Accio-firewhiskey prompted: His mahogany cane
Sticks and Stones
Hand in hand, they stumble into the clearing before the cabin and Belle is so exhausted she could weep—wants to weep—when Hatter flinches away from the broken moonlight of the hard packed earth and pulls her back with him hissing, "Belle, wait."
"What?" she mouths, and then, through the rain, she sees it. The hulking shoulders of a van, its back doors open to scattered red roses, sad and empty beside the wooden house.
Belle swallows a laugh, something very near a sob. They are so close. They are so close.
"Game of Thorns," she whispers. "My papa must be inside."
Hatter's eyes are wild through the dappled silver light tumbling through the leaves. Water plasters down his hair, stains its color dark. Dirt smears both cheeks, a heavy muddy line above one eye. And though they have been running since shift-change, and even her bones have begun to ache, Belle still lifts a hand to clean his face.
He catches her fingers, holds her tight. His hands are stiff and frozen, lips chapped, eyes tired.
"Your father safe as houses?" he asks.
Belle looks at the window. Through the flickering light, she thinks she sees someone moving inside.
"He's not a brave man. But he's strong, and he loves me. He'll bring us clothes that fit, food—he'll help us escape."
Shadows make Hatter's face a stone. "And when the queen sends her cards?"
"He'll do his best."
"He'll break, you mean. Butter won't suit our works, mutton."
Belle glares, scrubs her eyes with the back of a wet and sullied sleeve.
"You have a better plan?" she demands. "It's February and it's night and it's getting colder by the minute. Hatter, we won't make it."
"We've come too far not to make it." He sets his jaw, nods once, heaves a deep breath. "Well. Come on then, poppet."
And so, like thieves they steal across the clearing, frightened children with fingers locked.
"Papa?" Belle calls first, through the sliver where the wood doesn't meet the wall. A moment passes.
Hatter opens up the door.
Her father is cringing on the floor.
His face is bloodied. His hands are bound. She knows the look in his eyes—she has worn that look herself.
Regina stole years from her. She stole her life and her love and her stories. But Regina's men will not steal her father now.
Belle doesn't think. She doesn't plan. The man straddling the chair above her father's broken form begins to turn, and Belle launches herself from the doorway. She is not heavy—she is enraged—and her momentum and her hatred bring him to the ground.
The man grunts, still clutching his mahogany cane.
Her father's blood gathers in the scrollwork of the handle.
And Belle doesn't think. She wants to scratch out his eyes. She wants to disembowel him with her teeth. She has been locked up for a quarter of a century and the queen wanted a monster—the queen wanted to break her—well, how's this for fucking social nicety?
Blind, Belle sees only the cane. Deaf, she hears only the throbbing in her ears. She tears the cane from his white-knuckled hands and she brings it down across his face.
"Don't you dare touch my father, you motherfucking beast!"
One arm comes up to shield his eyes and Belle brings down the cane again.
Again.
Again.
And she is so tired. She is full of so much pain. But the queen won't take this. The queen won't take her family, too. Not her father. Not the only thing she has left. Not now. Not ever again.
And she brings the cane down.
And she brings the cane down.
"Belle! Belle!" Hatter. She thinks it must be Hatter. Who else could reach her now? "It's me."
But, no, she sees it is the man beneath her, blood running down his lips. She hefts the stick again, aiming the hooked handle for his eyes, until, bizarrely, he whispers, "It's just a cup."
And the cane slips from frozen fingers.
Belle stands. She trips. She staggers back until her shoulders hit the wall.
No. No. (It is her only coherent thought.)
Oceans thunder in her ears, but somehow Hatter's voice reaches her, urgent, from very far away, "I've got a gun, Belle. Do you need me? Shall I shoot?"
The man makes no move to rise, only lifts his head. Spits out blood and single, golden tooth.
"I know you," she says. Her whole body trembles as though it may break.
The man nods. His eyes are wet. "You do."
Belle wraps her arms tight around her torso, sinks to the ground, hoping desperately to hold her splitting seams.
"Don't shoot him, son," her father croaks, trying hard to stand. "He's not worth it. He's not worth you going to jail."
But she and Hatter are a pair—Queen of Hearts, Jack of all trades. He looks to her, gun so steady with the fallen man's face.
"Belle?"
"Don't shoot him, son," her father says again. But Belle can hardly hear.
Her eyes are on Rumpelstiltskin—her happily ever after—and her father's blood beneath his fingernails.