The water woke her. The cold. The wind. The all of it, which turned into an ache that pulled her from deep, thick-headed dreams heavy with the scent of straw, and into reality. She tried to turn over — her left arm was twisted up with something hard and prickling — and coughed up water she didn't remember swallowing. It burned on the way out, her throat and lungs raw as she choked and sputtered. The sunlight was the dull, dim blue of early morning.
It was like that first morning again. The moment of confusion. This wasn't her bed. It wasn't even the stone floor of the dungeon he'd kept her in — in the very beginning, and then again, at the end. She felt her heart cracking apart even further, and then the sunlight on her face brought her all the way up and she remembered. I'm not there anymore. Not ever again. He had made his choice, and she had left.
How…where…
Cold. And wet. And she was on something hard. A rock? The sense of damp and wood made its way through her clouded senses. A log. She was caught on a log. Mostly. She was tangled up in it, her legs trailing out in the frigid water, bobbling along with the current. She could feel them, or only just. Feel the rocks and silt of the riverbed scrape along her feet. Feel the cold. The icy, bone-deep, aching cold. And, as she sluggishly climbed back into consciousness, feel the pain. The sharp, freezing splinters of sensation that stabbed every time she moved.
It was too much, too much, for the syrupy fog of her mind. The cold. The pain. Too much, she couldn't, couldn't —
But she could. She had to — she had to keep moving. Her fingers closed around branches, and she could feel them. Feel her hands. Make them open, close around another branch. Pull herself, slow and aching, along the log to the riverbank. The rocks dug into her hands and knees as she dragged herself up and out of the water. Felt her feet scrape and slip against the rocks, and her arms gave out, and she felt the mud of the riverbank ooze under her clothing. She wanted to lay there for a moment. Forever. But she had to keep moving the Queen was coming for her and...her arms, she could still feel her arms. So she crawled until she found some grass, leaves, something that felt softer at least, and let herself drop. Her arms felt like they were on fire from the effort, and her stomach was a sick, roiling pit. A sour taste rose in her throat. She managed, barely, to heave herself up, onto her side before vomiting, then, exhausted, let herself fall onto her back. Shivering, she stared up into the branches overhead. They're not the right green, she thought, and it felt like there was something more, something just on the edge of understanding, but her mind couldn't hold on any longer. It stumbled, tripped, and she tumbled over the brink into the blackness.
The first night she'd spent in a forest was the worst. The worst night she'd spent in a forest, the worst night she'd ever spent, the worst moment of her life. Later on, when things got bad, Belle would tell herself that nothing could be as bad as that night, and remind herself that she'd made it through that. She'd left the Dark Castle late in the day, or at least that's what she told herself because night had sunk so quickly and she wasn't even halfway to the village. She was exhausted, and unthinking, and she hadn't brought anything with her, so she'd found a patch of ground that didn't have too many rocks and tried to sleep. She hadn't known anything, hadn't cared where she was, hadn't a blanket or a fire, only tears.
And, very late in the night, when she was almost completely asleep, she'd seen torches. Little pinpricks of light in the dark.
Sunshine started to glint, then glare, through the windows before Emma let herself lean back and take a break. She'd been staring at a map of the Storybrooke woods for…she wasn't exactly sure how long, and it was starting to blur before her eyes. Okay — honest, Swan — it'd been blurry for a bit, but now it was getting bad enough that she was actually having trouble distinguishing all the little lines from all the other little lines. Christ, there were a lot of lines. Blue and brown blobs, too. Though they had been able to cross off a good bit of it. The trouble was, there was a whole lot more woods around than she'd expected. She thought she'd gotten a good sense of things after David Nolan's little sleepwalking adventure, but it turned out she'd only seen a fraction of all the damn trees.
Emma squeezed her eyes shut and pinched her nose, trying to massage some of the tiredness away. It wasn't really working. But at least she wasn't full-on passed out at the makeshift desk the hospital'd let her set up…though, to be fair, at the moment, she was having trouble remembering why that was a bad idea. Her mind dutifully dredged up you wouldn't want people seeing the Sheriff of Storybrooke passed out on the job. Which, okay, was true, even if most of them were decent folk who'd cut the Sheriff a freakin' break, seeing as the reason she was passed out was she'd been doing her job on two hours sleep for the past — Emma glanced at the clock. She saw the little hand. She saw the big hand. She saw numbers. Her brain refused to go any further than that.
You don't want Regina finding out you passed out on the job.
Now, that was a very good reason.
Emma pinched her nose again, harder — maybe if reasoning herself awake didn't work, pain would — when the bitter, beautiful smell of coffee blossomed from somewhere nearby. From right in front of her. Emma opened her eyes just enough to locate and then seize the Styrofoam cup, not caring that it scalded her throat as she drank.
"It's not very good," Dr. Hopper said, "just from the machine down the hall, but you look like you could use it."
"I could. Thanks." Emma drained the rest one go. "Do me a favor, doc?"
He smiled. It seemed unfair that he could be so awake and cheerful. "Of course."
"What time is it?" Dr. Hopper glanced at the clock over the door, then back to her. "My brain's not letting me read numbers right now."
"Seven-fifteen. In the morning."
Five hours, then. Which was not actually all that bad, she shouldn't feel this awful. "Thanks. And thanks for coming in."
"I'm happy to help," he said, shrugging off her thanks. He settled across from her with his own coffee, and she noted that his sweater vest was still inside out. And the wrong way around, too. That shouldn't have been as comforting as it was. "May I ask, if you don't mind, how the search is going?"
"Right now?" Emma rubbed her eyes again. "We're thinking she's still in the woods somewhere. I checked out the town, talked to Mr. French and Gold — "
"Gold?" Dr. Hopper asked, his blue eyes surprised and just a little confused behind his glasses.
"Yeah. It was nothing, just a stupid — whatever."
"Is that why he was here?"
"Wait, he's here?" Emma asked.
"I saw him, a little while ago," Dr. Hopper said, glancing towards the door. "I thought he might have heard about our situation and...come to help." He sounded as if he bought that just as much as she did.
"Well, we need it." Emma raked a hand through her hair, and forced herself to sit up straighter. "Unless someone is in the habit of hiding disheveled pj'd mental patients out of the kindness of their hearts, odds are she's not in town. Everybody'll be up soon, anyway." Seven-am meant work and breakfast and normal, everyday things. "So if Lacey heads into town, somebody'll see her."
"If she's in a position to," Dr. Hopper added. "If she is conscious, and well, and uninjured."
"Yeah, that," Emma agreed, tilting her coffee cup in case there was a drop or two that she'd missed. He passed his to her. "You're a saint, Archie Hopper."
He blushed. He actually blushed, but he managed to smile and say, "Be sure and tell Rome so. I've been attempting to apply for canonization for years, but you would be surprised how persnickety they can get."
Something close to a laugh had Emma almost choking on her coffee. "I knew it. I knew you were that kind of guy."
Dr. Hopper looked slightly thrown off-kilter at that — but, to be fair, he seemed like the type of guy who got thrown off-kilter at most things. "What kind of guy would that be?"
"The kind that uses 'persnickety' at seven in the morning. Next time warn a girl first if you're going to start throwing around words with more than one syllable."
He smiled and relaxed slightly. "If you don't mind me saying, you look exhausted, Sheriff."
Emma waved it away. "I'll be fine. After a while it gets to a point where you forget what it's like to feel rested."
"I can't think that's the best choice, physically or emotionally."
Emma shrugged again. She was starting to feel the first faint echoes of caffeine buzzing behind the grainy fog of fatigue. A couple minutes and she'd be functional.
"If you want my advice, as a doctor — "
"Psychiatrist."
" — which is still applicable under these circumstances — " He put a hand on her arm. It was warm, even through her jacket, and she realized, as the goosebumps pricked along her skin, just how cold the room was. It was still just April, but the hospital had the air conditioning on. "Go home," he told her. "Or to the station. But get out, get away from here, and get some sleep. As well as something to eat."
"I'm not your patient, Dr. Hopper," Emma sniped, letting the tiredness overtake her mouth.
"No, but I would hope that I am your friend," he said.
"My friends don't call the cops on me," she said back, and Dr. Hopper took his hand away, and sat back in his chair. "I am…sorry about that," he murmured, looking away.
Emma felt the twist in her gut, and hated that she felt it. She held grudges, she was good at it, it was what she did. She wasn't supposed to feel bad about it. He was the one that called Graham and claimed she'd broken into his office and stole files. "Whatever. It happened. I'll get some rest. There's just — a lot I have to do before I can think about cutting out. I haven't even had the chance to ask you about Lacey."
"Yes," Dr. Hopper said after a moment. "I've been wanting to talk to you about that, too."
"I know you can't violate patient confidentiality. I'm not going to ask you to," Emma told him. "But I was hoping that, as her doctor, you might be able to give me some tips on where to look or what to look for. What might be going through her head. Anything that can help us find her."
"I'm afraid that in this instance, patient confidentiality is not an issue. I'm not Miss French's psychiatrist. She's not my patient."
"I thought…" Emma shook her head, willing the caffeine to kick in faster. "Correct me if I'm wrong, doc, but I thought you were the only shrink in town."
"I am."
"Then…is there someone else who treats the hospital craz — uh, mental patients?"
"No. There's not. I am the only licensed psychiatrist in Storybrooke. The hospital has called me in from time-to-time, but, Emma — " He leaned forward and dropped his voice, and he didn't look off-kilter now, but very focused. " — until you called, I was not aware that Storybrooke General had any psychiatric facilities."
It was weird how her brain tried to reject that. How she could still be surprised. "But they have a psychiatric ward."
"It appears that they do. There's also this." Dr. Hopper dug a thin file folder out of his bag and settled it on the table. Emma could see the bright blue sticker reading FRENCH on the label. Emma raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to let you read it. But I will tell you that when someone is committed there is…paperwork that you have to go through. Even more if it's an involuntary commitment, and particularly if the case of a minor. Which, I understand, Miss French was when she was first brought in."
Emma eyed the folder. It was so thin as to look almost empty.
"Committing someone is not a simple thing. Nor is it a permanent one. There is a yearly evaluation, and if continued commitment is deemed necessary, there's more. There are forms to be filled out every time medication is dispensed, or the patient has a session, or, for heaven's sake, if a mouse sneezes too close." Archie raked a hand through his hair. "We live in a world of paper and words, Sheriff, and what I can tell you is that there are none of them here. There is an initial commitment form from twelve years ago. That is it."
The sick feeling in her stomach had nothing to do with caffeine. "That can't be right."
"It's not. What it is, is potentially very illegal."
Emma looked at him. "Regina."
"That would not be for me to say," he replied, holding her gaze.
"No, doc." Emma straightened in her chair. "That's my job."
When consciousness came again, she was already up and moving. Stumbling along the riverbank, the rocks digging into her feet. It should've hurt more, but the water was so cold, and her feet had started to go numb a long time ago. She put one foot forward, and then the other, and back again. Focusing on that, and not the cold, or the numbness, or the ache that seemed to go beyond muscle and bone, until it was everything. Until it was the only thing.
She needed to keep moving. She was not sure how long it had been since she'd escaped. Not long enough for The Woman to stop looking. She needed things, — dry clothes. Food. Her stomach twisted at the thought, but this time it wasn't the usual, sick, ache that had been shadowing her since she'd climbed out of the river. She'd hadn't thrown up for…a while now. There couldn't be anything left in her. Her throat still burned, though, and it felt cracked and dry.
Water, she thought. She needed water more than food. But she put it off as long as she could, because it meant trying the river, and that would've meant getting down on her hands and knees, and she wasn't sure she could get back up again. That would've meant stopping, and more than food or water, she needed to keep moving. She needed to get farther before she stopped. Far enough away that maybe she could find a place where The Woman couldn't follow and the Queen's guards couldn't catch her. Her feet stumbled as she battled back the fear before it swallowed her whole.
Moving. Keep moving...that was the thing. Everything else could come later, when she was safe.
But then her body decided for her, her legs dropping out from under her, and she landed with a heavy squish in the mud of the riverbank. For a long moment there was only the cold and wet.
The lap of the river against the shore brought her back. She managed to drag herself to the river's edge, and drank. For a moment there was only the sound of her gulping, of the birds and the crickets, the wind rustling through the leaves and the snap of dry twigs underfoot —
She froze. The sounds of the forest stretched out around her. Maybe if she was quiet, if she was still —
No. There it was again. Someone coming. Someone who didn't care if they were heard. Coming towards her.
She fought to forced herself to her feet and into run. Not caring if she was quiet, only caring about getting away as fast as she could. She could control of her legs, if she forced herself, and if they were weak and wobble, at least they ran. But her head was still muddy, and her feet were dead with cold, and the riverbank was a tangle of driftwood and debris. She didn't see the root that sent her flying. She landed awkwardly, and her head reeled in a whirligig.
It was still spinning when she heard the footsteps come to a stop right behind her. "Are you okay?"
The voice made her pause. Cut through the fear and the pounding in her chest and the need to run, run away. Slowly, she turned. It was…a child. A boy, small and slight, his eyes huge and oddly serious behind owlish glasses.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"Can I help you, dearie?"
Belle's heart leapt, but it was only an old woman, gray and wrinkled. She forced herself to smile, to not wonder whether or not he could shapeshift. "Yes, please. Could you tell me where the miller is?"
"Off making deliveries. He won't be back til supper. Is it straw or flour you're after? Flour he does himself, but if it's straw you can help yourself to a bundle and leave your coin in the box by the window."
"No, I — " How to put this? It was a blind hope, coming here. She'd only been once before, when he'd sent her to the village for some straw, not expecting her to come back. The miller had been kind to her then, even though he'd guessed where she was from, and chatted to her for a while. Perhaps he would be kind again. She needed money, wherever she was going, and since she wouldn't steal and was not yet at begging, she would have to work. "I was hoping for work, actually. I was here a few days ago, and the miller mentioned having deliveries. More than he could handle alone, and I thought… If he doesn't need help, perhaps there is someone who wants a cook or a maid, or even a girl-of-all-work, if one's needed? I'm stronger than I look, and I'm not afraid of hard work."
The woman was looking at her oddly, but that was no wonder. How long had she been standing here before the woman noticed her and came over? Belle wasn't entirely sure. She had only meant to find the miller, or someone who might know where he was, except he had only just finished his work, and the mill was full with the scent of straw. That scent was everywhere in the Dark Castle; it was there even when it wasn't, warm and dry and sweet, pricking at the back of her mind, because when it was there it meant he was there, at his wheel, spinning…
"A few days ago, you said?" The old woman's voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the memory, and the pain.
Belle blinked rapidly, and nodded. "Yes, I — "
"Go back."
"What?" The woman looked stern and…frightened, Belle realized. She hadn't mentioned where she came from when she'd spoke to the miller before, but she supposed when a young woman came just looking for straw this close to the Dark Castle, it wasn't too difficult to figure out. "No. I…" What — won't? Can't? Belle wasn't entirely sure. He'd told her to go, and she'd gone; it was a deal of sorts, and she intended to keep it.
The old woman grabbed Belle's arm, hard. "I tell you to go back, girl. You can't run away, not from Him. He'll be after you and it'll be more than our lives are worth if we help you and He finds out. Go back and pretend you never left."
He won't come after me. But she didn't let herself say it. Words had power, and she didn't want to make it true by saying it aloud. "I have nothing. Please. I need help. Food, a dry place to sleep tonight. I will work for it — "
The old woman glared at her through all this, but finally threw up her hands. "Very well — very well, then, girlie," she interrupted when Belle tried to speak again. "I'm sure the miller won't mind if you spend the night in his loft. Might have an egg or two that I could part with. Bit of cheese." Belle started to thank her, but the woman cut her off again, jabbing a finger at her. "But — you were never here, understand? We never saw you. And in the morning, you're gone."
Belle nodded. "Thank you."
But the woman was already charging out, leaving Belle alone with the scent of straw.