40

She wakes up to see the light of the pale morning seeping through the window-blinds; wakes up to discover that her arm had gone to sleep, and smiles at the absurdity of the phrase. Smiles at the reason of her discomfort: his head, resting on her shoulder, his face tucked into her neck as he sleeps, his soft breathing warming her skin. His arms are wrapped around her, their legs crossed; his face is so peaceful it is hard to believe it is the same man whom she saw yesterday in such terrible anguish – in such deep misery.

She holds her breath, cherishing the moment. He is here, quiet and warm, resting by her side. When was the last time they had such a peaceful morning, she wonders? Not often; their life was so troubled, so complicated even in the best times. Yet there was a morning very much like this one – the morning after the night they spent together when he returned from the island.

The morning of the day that he died.

She shuts her eyes, chasing the thought away, but she cannot control the shiver that runs through her body, and her shiver disturbs him – he stirs by her side, turning his face; his eyelashes quiver as the last dredges of sleep leave him, and she holds her breath, again, not knowing what she'd see in his eyes when he opens them. Sadness? Pain? Tiredness, which one night's rest couldn't ease – which seems permanently settled on his soul?

He opens his eyes, looks at her face, and smiles. His gaze is mellow.

'Belle', he says, drawing her closer to him. 'My beautiful bride'.

She bites her lip, torn between laughter and weeping; it is somehow painful to see him so lighthearted – painful, and slightly unreal. How things can suddenly be smooth and calm when they were always, always troubled?

He furrows his brows: 'What troubles you on your wedding day?'

'What?' He'd never lose his ability to surprise her. 'My wedding day? Today? So soon?'

He gives her his twisted smile. 'We've wasted thirty years. Do you wish to wait longer?'

She blushes. 'No, of course not. But...' – she sits up, suddenly agitated, her heart fluttering. 'But there are so many things to do! I must get a dress, I must tell my father…'

'Shhhh…' – he puts his finger on her lips. 'Later. There will be time for all that. There will be time for everything'. He draws her face closer to his, and plants a kiss on her brow, and then his lips move down, to touch her eyelids and, finally, he finds her mouth – opening her lips with gentlest of kisses, catching her sigh as she melts under his touch, feeling his arousal against her thighs, waking to that low, almost painful longing to be filled with him – a longing to which she succumbs, instantly, opening her legs for him, closing her eyes; giving herself to him and receiving him in return; him, her greatest treasure.

They get up, much later, and he gently teases her about her clothing, damaged on the evening before in the frenzy of their reunion; of course he has something pretty prepared for her instead, as he always did.

He goes to make some tea, and she paddles barefoot to follow him.

'I am hungry', she says, smiling, feeling silly and girlish and sated and happy. 'Can you magic us some food, Dark One?'

He starts, imperceptibly, and instantly she freezes, regretting this lame joke.

But he seems unflustered. He turns to her with a smile, teapot in hand. 'Ready to abuse your power so soon? Well, your wish is my command'.

She blushes deeply, looking at a tray with perfectly served breakfast – jam and juice and toasts and what-have-you – appearing on the table behind his back.

'I am sorry', she says in a very small voice.

He walks up to her, touches her cheek with his fingertips. 'Don't be. It's a pleasure'.

She looks up at him forlornly, and he nods, reassuringly. 'Eat your food. We do have many things to do'.

She eats in a kind of haze, not sure she is hungry any more. He seems very light, very calm – nothing disturbs him. He butters his toast, he sips his tea, he makes some light conversation; he smiles; his eyes smile as well as his lips.

She looks at him with silent wonder.

What happened to the man who shuddered with sobs in her embrace the night before? What happened overnight to make him relax so – to give him such peace?

Not just her presence and her closeness, surely. She knows how much he loves her, she knows how much she means to him, but she lives in a real world: a man who went through so much, who had lost so much and suffered so much cannot find peace and happiness overnight, even if it was a night spent by the side of the woman he loves.

What else happened?

Yet she really has no time to think of that; even though he solved the problem with her dress and her flowers with a wave of his hand, there are still many things to be done. She does need to talk to her father; they are estranged, but she owes it to him to at least inform him of her life-changing decision.

Meanwhile, he has to arrange some sort of legal representation at the scene of their union.

Before they left the shop, he did one more thing which nags at her mind as she walks the town on her various errands: gently, but insistently he put the dagger into her bag. 'It is yours, do not forget it – it is not a thing to be left behind'.

The dagger rests in her bag now, making it unusually heavy – and not just with its' weight. She senses its' presence by her side. It feels like suddenly acquiring additional limb; it is very uncomfortable though, strangely, not as difficult as she expected. So many dark things were done with this dagger, yet it feels almost… innocent. It doesn't seem to be a thing of power – of dark power. It was given to her with words of love, may be that's why it is so… normal. It was given to her, and the next moment she gave herself over to the giver: she is his bride now, soon to be his wife – all her things are his things now, and the other way round.

Did the dagger change hands, at all?

Perhaps it belongs to both of them, now.

And perhaps it is a good thing.

But still she doesn't understand his insistence that she carries it with her. It is simply not practical. What if she loses it – what if something happens to her – what if it is stolen? It must be hidden, as it always was. And with this intent she goes back to the shop and tries to give the dagger back to her future husband.

And he behaves very strangely about it. He is unwilling to take it; he doesn't listen to her when she says it is simply unwise to walk around town with such a powerful thing.

'Why don't you hide it in a secret vault', she says. 'Oh, it is just for the darkest and dangerous magic', he answers. 'And this dagger is not dangerous?' 'No, because I trust you', he says, and changes the subject, trying to engage her with details of their wedding.

Liar.

She knows him so well, she can always tell it when he lies. He is lying now – something is wrong with this dagger, something is wrong with him; something he is not telling her.

And it hurts – it hurts to realize that, even after all they have been through he is still holding something back from her.

Yet she lets it pass.

He has been through so much; she always tells herself she can feel him, feel what's happening to him, but she cannot even start imagining what it really feels like to die – to lose a child – to live a slave. Whatever he did to ease his mind, whatever he chooses to keep from her – let him do it, if it helps him to be sane; if it helps him to be happy by her side.

She tortured him enough with her doubts and her insistence on goodness. She pushed him into the arms of death itself with her relentless well-wishing. He can do without her preaching now; she will give him time. If he wants to tell her, he will. If not – let him keep his secrets. He is a man and a wizard – he is entitled to secrets.

Every time she learned his secrets before, she lost him.

Never again.

So she lets him change the subject, and talks about her visit to her father, telling him that he gave them his blessing, omitting the parts about his horror and grief; omitting his resignation, his soft question: 'There is no point in me objecting, is there?' Omitting her answer: 'It has been decided', answer deliberately phrased exactly as her wish to follow the Dark One was, long ago, in her father's castle.

Omitting her adding: "You'd better come to the wedding, father, to give me away. He is the Dark One: you don't want to upset him'.

'But he does your bidding?' Asked with such horror, such distrust.

'Yes, and I do his'. Answered with pride: in her choice, in her fate, in her readiness for it.

All these confrontations, hurts, crimes forgiven but not forgotten; all these clashing egos and personalities. What a way to start a family. Yet is it so different from the life at the royal court that she was brought up for? Same matters of power, same doubts, same compromises. There is only one thing in which she is sure, in all that emotional mess – his love.

He loves her, and that is all that matters.

He doesn't lie about that – she can see it in his eyes, sense it in his nervous kiss.

And that is enough for her.

Lying or confused, troubled or scheming, he is alive – with her, in her arms.

And that is all that matters.

Perhaps heroes would say differently; perhaps they would insist on integrity.

But none of them had to endure what he endured; and none of them lived through the same pain as she did. And she is not a hero, not really.

She is just a girl who loves him.

She is the wife of the Dark One. Or soon will be.

She is on his side. Forever, as she promised him all that time ago.

When the new crisis arises in town and he is called to help, her heart nearly stops with irrational fear. Not again! She wants to take his hand and hold him back, refusing to let him go. Every time things look good for them, he receives some magical summoning, and is gone.

She will not survive losing him again.

But she holds her tongue, knowing he has to go – it is in his nature. The least she could do is come with him, trying not to let him out of her sight.

As if having him in her sight helped before…

They all gather at the police station, musing about the empty cell and the witch's escape, and suddenly she senses his acute discomfort.

He is uneasy, and as the queen accuses him of 'doing something' to the witch, his defense – 'Belle has my dagger, she would curb any homicidal tendencies' – sounds slightly lame.

Naturally she steps up to him. 'It is true'.

People around nod and shrug their shoulders and decide to look at the security tapes.

And she feels him freeze.

She looks at him, questioningly.

He gives her unreadable sideways glance in return.

She turns away from him to look at the tape, which starts running and instantly blurs.

And she senses magic happening – his magic.

Something small, almost innocent.

A trick.

The tape shows the witch doing herself in – crumbling to dust on the floor of her cell.

People around are discussing the event and its' consequences; he gives them advices; there is general atmosphere of teamwork in the air.

She keeps her silence and doesn't look at him.

She needs some time alone – she needs to think.

Yet still, as they leave the police station, she comes up to walk by his side and silently clasps his hand, and gives it a squeeze.

It is his turn to look at her questioningly, to arch his brow. But she says nothing – she is too confused. What she really wants to say is something that she is ashamed of – it is so unlike her… She is not sorry that that woman is dead. She would never say 'Yes, I wanted her to die', if somebody asked her outright. She certainly never wanted him to kill her. But she is not sorry that she's gone. That woman was awful, wicked – she was deeply evil. And she couldn't imagine her living amongst them – walking those streets, talking to these people. That woman who sneered at him as his son was dying; that woman who kept him in a cage; that woman who made him attack his loved ones; that woman who mocked his love; that woman who denied him hope and dignity… What would every meeting with her do to him?

What would it do to her? She shudders every time she remembers her visit to the shop, let alone all other occasions on which they met. 'You must be Mrs Gold… Oh, I am so sorry for your loss!..' Sneering, evil, sick witch.

No, she is not sorry that she's dead. But this is not the sort of thing that princesses say aloud, so she just smiles at him and says: 'Will you mind it if I go for a small walk, now? I need to think… Must be the nerves; I am a bride, after all'.

He nods his understanding. 'I will be in the shop'.

Such normal, normal conversation. Like a real, proper family.

She goes to the only place in town which she can call hers – the library. For her it is the same as his shop for him – a happy, safe place. He gave it to her as a token of love; this is where he first spoke to her openly; this is where she asked him on a date. Yet still it is her place, not his.

She walks among the bookshelves, browsing the titles, and finds a book on history of marriages; the one she hasn't seen before. She takes it from the shelf, sits at the table and leafs through it, thinking of her own approaching wedding. It seems they will do it the way ancient Romans did: 'The bride's father would deliver her to the groom, and the two agreed that they were wed, and would keep the vow of marriage by mutual consent'.

She smiles; of course the Dark One would marry in some ancient manner.

She thinks of their meeting, all this time – a lifetime – ago; it is so strange to think that really they were married then, on that first night, as she said 'Forever' to him. What if things were different – what if he didn't have his magical quest to fulfill, and could have loved her freely? What if she didn't rush things with her kiss, didn't try to break his curse – would they have found a way to live together and love each other there, in their enchanted homeland, as the Dark One and his wife? She pictures her wedding to him there, in the Dark Castle; pictures him in one of his incredible resplendent coats, in a black mantle perhaps, herself in a long dress of pale gold – woven from the treads he spun, he wouldn't settle for less.

Who would have attended this wedding? Who would have dared to miss it? How would have they lived there, afterwards – would they have had children? It was a nice castle to raise a family in – it was too big for a lonely man.

She smiles at this weird version of 'happily ever after', and shakes her head. Of course it couldn't have happened like that. Everything happens by design, he says; things happen the way they are meant to happen. They were meant to suffer all their pain, because of who she is, and who he is.

'I am a villain, and villains don't get happy endings', he said to his father, as she stood watching him die and cried, inside: 'You are not a villain, you are the man I love!'

'My ending shall not be a happy one', he said to her once.

They must turn this tale around. She is not his happy ending, though God knows he deserves it. He is her happy ending – and, being a princess, she is entitled to one.

The words of the traditional marriage vow stare at her from the page. 'I take you to be my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part'.

Even further, in their case.

Death did not part them.

Would she let a weakness stand between them?

She takes a deep breath, and pulls the dagger out of her bag.

For a while, she sits holding it in her hands, getting the feel of it.

It is a powerful magical thing. It is warm – warmer then it felt yesterday. But there is nothing sinister about it; nothing really dark.

'And this dagger is not dangerous?'

'No, it is not'. Said with his back to her, said in a deliberately light voice.

Something is wrong with him – something is wrong with this dagger.

She closes her eyes, holding the blade, summoning all her knowledge of him, trying to understand. This blade feels familiar – as if she handled something similar before. And suddenly she knows what it was: his straw.

This dagger has 'Rumpelstiltskin' written all over it; not in letters – in magic.

It is full of his magic.

Did he make it?

How is it possible?

No, no, of course it isn't. He's entitled to his secrets, but how could he keep anything like that from her? This dagger is the thing with which Dark Ones are created – it gives him his power. That is why magic feels the same. Surely it is so.

Isn't it?

'Belle has my dagger, she would curb any homicidal tendencies I might have'.

His shifty look.

His trick with the tape.

His lies.

He lied to her about something – she is sure of that.

Could he have lied about something so important? Doesn't he trust her at all?

If she called him with this dagger that she holds in her hand now, if she summoned him, now – would he come?

She doesn't dare to try.

She doesn't want him to think she is ready to abuse her power over him.

She doesn't want to know she has no power.

He knew she wouldn't try; he knows her so well.

She closes her eyes, trying to stop herself from crying – trying to swallow the pain. It all comes back – all the times when he rejected her, refused to open up to her, held something back. All the times she preached with him, walked out on him, made her point.

All the times she lost him.

A vision comes to her – his bleak face, his dead eyes, his body rigid as he sent her away from his castle after she tired to break his curse. And his bleak face, his dead eyes as he sailed from her to die. And his bleak face, dead eyes, his body doubled in pain on the snow after she brought his son to die for him.

His bloodless face, his closed eyelids as he stepped into the light; and she just stood there, watching.

His hand, trembling as he reached to take her hand in the cage.

His tears of yesterday. His shaking body. His despair.

She cannot blame him.

'You don't need magic, you need courage to let me in', she told him once; and she was wrong. She accused him of being a coward, so many times, when all he did was holding on to something really important to him – something he thought would upset her; something she might ruin with her blunt goodness.

She already told herself her insistence on goodness only made his life harder – she told this to herself as she sat on the ground, stunned, looking at the spot where he died.

Never again.

Perhaps heroes would say differently. But she is not a hero.

She is a girl who loves him, and lost him so many times she lost count, and afraid to lose him again.

She is a coward.

She is the wife of the Dark One, or soon will be.

She is on his side.

She takes the dagger into her hands again, pensive. He gave it to her with words of love. He gave himself over to her – himself, not just this magical piece of steel. And, despite what she might suspect and fear, she knows he was not deceiving her then.

She knows him well.

'Despite what you may believe, I am still a monster'.

Still the man she loves.

She doesn't want to know anything else.

She would not summon him with this dagger, ever.

Their love binds them – they don't need any other props.

She is ready to face him, now, but she needs to do something else first. She needs to hide the dagger – it would look strange if she took it with her to the wedding; indecent, even – what sort of bride needs a magical tool to summon her husband to the altar?

And she feels reluctant to have it with her – it would only upset her.

She hides it here, in the library. An obvious place, perhaps, but if he thought that it is safe for her to carry it around town, than surely she can hide it wherever she wants.

They meet at the shop and go to the announcement of the prince's name together. She clasps his hand as they hear the name, feels the downward surge of his heart, watches his unbearably sad face as he closes his eyes, lost in thought, lost in the past – lost in some long-gone moment of his life; such a long life, with so many parts of it still unknown to her.

That was a nice gesture from the royal family; a sweet one. They did not do it for him, of course – they have their own reasons to honor his son. But it was good of them. She knows how much it means to him: it will not bring back their son; but it will make him live on, somehow.

And then they sneak quietly away, and she goes to her father's place, to put on the dress he charmed for her, to take her flowers and to walk up to him, waiting on the forest clearing; not as grand as her imagined wedding in the Dark Castle, but real and therefore better. And fitting, too: they first embraced on the forest clearing, after all.

He was very secretive about his arrangements – she didn't know who'd witness the vows. And at the sight of smiling, awkward Doctor Hopper, who was always so kind to her, she smiles, too: the magical cricket – the person who could always spot a lie when he hears it.

His presence means that every word they say here today is true.

She speaks from the heart as she tells him her journey of losses was a path towards finding him.

'I lost you to darkness, I lost you to weakness, I lost you to death'.

'Never again', she adds, inside.

He speaks from the heart as he tells her what she means to him.

'You brought light into my life, and chased away all the darkness'.

'Not yet, sweetheart. Not yet. But I will. I promise', she tells him silently.

'How could you see the man behind the monster I will never know', he says.

Oh, how clever he is, how apt with words… He tells her he is still unchanged, just as he did before – he speaks the truth.

'You have to leave, because, despite what you may believe, I am still a monster', he told her once. 'And this is exactly the reason I have to stay', she told him then.

Nothing changed.

'But that monster is gone', she smiles. And that is true, too: that particular monster is gone; another one replaced him, brought on by pain and suffering and loss – atoned by love, which remained unchanging. And, just as she tried to tell him then, she doesn't want the monster to be gone – if he was gone, he wouldn't be the same man, the man she loves. 'The man beneath him is flawed, but we all are. And I love you for it'.

Will he listen? Would he understand?

It seems that he does – his eyes brim with tears. He looks… grateful.

And suddenly it hits her again – that overwhelming awe at the miracle of having him here, alive – of hearing him say these lovely sentimental things… He is the Dark One, a proud and secretive beast, and yet he lets a cricket wed him and speaks openly of his heart's wishes.

That's how much he loves her.

That's who he is, whatever he believes himself to be.

And she is, now, his wife.

'You must be Mrs Gold?' – 'No, I am… not'.

Well, she is now.

And nothing else matters – nothing else is irredeemable.

She sobs as she reaches to kiss him.

They walk from the forest to his – their – house hand in hand, as they walked from the well on the day the first curse broke.

He looks at her sideways and squeezes her hand. 'Weird, isn't it? A happy ending…' There is sadness and wistfulness in his voice, and she thinks she must tell him of her imaginary wedding to him in the enchanted land – that would make him smile.

But she doesn't have time, for they walk up to the house, finally, and he opens the door, and takes her up in his arms to carry her across the threshold – he is a man to observe traditions, she always knew that. And, as he steps in with her in his arms, she gasps – the hall is full of roses.

She feels like crying – it is such a simple, silly, deeply sentimental thing; it tells so much about him – about his times, more courteous and civilized than modern ones; about his heart, given to simple and beautiful things; traditional things; sentimental values.

He is such an old-fashioned man, her husband. Such a gentle man.

The gentlest, kindest of men, who has given himself to darkness to protect his child; paid for that with his life, and failed; and still he is full of love.

What an honor it is to share his life. What a responsibility. What bitter joy.

Sometimes the best book has the dustiest jacket, and the best teacup is chipped.

Sometimes the simplest things are the most precious.

Like being carried in his arms up the staircase, and into the bedroom, also filled with roses. Like being kissed on the lips, longingly, his hands cupping her face, his eyes closed as if in prayer. Like being lowered on the bed upon virginally white sheets; like being looked at with sadness and adoration.

With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…

His fingers, tangled in her hair, caressing each lock. His fingers trembling slightly as he unbuttons her dress. His breath, catching as her breasts are exposed. His eyes, lingering on her naked skin.His hands, coming to rest on her thighs, pulling down her stockings, running down her legs, taking off her shoes; his lips, pressed to the soles of her feet as he kneels before her.

They made love many times over the course of their love – they snatched many moments of happiness from fate that punished them. Yet tonight, when they come together as husband and wife, it seems like they never knew each other – like they discover each other for the first time.

And, as he claims her for his own, she senses magic happening.

'If I'm never going to know another person in my whole life, can't I at least know you?'

'Perhaps… Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses, ah? Ah?'

His eyes, so sad and kind, his laugh, so teasing and tender; the golden dust on his skin.

His hand on the spinning wheel.

'Why did you come back?'

His lips, pressed to hers for the first time.

His sigh.

His lips, kissing her between her legs. His fingers, resting on her thighs, tensing as he tastes her wetness, as he senses the trembling of her insides.

Her taste on his lips as he moves to kiss her.

The light in his eyes.

His eyelids, dropping as he enters her, slowly.

His sigh, his low moan as she tenses around him.

His hair, falling on his brow.

His head, thrown back.

His hand on her neck; on her breast; gentle; trembling.

His voice, speaking her name.

'Belle'.

Her heart, reaching out to him.

Her body, disappearing as she becomes his – turning into the light, into the bright and warm shining to wrap around him, to shelter him, to never leave him – to belong to him as his skin and heart and tears.

Their love, palpable.

Their deal, sealed.

Resting, cradled in his arms, her head on his chest; listening to his heartbeat.

His lips, kissing the top of her head.

His hands, stroking her back, his soft whisper: 'Sweetheart, don't cry. There is nothing to cry about. All will be well now'.

And she didn't even know she was crying.

Kissing him; feeling him smile into her lips.

Wanting to believe him – wanting it so much.

Watching his face as he drifts to sleep; listening to his breathing, getting even; holding his hand; watching his fine, dry face relax; resisting the urge to caress him, to trace his features with her fingers.

There will be time for that.

Let him sleep now.

Let him rest.

Let no darkness claim him.

Let her happy ending be his.