18
Would fate ever stop torturing him with hope? Would it ever tire of laughing him in the face, mocking his plans, his determination, his regrets and even his very repentance?
He used to be a man at peace with himself. Unhappy man, yes, and lonely. A man filled with pain and haunted by guilt, yes. A man driven to despair by his slow and inevitable descent into madness – that was how he felt while he lived under the curse, unable to remember his true self, yet constantly haunted by repressed memories, which with time became more real to him than the life he lived in the illusory town created by his will and brought to reality by his pupil's hate. A man determined to succeed in his mission, despite all personal losses, which made his task harder and sadder, yet could not devalue it or stop it from being carried through for, if he stopped, that would mean all the losses were pointless – that's how he felt when he finally remembered who he was. The pain of remembering was cosmic, but he was almost relieved to feel it – the years of uncertainty exhausted him so that he welcomed pain as if it were an old friend. The pain was durable as long as he knew himself and was able to go on with his mission. This pain was the price he paid for getting as close to completing his lifework as he did. He would never get rid of the pain, he knew that, and he did not mind: his pain was a proof that he was alive, and had a heart to feel it. He came to terms with it. He came to terms with himself; his loneliness and his guilt were part of being him, his isolation was part of his darkness. He was reconciled with himself and his place in the world.
His ever-mocking destiny could not stand it, of course. It had to come and crush him. It had to shatter his life, monastic and purpose-driven, with giving him back what he had thought lost forever. It had to distract him with a dream of happiness. It had to blind him with hope. It had to ruin his self-control, and show him that deep inside he was exactly the man he always was – so pitifully hungry for love that a hint of it would turn him into a weeping child.
He was just a step away from achieving his goal. He paid for being that close to it. And then She walked into his shop, and he was back to square one, firmly stuck in the same impasse as he was years ago in the magic land. He knew he could not have her, for coldness and determination needed to complete his task were incompatible with love: that did not change, though everything around did. He wanted to have her, achingly, because she brought him light and hope, and part of him wanted to believe that light and hope would bring him closer to success. That did not change either.
There was nothing in the world he wanted more than her. He wanted her much more than he wanted to find his son; wanting her was real, and finding him has become an almost abstract idea – that was a very hard thing to acknowledge to himself. But he did acknowledge it, and repented it, and even because of that he saw no way among the uncountable paths of the universe that he could let himself have her.
But all that was philosophy and that came later. The moment he saw her, the moment he turned around to get rid of an unwelcome visitor and saw her, standing there alive and breathing, so broken and small in her shabby hospital gown, so lost, so helpless, so his… He was stunned – blown over – completely, utterly destroyed. A hurricane of emotions took him over – if his magic were with him then, he would have probably blasted his surroundings away with the sheer force of his feelings. He could not believe she was there, for it was beyond belief. He was terrified, for it was incomprehensible. He was overwhelmed, for it was a miracle. He was not glad, for he could not be glad when his heart ached for her. He did not know what she has been through, but one glance told him she suffered, and her sufferings left their mark; her inner glow seemed to be… dimmer somehow, as if obscured by pain.
He must have frightened her with the intensity of his reaction; he certainly embarrassed her. She did not know him, and the shivering emotional mess he appeared to be must have been repulsive; even kindest of people always react with mild distaste to emotional displays in which they have no part. As he embraced her, and felt her stiffen in his arms, he thought, briefly, that their roles were reversed now: he loved her with all the intensity his heart possessed, and she was shut out from him, unreachable and distant. And oh, how he loved her – the moment he touched her, the moment his face was buried in her hair and he felt her scent, the moment her breath warmed his skin his love rushed back to him, blotting out his shock and his apprehension, bringing him back to life, swelling his heart with pain and longing such as he never knew. They were even stronger now than back then when he first knew her, for they were deepened by the loss, and highlighted by the miracle of having her back. He thought he'd never feel these things – he thought he had no right to them. And now he was granted the right, and felt them.
He has lost her, he died with her, and now she was back with him.
He wondered how he survived the moment.
She was so lost and helpless now, so dependent on him he did not know what to do. In the years of his mourning for her he came to think of her as of a source of light, he regarded her as some beacon of hope with an unerring instinct for good and right. When he dreamed of her, he trusted her to give him a sense of direction. Yet now she trusted him, and he was supposed to show the way. He was not fit for this task.
He felt frightened he'd let her down.
They say that fear is the door through which darkness enters our hearts. It is true. For fear of failing her, he felt the need to find strength. To find the strength, he had to get his magic back. He never stopped to think that magic was what stood between them before. He needed to feel confident, and there was only one way to find confidence.
As they walked through the woods, he felt guilty – she was obviously tired of walking, confused and unhappy, what was he thinking of, taking her with him? Yet, how could he have left her behind, and go away risking he'd come back to the empty shop – to the realization that her return was an illusion born in his grief-ridden mind, which finally collapsed under strain? He had to have her near him. He had to feel her hand in his, to make sure she was real.
And yet he let her fall slightly behind as he walked on impatiently, waiting for things to happen – for the curse to break. He knew he'd feel it – it was his curse, for goodness sake. He'd never thought he'd be too distracted to notice the magic twist, and that the news would come to him with her voice, calling him by his real name, and telling him she loved him.
She told him that because she knew it about herself. He did not feel her love – not like he used to, when it came flooding, threatening to destroy him with its force.
May be it was because there was no magic in this land. May be it was because she was not completely herself, yet. May be it was because he was, after all, cursed.
May be it was a good thing that her love didn't come as a destructive invasive force. It just glowed, warmly, and felt as hot breath on a frozen palm in winter.
He was standing there in the woods, looking into her beautiful eyes, which were searching his face, waiting for his reaction, fearful of his wrath. He remembered their parting. He felt his guilt and his helplessness. That was when the thought that her return did not really change anything or brought them any hope hit him. And he knew, at once, that he must redeem himself in her eyes – exactly because their situation was hopeless he had to do it. He had to tell her that she was right, that he was the one who shied away from the truth, just as she told him then. They loved each other, and it mattered – he had to acknowledge that. He owed it to her, and to himself.
He told her he loved her, and his reward was great. She came into his arms, and the complete ease of her action, the unconditional trust in him it shoved, felt like a physical power. It warmed him, if even just for a second, and then he realized just how cold his life has been all that time. Yet she was able to help him thus because he was strong enough to encourage her. He needed more strength. He needed his magic and, when it was back, he was amazed how easy – how natural – how normal it felt, to have it with him again. He never realized, till he came to this land, just how much his magic was part of him. He always thought it was brought on by the curse. Now he wondered if perhaps it was always in him, somewhere, and was just awakened by his fury, and his grief, and the murder he committed with the magical dagger.
Yet, with the return of magic, darkness in him stirred disturbingly. He could not just stand there, in the light of his personal miracle of love lost and found. He was compelled to let the shadows in. He needed to know what caused him grief. Learning the circumstances of her plight, he placed the guilt immediately on himself. Regina would have never known about her if he were not careless – she would never do anything if she didn't want to weaken him. He was to blame; he knew it just as surely as when he was hitting her father, punishing him for her death while the blame rested entirely on his shoulders. He was the one who had her love, but shut her out – her fate was his fault. Yet he had to punish her father, for he could find no punishment great enough for himself – a thousand deaths would not do. And now he had to punish someone else, again, for it was impossible to be near her while this dark anger lived in him.
And he wanted to have her near him – he wanted it more then ever before in his life, for he felt today that something changed between them. There was always, even when he loved and desired her with passion that drove him insane, even when she loved him with force great enough to break through his curse, some alienation between them. If he had stopped to think clearly, while he was dreaming of her in his chamber, he would have realized that they were hardly compatible – they were from different species. She must have felt it, too – that was why she called him ugly; she just expressed herself rather tactlessly, but essentially she was right: he was very different from her. It was difficult, nearly impossible to picture his gold-crusted lips really touching hers.
This alienation was gone now. He thought of that as his human hand touched her human cheek now. It looked natural. It felt easy. It was magical in its own way that he could kiss her now without magical changes coming over them. He could just kiss her, deeply, as he always wanted, and feel her softness in his arms, and be close to her.
'We can be together', she said. And she was right. It was possible.
As he kissed her gently parted lips, for the first time in his life he gloried in his human self. He finally felt it – the softness and wetness of her youthful mouth, fresh and light, yet hinting at the darker softness and wetness that he could also discover now. He had thought of it so often, imagined it so often, was aroused and ashamed by it so often – and now he was doing it, he was kissing her, and she wanted him to kiss her. Clumsily, but eagerly she opened her lips wider, and desire seared through him like pain, fraying his nerves, alerting him to everything in her; she was overwhelmingly real, and he thought of how long he waited for her, and instinctively deepened the kiss, touching her tongue with his, feeling his muscles tightening. She drew away from him then, shyly – he must have been too intense, he frightened her, and she was so fragile yet.
Her head came to rest on his shoulder, and he embraced her almost convulsively, wishing to feel her body against his, but also wishing to shelter her from the world. True love or not, magical force or just a force of nature, she was with him, they were together, and he would never, never let anything tear her from his embrace. He would never lose her again. He would find a way to do what he needs to do, and keep her.
To make sure of that, he had to defeat his enemies. And he had to punish the woman who made her suffer.
The man in him argued that they needed protection. The beast in him growled in anticipation of fun.
He took her home. For all her enthusiasm for kissing, for all the happy glow of her radiant face, it was obvious that she was deadly tired. She has been through a lot today – she escaped from her prison, she walked the woods with him, she discovered her true self, and they survived a kiss they both, in their hearts, not only wanted but also feared. She needed to rest.
He left her in the backroom of his shop, sleeping on his camp-bed, dressed in a pretty dress he charmed for her and covered with his tartan blanket, her shoes kicked off and laying on the floor. She looked relaxed and innocent as a child. He watched her for a while, wondering at the sight of her lovely, bright, living face on his pillow, asking himself if, dark and damaged and flawed as he was, he even had a right to touch her – to bind her to him. Yet it was done, already, he reminded himself – he should have thought of that before he asked her to promise him his 'forever', and got her promise.
He hated to get away from her – he would have preferred to sit by her side, guarding her dreams, making sure nothing unpleasant touched her. But he had things to do. Unpleasant ones.
He sealed the shop with the strongest protection spell he could summon, and went away to summon Regina's wraith.
