Chapter 42
A/N. The inspiration for this chapter was U2's "Exit."
As Doc, Whale and the hospital staff tend the minor injuries suffered in the brief battle, David scans the rugged plain, searching for a familiar landmark, but comes up empty. "It's all right," Snow says. "I'll find out where we are." She walks apart from the others, tilts her head back and holds her arms straight out to her sides. In a moment, a pair of robins land on her shoulders and she converses with them in her own unique way.
Belle starts to organize the hundreds of crates, boxes, duffle bags, backpacks and suitcases that came through the portal. "We'll take the lightest and most necessary things first," she suggests. "Once we've found our kingdom, we'll build handcarts and come back for the rest."
"Oh for Hades' sakes," Regina mutters. "Why do you have to do things the hard way? Just tell me where you want it all to go."
"That's kind of you, Regina," Belle says, "but we don't know yet where we are, so we don't know where we're going."
Regina shrugs. "Fine." She waves her hand in a wide circle and all the luggage takes on a faint purple glow. "When you've decided, just tell the bags where to go and they'll go. As for me, I'm going home. I'm going to pour a glass of wine and run a hot bath. Henry, come along." She wiggles her fingers in an invitation to take his hand.
"I'm staying with Emma." Henry takes a step backwards, out of the reach of her arms, though he realizes he's hardly out of the reach of her magic. "I. . .You can come and see me tomorrow."
Regina narrows her eyes as she takes stock. If she wanted to take Henry now, it wouldn't be too difficult: Emma would kick up a fuss, but it probably wouldn't occur to her to use her magic to fight. Blue might pull some defensive maneuvers—maybe throw up a shield around Henry—but Regina could plow through it. And Rumple, all he could throw at her would be rocks and nasty looks.
Except. . . there are two unknown factors. Nealfire has declared himself a mage, though a highly reluctant (and most likely, unpracticed) one. She saw him fly this morning, but that was the extent of his demonstration of power. Based just on experience alone, Regina has him beat, but she has to ask herself whether this is the fight she wants to pick with him.
Henry, Rumple claims, has powers that exceed hers; untested and untrained, the boy has no idea what he's capable of. Regina tries to imagine what it would be like to fight her own son. She can't. She can't visualize a single situation in which would she strike him—and even more painful is to try to imagine a situation in which he would strike her.
"I'll see you tomorrow, then," she says, her voice cold. She glares at Emma to make sure the veiled threat got through to the sheriff (or should that be "princess" now?). She lifts her hand, summoning her magic in preparation for departure.
"Wait!"
Regina turns in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. That tall man who works for Rumple separates himself from the crowd. Slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, he walks up to her. He doesn't bow—has he forgotten, after all that time in Storybrooke, she's a queen? She's thinking about boxing his ears when he suggests, "I'll go with you. You may need help. You don't know what condition your castle is in, or what sorts of wildlife may have moved in while you were gone."
"Unnecessary, completely unnecessary." She's flustered: why would anyone, especially this man with whom she's had no previous contact, want to help her? Then she remembers he's Rumple's man and she scoffs: no doubt Rumple wants him to spy on her. "I'm quite capable of taking care of myself." She smiles at Rumple: you can't manipulate me.
Rumple just looks mildly surprised.
"You'll be hungry," Dove argues.
"I have magic. I want for nothing."
"I've tasted the food magic produces. You'd rather have real vegetables and fresh venison, wouldn't you?" As the hardness in her expression softens just a bit, he presses, "And someone to talk to?"
"A trial basis," she says quickly. "Sorry, Rumple, I'm taking your man. If his work pleases me, I'll keep him."
Dove glances back at Rumple. "Something Mr. Slightly said," he tries to explain. "And I'll be there to look after Henry when he visits."
Rumplestiltskin walks forward and offers his hand, which Dove shakes. "Mr. Dove, if you ever wish to return, I'll be delighted to take you back into my employment."
Belle runs forward and kisses Dove's cheek. "Goodbye, Mr. Dove. We'll miss you."
"Send us a message by means of Snow's birds if you need anything." Rumple has no idea what he can provide: there may be nothing left of his property.
Belle's waving as Regina's magic carries the queen and her new handyman away. Linking her arm in her beloved's, Belle muses, "You don't suppose there's an attraction there?"
"Dove and Regina?!" Rumple snorts. "A good-hearted, intelligent soul falling for a twisted, evil—" then he cuts off abruptly and turns red.
She laughs. "No, Regina's nothing like you, my love. But she does still have a heart, so. . . ."
As, led by Snow's avian friends, they pick their way across the rocky and cracked land, the Storybrookers make their observations and their plans. Rumple half-listens: it's obvious from the condition of the soil that this territory is caught in a drought. This year and the next will be lean, at best. He can change that, make certain his family is provided for—and then he stops himself, remembering he's only a man now, a middle-aged tradesman who knows little about farming. He's not even sure if his strength will be adequate to defend himself against the myriad dangers of this world. He chides himself for having failed to pack his Glock and a lifetime supply of bullets.
Henry jabbers about all the adventures he intends to pursue, while Bae reminds him he'll still be expected to do his chores and Emma reminds him he will still have classes and homework. Snow and David, walking apart from the others, talk in low, serious tones; it's not difficult to guess the subject of their discussion. Their expressions are grim but determined: they have new enemies to defeat now, first and foremost, nature itself, but they will reclaim and restore their kingdom.
"Belle, there's something we haven't talked about, and we should." Rumple stares at his feet, carefully placing one foot in front of the other on this jagged terrain. A simple fall or twist of the ankle could be devastating now, with an urgent need to find shelter and food, and no magic to put him back on his feet again.
"Are you worried about what we'll find?" she asks.
"And what we won't find."
"I've lived off the land before, and so has Snow," Belle answers. "We'll survive, and next year, we'll have crops and livestock."
"Belle. . . from the Dark Castle to Snow's kingdom, it's a six-day walk, if the roads are clear and the weather favorable. And Avonlea and all the other towns and villages that we knew, they're uninhabited now. The people who are with us now are all that's left of the Enchanted Forest."
"The territories beyond the Enchanted Forest, they weren't affected by the curse, were they?"
"No, but they're farther away still, too far to reach by foot. Even if we're lucky enough to acquire horses, the distance is still impossible, should there be an accident, illness. . . Without phones and cars, it will be a dangerous, lonely existence." He stops, stepping off to the side to allow the crowd to pass him by, and she stops too.
"Are you saying you don't want to go back to the Dark Castle?"
"I'm saying it would be a terrible existence for you. Even Bae will be following David and Snow; his place is with his son."
Belle now understands what he's getting at, and she sets her hands on his chest and gives him a push that tumbles him to the dust. "Absolutely not, Rumplestiltskin! You will not chase me away with your inferiority complexes and your pessimism ever, ever again! If you're set on returning to the Dark Castle and your hermit's existence, so be it. If you truly want to live in the Dark Castle, you won't be living alone. I'm coming with you, whether it's as your housekeeper or your lover."
He scrambles to his feet. "I won't ask that of you, sweetheart. You deserve so much more than—"
"And so do you. You need people just as much as I do. And Bae, after two hundred years of searching, surely you don't intend to let him go again. You have a grandson who looks up to you—my gods, Rumple, do you want him to learn about magic from Regina? But if your heart is set on the Dark Castle, that's where we'll go." Belle searches his eyes and finds contradiction there. "Is it? Is your heart set on returning to your castle?"
The crowd is a good distance ahead of them now. He watches them moving forward, ignoring the two left behind. She's so warm-hearted, she can't begin to understand what it's like to be the pariah, nor should she. She's done nothing to deserve that life, but if she stays with him, that's what she'll face, whether they live in exile in the Dark Castle or whether they follow the Charmings—to Rumple's inevitable imprisonment.
Either way, she will come to resent him, and her resentment will turn to disgust, just as Milah's had.
He clasps her hands and begs her with his eyes to believe, even if she can't understand, even if he can't find the words to describe what he knows about people and their treatment of those who don't belong. Even if he could describe it clearly enough so that she would feel it, the tale would take too long. They have already fallen far behind the others, the ones whose company she really needs. He licks his lips nervously, then in frustration shakes his head.
"Don't punish yourself this way," Belle pleads. "After all we've been through, you and I and Bae and Henry—we're family. Don't take that away from us because you don't feel deserving of it."
"It's not a question of what I feel I deserve. It's a simple question of justice. They. . . Snow and David, they have a kingdom to think of now. They must administer the law. For all I've done in this world and the other, if I enter their kingdom, they would have no choice but to imprison me again, and I can't live that way, Belle. I won't go back to their prison; I won't have my grandson and my son and my wife living in shame—"
"Oh, hell no," a firm voice declares. Emma suddenly appears before them, her arms crossed defiantly. "I saw that cell. I was locked in it for an afternoon. I wouldn't lock a rabid dog in that cage, let alone my kid's Grampa."
"Emma, how did you hear what we were saying?" Belle asks.
Emma blushes. "I noticed you went missing and I thought maybe an ogre had grabbed you. That's why I, you know, magicked my way back here. Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but—hell no, you're not going into that cell or any other. I'm still the duly elected sheriff, so I've got a thing or two to say about it, and believe me, I intend to. Law has a price too, just like magic, but there's more than one way to pay. Back in the old country, we have this thing called work-release, and that's what we've got in mind for you, Gold." She pokes her finger into Rumple's chest. "You're gonna be teaching me magic by day, so I can protect our kingdom against marauding pirates and ogres, and by night you're gonna be spinnin' cloth, 'cause I'm sure as hell not gonna raise my son in a nudist colony. So sez I the sheriff, and so sez my mom the queen."
Belle draws in a deep, relieved breath. "So what say you, Rumple?"
Emma drops the tough-gal act. "Seriously. A case could be made that you already paid for your crimes with your life, and you were just lucky enough that modern medicine brought you back to the land of the living. The town knows you're not the same man you were before Hook killed you. Putting you in prison—even a clean one—would just be shooting ourselves in the foot. You have skills we need if we're going to survive."
Rumple studies the sheriff's face: the question is not so much whether he believes her, because he knows her to be a teller of truth, but whether he trusts her father and Blue and the other hard-liners in this community. Whether the prince's years as the screw up David Nolan and Blue's years as a nun have cooled their heat for black-and-white justice with the waters of mercy and compassion, that's what remains to be seen. Besides, who could blame the revenge seekers if they fail to see the changes in him that Emma has seen?
"Trust comes hard to people like you and me," Emma says. "So if it makes it any easier, let's put it in the form of a deal: give me your word you'll help us rebuild the kingdom, and I'll give you mine that you'll be welcome in it." She holds out her open hand.
He shakes her hand. "I accept. And thank you, Emma."
Third Week
The setting sun reflects in red and gold off the still surface of the lake that separates Snow's castle from the new village of Evaton. Rumple and Belle stand at waterside, resting from the hard work of cleaning the debris from the queen's castle. The queen and her consort have returned from a moderately successful day's hunt; there will be meat on the table tonight, to accompany the nuts and fruits the children have gathered. The clean-up is now far enough along that in the morning, the dwarves will go out into the countryside to hew stone to begin the restoration.
And in the morning, Belle and Rumple will return to the Dark Castle.
Not to stay, but rather to retrieve the spindles of gold that Rumplestiltskin once spun for his own amusement and tossed so carelessly into a storage room. If the Dark Castle still stands, and if it hasn't been plundered, Belle and Rumple will load what once was useless to them into a wagon rebuilt by dwarves and pulled by the only horse in the village, a swayback that David managed to rope and haul in. Belle and Rumple will take their wagon of gold to the country of Gloucy, where they hope to bargain for vital supplies.
Belle is excited by the prospect of visiting Gloucy, where the people speak a language that sounds like rippling water and eat things that the Dark One used to step on. Too, Belle wishes to learn whether her library is intact, for if it is, she hopes to return next year to reclaim it and combine its holdings with those from Storybrooke. She dreams of a library to rival that of New York, of which she has only seen photographs.
Rumple's dreams are small. . . .and are carried on little feet.
He wonders about his own collection, back in the Dark Castle: the Golden Fleece, Robin Hood's bow, Sinbad's saber, Merlin's hat, so many treasures he can no longer remember them all. The years he spent pursuing them, trading for them, earning them, trying to fill an empty life with them. He supposes those treasures could be traded too, along with the gold, for food and livestock, iron and mortar. Or they could be gathered for a museum someday. As for himself, he has sees no value in them. What he values, he has, right here in Evaton. . . except for one little object, a certain ring that once belonged to his Aunt Maerwynn. It's an unadorned steel band that wouldn't even buy a tankard of ale if he tried to sell it, but it matters to him. That ring, he will hide in his shoe when Belle isn't looking.
As the moon pushes the sun aside and the aroma of venison turning on a spit drifts in on the breeze, Belle leans against his shoulder. He would be embarrassed for the state his "I heart NY" t-shirt is in, except it's an earned sweat that stains it, and Belle's denim shirt is just as dirty. He glances down at the jeans given to him by Tootles; already they're stained and ripped at one knee. His gaze falls lower and he frowns. He releases Belle and shifts his weight to one leg so he can raise the other.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
He pries off a shoe and shows it to her. The heel is loose and the leather looks like it's been chewed by a pit bull. "Think I'll make a deal for that extra pair of Doc Martens that Mike Marine has." With a grin he flings his Ferragamos in the lake.
Third Month
Everyone, from Queen Snow on down to Chad the former school crossing guard (semi-retired)—works sunrise to sundown demolishing the unrepairable, repairing what can be repaired, and building anew, tilling and planting, hunting and fishing and skinning and smoking the catches. The labor is so tiring, so intense—because they feel their very existence depends upon it, although Rumple could correct them: Henry, Emma or Bae could easily conjure a meal or a new set of clothes. When they fall into their blankets soon after sundown, they sleep heavily, dreamlessly.
But every once in a while, the impulse comes up like a hungry fish breaking the surface of a lake: Why do I spin wool now, when I once could spin gold? Why do I break the soil and pierce the ground to drop seeds in, in the desperate hope that there will be rain, enough but not too much; that there will be sun, enough but not too much; that there will be insects, but only the helpful ones, so that, come fall, I can work even harder, plucking the product of my spring labor, to can it and parcel it out during the winter? Why do all this, when a few spells, which I can conjure with the right books and powders and potions, will produce all the fresh food my family wishes, whenever we wish? Would I not be a better provider for my family, if I gave them this guarantee—and used my time and my energy to be with them instead?
Regina comes for tea, usually with Dove, and always without invitation or announcement: Belle suspects she enjoys catching her former enemies and rivals with sweat pouring down their faces and mud caking their boots. Rumple thinks Regina's motives are much simpler: she's lonely. She's always been a talker, even in years when she was hated the most, just prior to the curse, and even in the post-curse/pre-savior years, when people were afraid of her, without really knowing why. She craves attention, and therefore, she craves company, and having been raised in comfort, she's never had to earn her bread by the sweat of her brow. She has toiled only in her orchards, and that labor was something she chose: she could have easily hired (or forced) others to do it for her. Though she worked diligently as a mayor—he must grant her this—she doesn't understand why people can't just drop what they're doing to chat the afternoon away with a guest.
So she comes for tea, and because in her mind she is a royal, she must have her tea with all the embellishments: a lace tablecloth, a silver teapot, china cups, finger sandwiches and petits fours. Since Snow can't produce them, Regina does—with magic, of course—and takes great satisfaction in trumping a fellow royal. When Regina arrives in her black carriage, her magic floats behind her like a cloud of heavy cologne, and traces of it linger in the air for days after she's gone; not even the scent of fried fish can mask it.
Rumple refuses her invitations to partake of the tea that she provides, so she will wander, her parasol protecting her fair skin from the sun, to the construction site at which he and Belle happen to be working, or she will interrupt his spinning in the evenings as the workers rest beside a fire. Regina brings tales from other lands, so everyone listens to her; but she usually wants to talk about magic, past or present, as well. When she takes the conversation into that direction, Rumple will stand and without apology walk away, returning to work or rounding up Dove and Whale for a round of poker. "How rude," Regina sniffs—and sometimes she traipses after him with a sly smile, knowing her barbs have rankled him.
Sometimes she leans over his shoulder and whispers in his ear, "Don't you miss it? I could bring you something, you know: a spell book, some potions. It would make your life here bearable."
"Flake off, Regina."
Sometimes she calls after him, "Magic is what you are."
"Aren't you miserable?" Belle asks Dove.
"Why don't you come back?" Rumple invites.
"I'm where I'm supposed to be," Dove always answers. "Where I'm needed."
Belle feels sorry for him, but Rumple thinks he understands: only Dove stands between Regina and her magic. She hasn't the watchful eye of family or friends to keep her human. Regina is the new Rumplestiltskin.
Sixth Month
Why now? Why hadn't these. . .symptoms. . .manifested earlier?
Rumple has excused himself from the communal dinner table and has walked out of Snow's almost-remodeled castle as the first symptom, a sheen of cold sweat, spread itself from his belly and his chest to his face. With a hasty glance to assure himself that Belle is preoccupied, he slips out the gate and runs across the bridge, through the village and into the forest. As he leans against an evergreen to catch his breath, the second symptom catches up to him: his gut twists and his throat burns until he loses his dinner, and then his stomach settles into a dull ache. Next comes a shaking that starts in his hands and soon encompasses his entire body. His teeth chatter and he compulsively opens and closes his fists until finally, in frustration, he slams them against the tree. His body will not answer his commands as he orders it to quiet itself.
He knows why he has these symptoms. He just doesn't know why now, when he's happy at last with his life—when he has no desire for the magic that his body is crying out for.
Inside are his family, his co-workers, his friends, his community. Outside, all around, are the signs of the success of his labors: the homes under construction, the planted fields, the newly built coops and corrals that hold the livestock he and Belle bought in Gloucy. He had a hand in all that: everywhere he looks, he can see something that he designed and built. This is his town as much as anyone's, and before the first snow falls, he will have a house of his own.
So why is his addiction raging now?
He knows the course his symptoms will follow because he's been through this before, but only briefly: when he, Emma and Henry left Storybrooke for New York. He wonders now, if Hook hadn't poisoned him, what an extended stay in Manhattan would have done to him.
Here, he could find relief. The thought produces a whole new round of the shakes. He could take David's horse and ride to the Spiral Castle, make a deal, any kind of a deal, with Regina, in return for potions. It wouldn't be the same, since the magic wouldn't pound through his blood, but at least he would feel it on his skin and he could pretend it was his for the keeping. Hell, knowing Regina, she'd sell him some magic cheap, just for the amusement of watching him beg.
Or he could trick Henry into sending a couple of pulses into him. He could tell Henry he has the flu and a small injection of magic would cure him. Henry and Emma haven't begun to study magic yet; they'd never know the difference. Or he could tell Emma the truth: she'd sympathize, put him out of his misery with a little dose.
"Dad?"
Crap.
"What are you doing out here? You ran out like a bat out of hell. You okay?"
The last person in the world he wants to see him like this. Bae will pity him now, and even worse, hate all the more the magic that he himself possesses—hate part of himself out of fear that it will someday turn him into either the uncontrollable Dark One or this cringing thing that's now clawing at a tree and whimpering for just a little magic.
Rumple tries to straighten himself. "I'll be okay. Just a—you know, reaction to the change in diet."
Bae walks right up to him, stares at him in the moonlight. "Don't lie to me, Papa."
"I'll be okay," Rumple insists again. "Heat stroke, probably." And he stands taller to prove the point.
Then his guts clutch all over again and he doubles over, losing the last of his dinner. Bae slides his arms under Rumple's just before Rumple hits the ground. "Can you walk? We need to get you inside."
"No. I don't want Belle and Henry to see this, especially not Henry." He slumps against the tree as Bae eases him to the grass. "Not you either. Didn't want you to see this."
"Don't shut me out. If you're sick, I want to help you."
"It's temporary, Bae. It'll run its course, I promise."
"You know what this is, and you're not telling us?" Bae's tone becomes accusatory. "What is it, Dad? Why are you sick?"
"It'll pass. A few weeks."
Bae steps back. "I'm going to get Whale."
Rumple surrenders. "Not Whale. Archie."
"What?"
"Bring Archie."