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And they lived happily ever after.

Isn't that what they always say at the end of every fairytale? A neat phrase, a nice way to tidy up all loose ends.

But it never happens like that, does it? Even for the heroes — for the good people who deserve happiness. Look at Snow White and her prince: good people, without doubt; silly, but undeniably good. Do they live happily? Hardly, with their life filled with tiresome and dangerous adventures. So what's to be expected for people like him?

Cowardly, shadowy slime of a man who is unable to be honest even with the woman he loves more than life itself; a man unable to appreciate the good life gives him without mourning what he had lost, without harboring ill feelings towards people who wronged him. A man unable to shake off his past — to get rid of the fear, irrational as it is, that the torture he suffered would return and grip him once more, forever this time.

He is a villain, and villains don't get happy endings. Even if they wiggle their way into a possibility of a happy ending by marrying princesses, who are entitled to them. It could be argued what is to blame. Fate that blindly delivers its' blows according to your part in the story, regardless of your intentions, good deeds and deep suffering? Or your own nature that prompts you to actions you know to be wrong? Or just human nature that prompts your princess to become a little less good than she was — a little bit darker, now that she is by your side... Now that she is your wife.

Why is that always so? Why a thing that could be corrupted gets corrupted, if there is evil nearby, and a thing that could be bettered never gets repaired, even when embraced by goodness? Ah, but that is a very simple law of life. All the good things are just hopes and illusions and blindness. They are brief and fleeting. All the bad things are real, solid and inevitable. Everything bad that can happen will happen. Bad things are constant; they never leave you alone. And even if you believed them gone, they'd come back to you, as if to haunt you.

Like that magical cylindrical box staring at him from the counter in his shop; teasing him. Promising him the impossible — his freedom; the ultimate prize.

Bad things never go away. They stay with you... forever.

He closes his eyes, trying to shut away the memory — the sound of her voice, earnest and youthful, pledging herself to him. 'I will go with you, forever'. Shutting his eyes is a bad mistake; it only brings back the memory of her face to go along with the voice. Her dazzling, beautiful face, her magical eyes filling his life with light... That light that he abused ever since. That light that his presence in her life dimmed with sadness and loss, with exposure to horrors, misery and temptations.

Why, oh why did she have to be so adventurous, his little princess? Why there has to be so much mischief in her nature?

That morning, the first morning of their married life, when they woke up in their bedroom in his house and it was so full of sunlight he could hardly believe his eyes; he had lived in this room for thirty years and it never looked so bright. He woke up to see her smiling face, to meet her shining eyes; woke to kiss her parted lips and to embrace her slight body, which he could now and forever claim as his own. She gave herself to him languidly, as if enjoying her new married status — as if for the first time feeling herself to be a woman, not a girl. Afterwards, she chatted happily over breakfast, which she insisted on cooking herself, reminding him that he 'took her to be his caretaker, after all, and taking care of him is exactly what she'll do'. She served him tea in that long-suffering chipped cup and watched him dreamily as he drunk it. And he was so lost in her, so enveloped in her joy that every sadness pressing on him seemed gone or at least temporary forgotten; he did not think of his son, not once in almost an hour.

He also put aside the uneasy feeling of some serious magic happening in town, the feeling that nagged him, somewhere at the back of his mind, ever since he felt that Emma and her pirate came back from the time portal. These magical happenings, whatever they were, did not concern him; even if serious, they could be dealt with later. He was in his happy place, with his lovely wife, in a sunlit kitchen, and her nightdress was slipping off her shoulder, and she was tugging at the lapels of his robe and smiling at him and licking crumbs from her lower lip, and he knew that look in her eyes — the look that said that it would be a long time before they'd dress properly today.

It was such a bright, sunny morning. Such a hopeful morning; a morning of a really good day. And, as all good and hopeful things, it was brief.

She seemed slightly nervous as they dressed — no, not really nervous, but edgy and exited. She said that she had a surprise for him. He didn't have the heart to tell her how he hates surprises; how could he love them, after having an unpredictable imp of a father that he had? She seemed so happy, so taken with this secret idea of hers. Looking at her, as she stood bathed in the sunlight in her white blouse, all sweetness and trust, he made a decision he should have made a long time ago; that he'd really give her his dagger. He'd protect her right of possession with all the spells he can think of, making it impossible for her to accidentally lose it or for it to be taken from her hands by anybody but himself; he'd protect it, of course, but he would really give it to her. He'd put aside his ridiculous fears of being captured and tortured again. He is the Dark One, the most powerful wizard in the world. Who would oppose him? Whom does he have to fear?

He'd give her the dagger, and they will live happily ever after, as this bright morning promised them.

She told him to stop at the cemetery as they drove through town, and told him he'd wait for him by the car. He gave her a doubtful look, wondering what came over her, but then he remembered: she was taking her walk for the bride's nerves when he visited the graveyard yesterday; she didn't know he already said his farewell to his boy. And again he didn't have the heart to explain — she was so solemn and sad as she nudged him to go.

He went and spoke to his son again, glad of the excuse to come back; glad of the chance to talk through his grief and his hopes of redemption again. It was somehow different now, on this bright morning. That slightly less hard.

Why couldn't he talk to her of his loss — why was it easier to talk to the stone than to her? He never said a coherent word about Bae to anyone, which was hardly surprising, they were nothing to him, and he felt irrational anger at their attempts to show him compassion, as if by doing so they presumed on him, on his personal space — as if their clumsy and, he felt sure, hypocritical condolences would pollute the purity of his grief. Yes, it was hardly surprising he never spoke to others — but why not to her? Was it because she seemed so happy, and he didn't want to spoil her mood? Or did she seem even more like a child to him now that he lost his real child?

He wanted to protect her from all darkness, just as he wanted to protect his son. And, just as in the past when terrible things were happening to him, and he kept them from his boy so as not to upset him, he believed that ignorance is bliss.

However, visiting the grave did him good; he came back to her in a much brighter mood and listened indulgently to her banter about the old abandoned house that she found and decided to claim for their honeymoon. She was such a kid still, despite everything that happened to her, and it warmed his heart to think that it was his presence, his closeness and his love that made her forget all evils and enjoy her childish prank to such an extent.

They walked into this weird and magnificent house, and he felt the slightest of shivers, the shadow of unease; there was magic here, in this strange place.

She fluttered through the rooms like a bright white bird, the image of happiness. He stopped her for a second, and exchanged the daggers, as he resolved to.

It would have been too troublesome to explain things to her.

Ignorance is bliss.

And, with his dagger really in her possession, for an instant, for a mere second he felt the man he should have been for her all along; for an instant things between them were right, and he felt so much better for it.

And then he saw the box.

And everything came back to him. Those hopeless years of fighting for his freedom so that his power to find Bae wouldn't depend on the realm in which he looked for him. That moment of triumph when a chatty, red-headed girl, not much unlike his wife, helped him to finally gain this treasure — this magical hat, oh what a stupid object to possess such incredible qualities, this hat that would help him escape from his dagger and retain his magic. That moment of unspeakable horror when this chatty, red-headed girl, so much like his wife, got hold of his dagger and he felt it for the first time — that utter helplessness, the horror of slavery, the black impotence of great power restrained by alien will. It was so brief then, so mercifully brief, but he swore to never live through anything like that again. But he had to; and how! The whole year of torture, the whole year of slavery at the will of an evil heart, when all hope and dignity were denied him. The whole year when his soul was trodden upon by heavy boots; the boots that nearly stepped on the face of his dead boy.

It all came back to him. And with that, came another thing: cruel realization that his fears were not gone — they were very real and solid. He is the Dark One, but he is not the greatest wizard in the world. There is another one, somewhere — this Sorcerer who forged the hat. And he is here, in this world, for this house, which must have come over with the latest curse, is here; so this dangerous enemy is active somewhere here in this world to which he himself brought magic.

And that means that he, the Dark One, can be defeated again. And he must protect himself; and protect this smiling girl to whom his closeness and his love bring so much happiness.

Why did she have to be so playful and adventurous, this young wife of his? Why did she have to bring him to this house to find this hat, and be thrown into depths of misery and fear? If he did not know of this house and did not see this box, he would have been happy.

Ignorance is bliss.

God knows how he went through the motions of the bright and happy day that she planned. The dance, the picnic in the garden — she packed a basket for that and put it at the back of his car, the love-making in different rooms of the cursed mansion; and all the while fear was gnawing at his soul, all the while he seemed to glimpse darkness lurking in every corner, smirking at his 'happily ever after'.

He waited patiently until she went to sleep, exhausted by all the happy activities of the day. With great sadness he looked at her relaxed face.

He could not keep his promise to her, or to Bae, or to himself. He had to take back his dagger.

He had to protect himself. He could never, ever be enslaved once more — he wouldn't survive it, not again.

He had to take hold of this box. For in this box, if everything went well, he'd find his salvation — his ultimate protection.

If he were free from the dagger, nothing would ever touch him. No one would ever hold him captive. No one would ever touch things and people he loves. If he were free from the dagger, it would be almost as if his curse never happened — he'd be a free man, a man able to love truly. Good and clean, just as he was before the ogres war, before he heard the prophecy and made a first step on the way that led him to darkness. A good and clean man, who could love his young wife and fear nothing.

So he took the dagger, and took the box with the hat inside it. He hid them, and went to rest by his gentle young wife. She snugged closer to him, and he welcomed her warm breath on his skin as her lips touched his shoulder.

He'd let her rest before he tells her of these things — before he explains his fears; for explain he must — it would be impossible to keep from her something so big and so important to him. Surely she'd support him in his quest. Surely she'd welcome the thought of him being free from the dagger.

Of course she would. She knows how much he suffered. She saw him surrender the dagger to the witch, to save his son. Surely she'd understand that he would never want to get into the same position over her, or over his grandson...

So he slept easily by her side, and woke up with a musing smile the next morning, wondering when the right moment to talk to her would present itself. Yet, as it always happened with them, this proper, quiet moment never happened for, just as his consciousness fully returned, smile faded from his lips. He felt it again, this magic raging in town — much greater and much more dangerous than before, and chillingly familiar.

It appeared that magical happenings he felt yesterday did concern him, after all — an old adversary was responsible. And this new turn of events wouldn't be so easily dealt with.

They had to go to his shop — their honeymoon must have been the briefest in history. And then, when they were busy getting through his things, trying to figure out what went missing during the break-in that happened while they slept in the cursed house, it came... That moment, that sad moment, which brought him to here and now: looking at the all-powerful hat, and wondering at the corruption of good things and the persistence of evil.

The good ones came — Emma, and her pirate, and that Snowy Queen he heard some much about: the girl whom he never met, for she only came in contact with him when trapped in the magical urn. They wanted to ask what he knew of her, and of her sister — that chatty redheaded girl who first made him feel the power of the dagger over him. He had no intention of telling them much — not until he had all the information himself, not until he knew exactly what his old adversary, the real Snow Queen, had in mind. He tried to stall them, but they were insistent. And then, almost as a joke, a suggestion too absurd to be seriously contemplated, he offered that Belle would use the dagger and command him to tell the truth.

He was confident she'd refuse.

But, even as she protested, as he knew she would, even as she said 'You don't have to', he saw that look in her eyes — that glimpse of curiosity. She wanted to use the dagger. She wanted to know how it would feel. She wanted a taste of absolute power over him.

He couldn't believe it. Not her. Not Her!

But it was there, in her eyes — the wish to rule him by magic. By something other than her love for him. To order him around by the very thing that gave him so much grief...

Something snapped in him, there and then. His voice as he insisted on the test sounded brittle with irony, even to his own ears.

'Miss Swan wants to know the truth, and I am happy to cooperate'.

And she did it.

Goodness, she did it. She raised the dagger, called him 'Dark One', and commanded him to speak.

She did it. She!

And, even though the dagger was fake and he didn't feel any pull of power, it still hurt. It hurt like hell; it hurt even more than the real thing, for She was doing it. She was willingly abusing him.

It hurt as much as looking out of the window of his castle towards the winding road through the forest, abandoned by her, hoping for her to return, knowing that she never would.

She did return then, and he cast her away for trying to break his curse, and he lost her, and found her, and he neglected her and made her live through shame as a drunken wench, and they lost each other, and he returned from the death in the most horrible fashion, and all that suffering that he brought into her life polluted her soul. Living with him, being with him stained her heart.

The girl who came into his room as he sat by his spinning wheel, swinging her basket and demanding a kiss, never would have willingly abused him.

But she is the wife of the Dark One, and she is that much darker now.

She promised to side with him against everything else in the world, but she is a woman, and therefor susceptible to temptation — and there is no greater temptation than power. He knows that better than most. Better than anyone.

So he lied through his teeth, and said that he knew nothing of Elza and her sister, that red-haired chatter who was also so curious to learn about the dagger that has power over him, and felt his heart close to Belle, ever so slightly, even for just a fraction.

He cannot tell her the truth, now. He cannot reveal his plan. She had made this tiny step to join all the people who want to rule him — she, the only person who actually had this power by right. God knows what she'd do if she knew of his plans. Perhaps she'd tell the others. Perhaps she'd want to stop him. Perhaps she wouldn't want him to be free and uncontrolled.

She must have had it in her, all along; she always tended to order him around, to demand of him to do this and that, to promise this thing or other; and, when all the ugliest sides of her came out when she was calling herself Lacey, she became so possessive...

Oh no, she is not to blame: it was his closeness that corrupted her, his misery that soiled her life. She is full of his fear; eager for his power.

Everything bad that can happen will happen.

She didn't save him. He ruined her.

Oh, what a fool he was to hope otherwise.

Did he forget that the last thing that came out of the Pandora's box, right after all the diseases and evils of the world, was hope?

No, she cannot be blamed for what happened. He is to blame, and he needs to fix it.

First of all, she must never, ever get hold of the real dagger. Power corrupts; he cannot let her be corrupted more.

Secondly, he must put every effort into the quest of cleaving himself from the dagger. He must fill this hat with magic, and get it done with. He must become a free man; he must save himself — for there is no other way to save her.

So he will lie, and trick, and kill and lie again — he will use all means to achieve his end. He will not be fighting for himself — he will be fighting for her. Just as he was fighting to find his lost boy, and spared no crimes to reach his goal.

And he will explain her nothing.

Ignorance is bliss.

He gives the magical hat glowing in front of him on the counter a rueful smile. This thing might ruin him, but he will make it save him — and save the only person who matters to him.

He turns the hat back into its' jewel-encrusted box, hides it, along with the dagger, and walks out of his shop to get home to his wife; she is waiting for him with romantic dinner, which would hopefully make him forget today's incident, and the brief uncomfortable silence that fell between them as the good ones left and she gingerly put the dagger back into her bag.

He will pretend that he has forgotten, of course. There is nothing more precious to him that her happiness and her peace of mind.

He walks through the dark town, trying to ignore the magical chill that comes upon it; frost is coming, threatening to ice over everything — every hope, every love.

He is planning his quest, much as he planned his quest of finding Bae.

And it doesn't occur to him that he is making the same mistake that he did then: keeping silence when he should have been honest, doing bad things to achieve a good end. He doesn't notice the resemblance; he sees no warning signs.

He is a man focused on his goal, and hope drives him on and gives him strength.

Hope, this most horrible of all the world's evils.