38

In every instance of her life that was connected with magic – that is, with him; in every instance of her love the dreamer in her prevailed: she hoped, she insisted, she rushed into things. And in those same matters her practical side always tried to rein the dreamer in – to control that little fool, to wake her up to reality. She became accustomed to this division of their roles. Yet now, after she was chased away from his prison, as his captivity was proved to be unbreakable, as he remained in the power of darkness despite all her love and all her relentless hoping; after he lost what was dearest to him, after he was forced to threaten little children and fight his family, and she just stood there, staring, unable to help him in any way… After all this the dreamer in her felt defeated; pained, frightened – paralyzed. And she expected the practical girl to gloat – to nod wisely and say: 'Accept it – you can't win. There is nothing you can do'.

Instead of which, her practical side surprised her. She held her hand, mentally, she brushed away all her complaints and weeping and said: 'Nonsense. There are plenty of things you can do. You don't have much magic, but you have brains, and you can use them, and help to fight for him – for his cause'.

And she listened to her practical side. She searched his books, looking for answers. She gave the good ones necessary information. She tried to share with them part of her knowledge – his knowledge, and her knowledge of him.

That helped – she felt useful; she felt included. She was, for once, not a freakish girl silently fighting for her monstrous lover – she was part of the team of heroes fighting for her lover. Of course they were not thinking of her and of him, as such, as they worked; they had their own agenda. They all wanted to stop the witch; to do that, they had to free the Dark One. But nevertheless: for once in her life she was not alone in caring for him. And that felt good.

Yes, all that activity helped. But something else the practical girl kept saying every time she caught a sight of a tear in the dreamer's eye helped even more. 'Things are so bad, they could only get better. It will end well', she said.

And this irrational logic, delivered with eerie inner calm, helped.

Even when she saw him in the hospital, even when she saw his bloodless face, his dead, bleak eyes, even as she heard his harsh warning – 'Belle, go!' – even then it helped. It was somehow different from that cry of his – 'Run!' It didn't sound as desperate – as final.

And, as she felt herself falling when the witch hit her with some minor spell, she thought, with this same eerie calm: 'He'll catch me'.

And he did – and she got to feel his arms around her before she passed out. She saw a look of love, saw dark light glowing in the dept of his gaze, like embers under the ashes.

'He loves me. It will end well', she thought, as her gaze darkened.

As she opens her eyes a while later, she is slightly disoriented – confused. She is in a hospital, on one of the beds, but fully dressed. She panics, momentarily, remembering all the time she spent in this hospital – all the time she lay on the same bed, not knowing herself; remembering the time when, as she was slowly recovering, as he came to help her and brought his love and hope with him, the queen came to curse her into the wretched insecure little slut, and plunged them into a new bout of misery.

Strangely enough, the queen is standing in front of her bed, again. Her dark face is mellowed and somehow uncertain.

'You came to, at last', she smiles.

She nods, suddenly frightened. Something must have happened – some sort of resolution came, otherwise the queen wouldn't be standing here so calmly. Yet, if things ended well, why isn't he here? Surely he'd have come to her, if things ended well?

The queen reacts to her panic with uncharacteristic attentiveness. 'Don't worry, he is fine', she says hastily. 'Everyone is fine. We won'. She pauses, hesitating. 'They are waiting for me. I just came to… I suppose I came to apologize. Things between us weren't always smooth'.

She raises her eyebrow – the queen certainly has a knack for understatement. But Regina isn't done yet. With a slight furrowing of brows she reaches under her coat and draws from there something long and heavy and dully gleaming.

Her heart stops, for an instant.

'I came to give you this. I suppose you are the perfect person to hold it'.

And with that, she places his dagger on her bed, and turns to leave.

She looks at it, blankly.

'Where did you get that?..' Her voice is weak.

'From the witch, of course'. Said from the door, without turning.

'But why doesn't he have it?' There is panic in her voice, now.

Regina turns her head and gives a familiar twisted smile: 'I got it first'.

The door closes, and she is left alone with the dagger. Staring at this thing that brought them so much suffering. A thing so important to him.

Her heart is beating, fast, as she jumps out of bed and sways, for a second. There is nothing physically wrong with her – she is just terrified. That thing, that thing that holds him a slave, that thing that brought him so much suffering – it was taken from him again. He must be mad with anger and frustration. He must be hurting horribly.

She must take it to him, at once – she must give it to him, now.

She grabs her handbag, which was carefully placed on the side-table by one of the nurses, and turns towards the dagger. She is apprehensive at taking it. Then, with a decisive sigh, she gingerly grabs the hilt.

It seems strangely cold. She'd have expected such a powerful thing to greet her, somehow – it changed hands, yet again, it must be important. But it feels… blunt and dumb, silent and closed on itself. It doesn't want to admit it has a new owner.

She almost drops it back on the bed.

She doesn't want to be its' owner. It already has an owner.

She practically runs across the town, the dagger stuck awkwardly into her handbag; she is running towards the shop – she knows he must be there; this is where he feels the happiest, the safest, and that is where he'd go now, when he was saved and freed, but humiliated again.

Coming up to the front door, she slows down. She must not upset him. He is so hurt, so traumatized now – he would want things to be as normal as possible; he wouldn't want to see her flushed or crying – she must appear before him as much a happy princess as it is possible, after all they have been through.

She breathes deeply, and bites her lip, and opens the door, listening to sweet tingle of a bell, for hundredth time in her life, it seems.

Sounds different when she knows he is inside.

There he is – standing behind the counter with his back to her, just as he stood once before, when she came searching for him, not knowing herself yet.

'Excuse me, are you Mr Gold?.. I was told to find you…'

He turns towards the sound of her steps, and their eyes meet. And, just as it did then, his face crumples with tenderness – his eyes brim with tears.

And she knows it is him.

She found him.

He runs across the room, crushes her in his arms.

It feels so wonderful to touch him – to smell his skin, to feel its warmth; to hear his frantic heartbeat. To feel the tickling of his hair on her cheek pressed to his neck.

It feels so wonderful to touch him, and yet it is so horrible to sense how tense he is; how deeply hurt, how confused, how unsure of himself.

'I knew you'd come back', she says, every inch the princess he must remember from their past. Trying her best to be bright and cheerful for him; unable to stop herself from sobbing into his neck, into his hair.

Alive, he is alive and he is here, in her arms. Just as in dreams from which she woke up sobbing; just as in dreams for which she castigated herself, as it was so obviously hopeless to wait for his return. Just as in dreams, but real, lost and found, physically here, and it really is him – his skin, his smell, his hands gently clasping her back, it is his body, which she knows so well, better then her own, it seems; his voice, answering her in half-sob, half-sigh, telling her that after all these years he is still amazed that she believes in him so.

'I love you. Always have', she says. And she wants to add 'And always will', but there is such sadness in his eyes that she checks herself. There will be time for love-talk, later – there will be time for everything after things are set the way they should be – after he is truly the man he must be.

She takes the dagger from her bag and holds it towards him.

There is a very strange look in his eyes – he hesitates, unwilling to take it. And, when he finally does, he is holding it awkwardly, turns it over uncertainly, as if checking the name on the blade; as if not knowing what to do with it.

And then he gives it back to her.

'I am, now and forever, yours', he says, and handles over the greatest power she was ever entrusted with.

Not the power over his dagger – the power over his heart.

The dagger feels differently in her hands now – not inert or sinisterly silent any more; not stolen or taken – given. It becomes slightly warmer. It knows it is not in stranger's hands now – it is in possession of someone who is bounded to its' owner, forever.

He knows that to place the dagger in her hands is the same as not to part with it at all.

Then why, oh why is he still so sad, so tense?..

It's not his unspeakable loss. It's not his recent suffering and humiliating deliverance. It is something else – something bottled inside him; some secret thing – some secret thought. And it is so like him – to be holding on to something while opening up to her.

He has changed so much, but inside he is still just as he was many years ago in his castle – trying to be remote, whishing her to guess what's wrong without him telling her. Talking in riddles; only his riddles are so sad now.

She doesn't really need him to say the magic words 'marry me' – yet she asks for them, still, because his little princess would; she was always stubborn, she wanted things discussed and confirmed.

She asks for the words, because she feels that is what he needs – a lovely peaceful scene: a shy proposal, a smiling blushing bride, asking for confirmation of his intent; normality; humanity. No magical deals, no mystical understanding of each other's hearts: just a man and a woman who love each other. Words spoken; things named and given a life.

And, having said her 'Yes' and walking into his embrace, she is suddenly overwhelmed with the sharpness of feeling him, really feeling him, so close. He was lost to her forever, he died in front of her, he came back in dark shadows and he chased her away from him, and here he is, running his fingers through her hair. It is impossible, but it is true; they paid the price, and now they have their miracle; she has her miracle – his body in her arms again: to touch, to kiss, to give herself to. She never confessed, not even to herself, how much she missed him – not his love, which she always felt; not his soul, to which she felt connected: she missed him, the man, missed those hands, trembling on her shoulders now, missed this lined, old face, handsomest in the world for her; missed those lips, searching her lips and crushing them with a kiss; missed the taste of his skin, that skin she kisses and licks now, there on the neck, below the jaw, as he throws his head back with a gasp, as he always did – he loves it when she kisses this spot. She missed his voice, speaking her name in harsh whisper; she missed his tongue, darting out to trace the outline of her lips; she missed the heat rising up inside her as he brushes her breast, and his fingers gently nip her nipples through the silk of her blouse; she wants to feel his hands on her skin – she wants it now.

She draws back from him, for a second; she wants to look at his face, into his dark, smoldering eyes, dark light shining in them. She knows she must look wild, now – her hair dishevelled, her lips swollen, her eyes longing; yet he is in much the same state: his breathing harsh and uneven, his face flushed, his tie askew, his shirt half unbuttoned – did she do that?

And there is no sadness about him now – none at all.

God, she'd do anything to chase his sadness away, forever.

She reaches her hand to touch his, to lead him towards the back room.

'Come', she says.

He follows, giving her a sideways look – turning his head to stare at the 'Open' sign at the door – turning it over to 'Closed'; snapping his fingers once, and locking the door.

She smiles, and he smiles back.

'What else can you do?' – 'Anything. There are many perks to being the Dark One'.

Many perks, yes. And uncountable drawbacks.

She doesn't want to think of that, now.

She just wants to touch him, everywhere her hands and lips would reach. She wants to feel his touch, everywhere, her skin is screaming for him, it went without him for so long; her insides constrict in anticipation, her body is unbearably hot – waves of heat ripple through her, making her nipples painfully sensitive so that, when his lips close over them, she cries out; she is all over him, tearing at his clothes, reaching for his bare skin, moaning; saying something – 'please, please, please' – in hushed sobs, as he takes off her clothes, kissing every inch of skin he frees, his hands shaking, his eyes mad, his lips trembling. His hand reaches to touch her, and she pushes forward, impatiently, taking his fingers in, throwing her head back, gasping; 'No, no, not your hand, I want you'; sitting on top of him, fumbling with remaining clothing, touching him; gasping; straddling him, feeling his want, pulsating inside her; feeling his hands grab her breasts; moving over him, slowly, whishing to absorb him though her skin, so that he is hers, all hers, never to be taken from her, ever again; looking at his face, tense, drawn, all eyes, he is struggling to control himself; gripping his shoulders as his body arches towards her; exploding as his eyelids drop, as they dropped then, in the light, and as he sighs out her name; exploding again as he shudders, and as he fills her insides with his semen, hot, fills her with his self, alive, alive!..

They stay on the camp-bed for a while, both stunned; her legs and arms firmly locked around him, hands clasped behind his back. If only she could hold him like that forever, to shelter him from all harm; then all would be well.

And then, suddenly, terrifyingly, his body begins to tremble: a low tremor first, it quickly turns into incontrollable shiver. His teeth clutter, as if he is terribly cold; and then he starts crying. Silently first, with awful hissing sound; loudly later, sobbing, drawing away from her, bringing his knees up to his face, covering his face with hands, his toes curling, his body rigid, shaking.

Going through something unutterable that happened to him; reliving the nightmare.

She holds his shoulders, shaking with him – crying with him.

It passes, finally – as all things pass, even the most horrible things.

He stays on the bed, spent, curled into a ball; she is pressed to him, holding him to her, stroking his back, saying just one thing – repeating just one word.

'Darling. Darling… My darling…'

Then:

'Tell me. You have to tell me. You can tell me everything – anything…'

'No. No. No. Nothing to tell, really… Nothing to tell'.

He gives a rugged sigh, and reaches for her hand.

Fingers entwined, they stay silent until sleep comes.