin. Glittery mask abandoned at her side. Blonde hair still, somehow, bound firmly in place, though some ringlets have indeed managed to make their escape. While a bottle rests upright on her stomach, held loosely by one hand. She's staring up airly at the vast and endless sky above, the twinkle of the stars pulling at her hazy eyes from here to there and over again.
"I'm still very mad at you, you know."
She says it out of the blue. Again unbothered, or even really that annoyed, by his persistent invasion of her space tonight. It appears their years of acquaintance have taught her to expect rather than reject it (as all others naturally would).
He is rather curious to know now if she's been training more diligently to better sense another's magical presence, with how quickly she's been able to single him out amongst the abundance of magic users in attendance this evening. Not an easy feat to accomplish. Though, truthfully, he'd not bothered to cloak himself from detection, having felt no need for it for the occasion. Instead, taking great pleasure in being allowed, for once in the kingdom of the revered Charmings, to move around so openly without question or confrontation (though suspicious stares did still follow him throughout the evening—more so whenever his masked crocodile broadly engaged with the willful and tempting swan).
Regardless, Rumplestiltskin bears no remorse for his involvement in thwarting her attempt at cold blooded murder, and so feels no need to justify his decision to intervene on her parent's behalf. It got him his golden ticket. A deal well made for the sake of spending a night together in a capacity that did not require their usual need for secrecy.
Still, eager to engage her. "My dear Lady Swan, shall we negotiate the terms for your forgiveness?"
A few minutes of back and forth bartering ensures, but an agreement is quickly made (she wants to visit Camelot in secret, to study a tree she'd heard a compelling prophecy about—that perpetual savior compulsion of hers at work, yet again) and then they're left sitting together quietly and in comfortably amiable terms once more.
He wanted to know why.
"It's stupid," Emma admits, setting aside the almost empty bottle she still held after one last swig, as if to give herself that final dose of liquid courage to speak of it.
"I sneak out here every year to make a wish. I close my eyes," she does just that, "and ask for this to be real. For it to stay like this, just for a little while longer. As if it shouldn't be, but somehow it is. Because I keep wishing for it to be."
She opens her eyes, then leans her head on his shoulder drowsily.
"I'm not sure why I need to, but I always do. Like if I don't it'll all start to fade away or something."
Such a silly girl, with her trite hopes and dreams. A voice inside his head ridiculed, his own but not entirely so. Doesn't she know that a wish spoken out loud won't come true?
A contorted sounding laughter erupts, dancing dangerously close to his ear. And Rumplestiltskin swears as it does he just catches sight of a willowy and black hooded figure standing half-hidden amongst the rose filled bushes.
He means to move towards it, but Emma has just dozed off. He finds suddenly that he does not have the heart to wake her.
'Let her dream of these peaceful times,' he thinks.
Let her enjoy them while they last.
Author's Notes:
A little holiday treat :)
Long overdue update, but I hope worth the wait.
I really am committed to this story and continue to write it (as slowly as I do) and appreciate all your guys' patience with me. I am determined to finish it. I even have a few of the next sections drafted, just need to edit them a bit more and sort out the order to pair each so as not to make it all too confusing. I do hope this chapter was easy enough to follow.
(Did I get y'all with the second part here? Made you think Rumple had conceded to his mistake and gone to see an alive but imprisoned Emma? —Nah, he gets to keep on suffering and our poor heroine's status will have to remain unknown for a little while longer.)
As always, thanks for reading. Xoxoxo