AN: Sorry if this chapter is boring, everyone. Have some setup, some talking, and some waxing poetical about medieval living~
I: Nightfall
"It's not much further..." He called back to her, moving down the hillside at an awkward gait, limping sideways a step before moving down the slope.
Emma stopped at the top of the hill, looking down at the hamlet spread before them. In the fading light, the horizon looked uglier than ever, smeared like blood across the sky, mingling with the sunset. Smoke rose in lazy swirls from the various structures. Some were made of stone and resembled more proper houses, others were little more than wooden hovels. The low roofs were made of thatch and grasses, swaying gently in the breeze.
She realized he was far ahead of her now, nearly to the bottom of the hill, and she hurried after him, stumbling as twigs and rocks bit into her bare feet. He'd given her his outer tunic, a rough-woven garment that fell to her knees, leaving her legs bare and her arms uncovered past the elbows. He'd helped her fasten the cloak properly around her shoulders to give her the illusion of being more dressed and a bit of protection against the cold wind. He himself wore only a linen undershirt and his close-fitting trousers now, but he had not complained.
They met back up at the bottom of the hill, and he nodded towards a low stone structure to their left, on the outskirts of the settlement. "My home," He said shortly, hurrying forward again, keeping his head down.
Other people milled about, dressed in similar worn, simple clothing. Some called to one another, and somewhere, Emma could hear a child crying as a woman sang, her soft voice floating on the evening air. She could smell cooking meat and what smelled like livestock, though she couldn't make out any animals in the fading light. No one paid any attention to the man limping into the furthest house, and she hurried after him, not wanting to be noticed either.
There was no door, only a heavy panel of skins sewn together to create a thick, flexible barrier. Pushing it aside, she blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. He leaned over the large hearth that dominated the far wall, striking two pieces of flint together until he had a spark.
He spent a long time worrying the wood with a pointed stick, teasing the embers until a pleasant fire took root. Finally, he turned to face her, leaning heavily on the staff. "There's some clothes in that trunk over there..." He said nodding to the shadows to her left. "You might find something that fits you."
"Thanks," She said, moving where he had indicated. She found the large wooden chest, covered in baskets of thread and a cloth covered in drying nuts. Carefully setting the items aside, she pushed back the lid. The chest held rough bundles of fabric, a few bits of earthenware crockery, and a pair of shoes that appeared to be made of hemp.
In one corner, she found a polished bit of bone china, a beautiful shade of rosy pink, wrapped carefully in a thick bit of fur. Re-wrapping it, she returned it to its place. Unrolling the clothing, she found a few tunics of varying sizes and a long chemise that seemed to be made for a woman.
Emma glanced over her shoulder to see he was sitting on a rough wooden stool, his back to her as he stirred various things into an iron pot that looked more like a witch's cauldron than any cooking equipment she was familiar with. She watched him work for a few minutes, realizing he had a store of spices and herbs set very low to the floor, where he could reach them easily as he sat.
Turning away, she carefully removed the cloak and tunic, folding them over the chest, before pulling the chemise over her head. It fit well enough, a bit short on her legs, leaving her ankles uncovered. She wondered if that would be a problem here. After debating, she pulled the smallest, longest of the tunics over that, using one of the cloth sashes to tie it around the waist. She put the shoes on the floor, but didn't put them on. Instead, she turned back to watch him again, to find he had put the metal pot directly into the fire and was now watching it.
As she came alongside him, she realized his face was blank, eyes watching the flickering flames without seeing. His mouth was open slightly, eyebrows drawn in a solemn expression. He started when she came into view, jumping before recovering himself and smiling hesitantly.
"Well?" She asked, lifting her arms to indicate her new outfit, "How do I look?"
"Very nice," He said, voice catching a bit roughly. He bit his lip and turned back towards the fire, tying up the various bags of herbs he had been using before returning them to their slots in the sideboard.
"You live here alone?" She asked, sitting down facing him, her back to the hearth. Emma drew her knees up to her chin, watching him work.
"I'm the only one left," He said quietly.
She looked down at the clothes she wore, wondering at the bleakness of that statement.
"They were my mother's," He remarked, still looking at the fire. "She's gone now. My father, my sisters, and my brother. All gone."
"I'm sorry."
"Well," He said, shrugging, sounding for the first time like the man she knew in Storybrooke, "These things happen."
Emma looked around the small house, lit only by the fire in the grate. A bed nestled in the corner beside the fire, under the dipping eaves of the roof, another across the way, smaller, covered with more baskets and piles of what appeared to be wool. On the other side of the room, a large spinning wheel dominated the space, surrounded by yet more baskets of wool. The cabin's only window would let light on that space during the daytime, but now, it showed only darkness.
Her attention shifted as he began to get to his feet, leaning heavily on the staff. "I'll just go and fetch some more water," He said, grunting with the effort, "Supper will be ready soon."
She stood easily, waving him to sit back down, "No, I'll go get it. I saw the well outside when we came in."
"I wouldn't expect you to..." He began.
"It's just some water, right? I'm sure I can manage."
He sat heavily on the stool again, flexing his wrists in a gesture of acquiescence. "If you like. The bucket's just over there," He indicated the wooden pail beside her.
Scooping it up, she crossed the small space, ducking back under the skins covering the door.
Night had fallen fast, and she looked around for a moment before recognizing the shape of the well, near the center of the hamlet. A pair of flickering torches provided light around the low stone structure and she headed towards them.
Two other women were beside the well, one sitting on the stone wall, the other standing beside her, drawing the ropes to lift the bucket. Emma hung back and watched them for a moment, getting a feel for how the mechanism worked, before stepping up with her own bucket.
Both of them stopped to look at her, and she was relieved to see she had at least figured out how to dress herself properly, as they were wearing similar garments. "Hey," She said conversationally, feeling uncomfortable by their stares.
"You've just come from the spinner's, then?" The one sitting on the wall asked, sounding surprised.
"Yeah, uh... We met in the woods. I needed some help and he's giving me a place to stay."
Both women looked at one another and giggled unkindly. Emma felt her frustrations mounting and she lifted her bucket. "Can I get some water?"
Still chuckling, they moved away from her, the one carrying her now-full bucket easily.
Sparing them both an irritated glance, Emma tied the rope around her bucket, lowering it slowly into the well. When she felt it begin to grow heavy, she reached for the ropes, winding them through the pulley to lift it back out again. Her shoulders burned from the effort, and she was surprised at how hard it was. When she finally had the pail back again, she untied the rope, anchoring it back to the wooden pommel driven into the stones for that purpose.
When she turned around, the woman with the other bucket was still standing there, her companion gone off somewhere. Emma looked at her curiously before making to move past her.
"Be careful being seen with that man," the woman said in a rush, turning to watch her go.
Emma turned back to look over her shoulder, trying not to spill the water in the process. "Oh, really? And why's that?"
She bit her lip and looked down at the ground, shifting to hold the bucket in both hands. "He's not well-liked..."
"Well, that's not surprising," She replied, thinking of Mr. Gold stalking through Storybrooke, where people avoided his gaze and got out of his way on the street.
"He's not a bad man," The woman said, still looking conflicted, "He's just... He's not well-liked."
"Yeah, you said that."
Nodding, the other woman turned and began walking away. "Just be careful with him," She advised one last time, hurrying out of the torchlight and into the shadows.
Shaking her head, Emma trudged back towards the stone house on the edge of town, walking slowly to keep from spilling the water everywhere. Some of it splashed up against her, despite her best efforts. It was heavy and tricky to balance. She thought of the man, leaning heavily on his staff, and wondered how in the world he could manage a bucket of water like that.
When she pushed back the skins again, he was sitting by the fire, concentrating on scooping out some of the broth from the pot into two bowls. He'd moved the iron pot out of the fire to sit just before the hearth. When she entered, he glanced up, looking almost surprised to see her again.
"I got the water," She said, letting it thunk down on the packed earthen floor.
"I do see that," He murmured softly, but there was no sarcasm in it like she would have expected. "Come on, then, sit and have a bite to eat..."
She returned to her spot on the hearth, taking the bowl he offered. She watched him for a moment, her nose wrinkling when she realized he was eating with his hands. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen him wash his hands before preparing the food either.
Looking down at her own bowl, her stomach growled loudly, making up her mind for her. Dipping her fingers into the thick broth, she discovered small lumps of potato broken up into it, and a strip of what looked like some kind of jerky. Mirroring his motions, she turned her hand into a sort of scoop, lifting the broth to her mouth.
It was decent, she realized, flavored nicely to cover up the fact that it was essentially just animal fat and water boiled together. She was hungrier than she thought, and it seemed gone in no time. He smiled at her indulgently, taking the bowl and scooping another helping from the still-warm pot. She took it gratefully, eating the seconds much more slowly, making it last this time.
He leaned against the shelves of spices, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her eat. She licked her fingers clean once she was done, and he dropped his gaze abruptly once their eyes met.
"It was good," She said finally, leaning over to scoop some of the water she'd brought into her bowl, drinking it down.
"Thank you," He said, reaching over to do the same, though he merely held his bowl of water, staring at his reflection rippling through it.
"Look, this might sound crazy..." She began, wrapping her hands around her own bowl.
He looked up again, expression one of polite interest.
"What if I told you...?" Emma bit her lip, choosing her next words carefully, "What if I told you that I'm not from this place?"
He snorted faintly, "I'd agree, obviously. You are clearly not from around here."
She had to laugh at that, rubbing one hand over her tangled curls in a self-depreciative gesture. "That obvious, huh?"
"A bit."
"What if I told you I'm from another world?"
His expression shifted from gentle amusement to something more guarded. She watched his throat twitch as his gaze darkened, "Are you making fun of me?" He asked, voice low.
"No! No..." She said quickly, feeling her face become more animated as her voice rose, "I'm not! I'm... Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I swear I'm not. I come from a place where... Where I think people from this world end up, or ended up, or will end up, I don't know. I come from a town called Storybrooke, which is... not like this place at all. Where I come from, this place is a story, like a real story, in a book. I don't know how I got here."
"So you come from a place called Storybrooke, where the real world is a story ... in a book?" He said slowly, tone clearly carrying his confusion.
"Well, I mean, to me, this isn't the real world. This is like... a fairy tale, you know?"
He laughed more sharply then, eyes raking the dark, cluttered house, with its thatched roof and earthen floors. "A fairy tale?"
"But like... magic and witches and monsters and stuff like that," She insisted.
He nodded then, eyebrows flicking up in concession, "Well, we certainly have all of that here."
"Yeah, see, where I come from, we don't. At least... we're not supposed to. That kind of stuff is fiction. It's fantasy." At his confused expression, she tried again, "Like the kinds of stories parents tell their kids when they're putting them to bed."
"Ah." He nodded again, taking a long drink of water.
An awkward silence fell over the two of them, and she huddled closer to the fire, arms wrapped around herself, feeling foolish.
"And in this world that you come from..." He asked finally, eyes still on his bowl. "Is it nice there?"
"It can be..." She said slowly, feeling some of the tension relax out of her shoulders. "It can also be pretty awful. But... yeah. It has its moments, too."
"Sounds pretty real to me, then."
"You believe me?" Emma looked up, surprised.
"Well... I've seen a lot of strange things in my day. Another world? Who's to say it isn't true? ...I've certainly never seen a woman quite like you."
She snorted, looking away again. With a sudden thought, she looked up, "Do you know anything about a princess named Snow White? Or a prince named James? Or Cinderella?"
He bit his lip, eyes tracking across the room as he thought. Finally, he shook his head solemnly, "No, sorry... I don't recognize those names."
"It's okay," She said, slumping over dejectedly. "I guess that would have been too easy, huh?"
They sat in front of the fire for a long time, the silence more comfortable now. Finally, he struggled up to his feet, tapping his fist against his bad leg as he leaned on the staff. "Well, I'm sure things will look brighter in the morning," He said lightly.
She stood with him, and he indicated the bed on the wall along the chest. "You can sleep there, if you like. No one uses it anymore."
She nodded and watched him move over to the bed beside the fire. Leaning his staff against the wall, he stripped off his tunic, hanging it on a hook nearby, before crawling under the blankets. He hissed as he knelt down before turning over onto his back.
After a few moments deliberation, Emma removed her sash and over tunic as well, leaving on the chemise. Uncovering the bed, she shook out the blanket for a moment before spreading it back down. The bed, she realized, was made of a pallet of straw, spread inside a wooden frame. It smelled musty, but it was soft. The pillow appeared to be more straw shoved into a bit of cloth.
Turning onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, realizing there were more bags and baskets suspended from various hooks and ropes looped over the rafters. Something finally occurred to her, and she glanced over at the man, lying across the room, hands folded on his chest. "Hey," She called softly. When he turned his head to glance at her, she could see his eyes reflected in the firelight. "What's your name?"
"...It's Rumpelstiltskin..." He said finally.
She laughed, shaking her head. "No, really."
"It's... It's the only one I have..." He said, sounding mildly offended.
"Huh." She turned back to look up at the ceiling again. "Sorry."
After a few more minutes of silence, he called back softly, "What's your name?"
"It's Emma. Emma Swan."
"Emma." He turned the name over in his mouth experimentally. "Emma Swan. ...That's a lovely name."
She glanced at him sharply, but his eyes were closed, face unguarded. He looked half-asleep. "...Thanks," She replied finally.
He nodded absently and turned his head to the side. After a few minutes, she could hear him snoring faintly in the darkness. The air felt heavy with the smoke from the fire, and she felt drowsy herself. Still, it took a long time for her to fall asleep that night.
She lay there, listening to the soft sound of the man breathing across the way, his low even breaths making a gentle rhythm that her own body seemed to fall into. "Not in Kansas anymore..." She muttered, and finally closed her eyes.