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Be careful what you wish for, for your dreams may come true — isn't it what they usually say? It is not that our dreams can turn nasty to us when we see them realized; the problem is that we seldom express our wishes correctly — we just throw them into the air randomly, and exact realization of what we wished for could feel... surprising and unsettling. 'I didn't ask for that', people say. But if they just remembered what they actually asked for, it often appears that what upsets them is exactly what they wished for.
She wished to be together with him, always. She wished that nothing would stand between them — no secret quests, no previous obligations. She wished to be called Mrs. Gold. She wished him to say, out loud, 'I love you'. She wished to be married to him — she believed that once they were together, united in the eyes of the world just as they were in their souls, they would both find peace. She wished he would belong to her, only to her, and that it would make him happy.
Well, she had everything that she wished for, it seemed. They were together, and nothing threatened their union. Nothing stood between them: he had no one but her left in the world. She was Mrs. Gold now — he called her by this name sometimes with obvious satisfaction. He expressed his love for her, in many words and deeds. She was married to him, and the world accepted that. He belonged to her, only to her; he even gave her a magical token to support the romantic union of their hearts.
But it did not make him happy.
Something was amiss — with him, or with her, or with both of them.
Perhaps it happened too soon — though he was right, they waited thirty years for that, but still: perhaps they should have waited a bit more, waited until his great and fresh loss would fade from his mind, even if just a little. She did think of that, especially when she observed how Emma and her pirate were reunited in passion with almost indecent haste — right at Bae's graveside, it seemed. But then, things were different for them. They were both young and free spirits, there was no tortured history behind them. For him, marrying her so soon might have been a hysterical grasp for happiness — a blind hope to alleviate his immense grief by some warmth and light. He was on the brink of despair when he was marrying her — she could see that in his haunted eyes. How could she deny him his chance of consolation? How could she tell him to wait for something that she also wanted so badly — what she also saw as some irrational guarantee against all possible evils?
Yes, perhaps they married too soon. He seemed in such a strange mood there at the abandoned mansion — in a mood so different from the quiet happiness of their first married morning, so sunlit and bright and blissful. His mood changed noticeably as the day went on, and it must have been because he visited the graveyard; he became slightly distanced, distracted — as if he wasn't really listening to her, and his thoughts were elsewhere. Oh, his manners were perfect and his old-fashioned romantic gestures touching — she almost wept as she danced with him in that great hall, feeling very much a princess she once were. His lovemaking was insistent and even slightly frightening in its' intensity: he seemed to plunge into her as if into deep waters, as if trying to forget about something — to drive something terrible away. It must have been the thought of his loss. What else could it have been?
And then in the morning, he seemed so much calmer again: pensive, yes, and worried about new problems in town, but generally lighter and happier.
And then this thing happened — this incident with his dagger. Why, oh why did she agree to actually take the damned thing and use it on him? Why didn't she say to Emma and this snow girl, Elza: 'Leave him alone, he already told you everything he knows'? Didn't she realize how it would hurt him to see that she apparently doesn't trust him, just as others don't trust him? Didn't she realize how it would hurt him to feel himself under control again — so soon after the witch?
She did. Of course she did. But these things didn't stop her. And the reason for that made her cry and bite her lips and castigate herself once she was alone in the shop after he went on some mysterious errand of his. The reason was simple, and stupid, and childish, and unworthy of the love he gave her.
Ever since that moment in the library, just before the wedding, ever since that moment when the idea that her dagger is not real first occurred to her, and she resolved to never try and find out, she had this wish — this burning wish to do just that. To try and use the dagger. To summon him. To learn how it feels to have him completely on her own. She was like the girl in an old fairytale, whose husband went away and gave her the keys from all the rooms in his castle and told her to use all of them but one; and, once he was gone, she couldn't control her curiosity and used that very key, and opened a secret room that held evidence of unspeakable crimes her husband committed.
She didn't need to open any secret doors to learn of her husband's crimes — she knew them. Yet still she let her curiosity get the better of her, and it must have broke his heart.
Oh, how still and tense he stood before her as she held the dagger in front of him. How dead his face looked when she called him 'Dark One'.
How could she do this to him? She, of all people...
And the stupidest, the most nagging thing was that she felt nothing as she controlled him with the dagger. No surge of special power, no dark pull of magic. Her husband felt to her exactly as he always did: human, normal, beloved. Only at that very moment, terribly hurt.
He never mentioned this episode, not once — of course he wouldn't. He is not a man to reproach her; he is a model of gentleness and care, he brings her flowers every day and envelops her with tenderness every night.
Yet he hasn't forgotten. Of course he wouldn't.
And, as it sometimes happens with people who feel guilty — and she felt very guilty for using the dagger — in time she started to turn her guilt over to the person they wronged; tried to shift the blame. What if she didn't feel anything when she held the dagger because it was fake, and he just pretended to obey her? At the time, she thought nothing of his actual words — 'I don't know anything about Elza, or her sister', because she didn't realize that the sister they spoke of was Anna — the chatty and bright red-headed girl who helped her so when she tried to regain memories of her mother and whom she let down so dismally. For years she tried not to think of this episode for shame at being such a silly and childish person — such a coward. Yet she should have thought about it more often, because it changed her life; Anna spoke to her of the powerful and evil wizard from whom she took some magical hat, and on her way back to her own kingdom she read more of different wizards, and assumed it must be the Dark One, and persuaded her father to summon him to help in the ogre war, and he came — and there she is now, many years later, married to him.
And doubting him deeply for, if the sister they spoke of was Anna, then he had heard about her — he even had a grudge against her.
How could he lie about that, if her dagger was real?
Yet how could he be so stupid as to lie about that, if he wanted to conceal the truth about the fake dagger?
Her husband is not stupid, that much is certain; if he knew anything about Anna, he would have told them — either to hide the nature of the dagger, or because he had no choice but to tell the truth.
And that meant only one thing: she was wrong about the wizard, all that time ago. Anna must have been telling about some other wizard — not him; and yet this misunderstanding brought on her love, and her marriage: if she didn't think that Anna spoke of Him, she'd never have made her father summon him, they'd never have met and fall in love.
She owed Anna her happiness, in a way. And yet she treated her so badly and she continued to keep her silence about the girl's fate out of sheer cowardice. She wanted people to think well of her — to treat her as a hero. Yet she was not a hero; she was the wife of the Dark One, and his opinion should have been the only one that mattered to her. Surely he wouldn't think badly of her for a bit of cowardice: he knows how powerful fear can be.
Or would he? He always thought so highly of her. He always said that she was his light, the epitome of goodness for him. Wouldn't he be disappointed to learn that she is weak and fallible?
She might have remembered how good and tolerant he was when she forgot herself and turned into a drunken slut called Lacey; how he put up with everything she did just for the sake of being with her. But she did not: her guilt, before him for using the dagger and before Anna for letting her down and keeping things back, was so great that she had worked herself into a completely hysterical state. She felt she had to undo what she once did — she felt that, if only Anna could be found and saved, the past would sort of disappear, and things would right themselves.
This manner of thought was very much like the one her husband was given to, when justifying his doubtful strategies. But she did not think of that, and doubt her reasoning or her reasons — she just wanted to prove herself a hero.
So she rushed into the shop one chilly day, and confronted him with her wish to fight the Snow Queen and when he refused, as she knew he would — as any sane person would! — she did it again. She pulled the dagger out of her bag and commanded him to follow her to the Queen's lair.
To do it once was bad enough. To do it again was unforgivable. What has come over her? What was she turning into? Where did the good, trusting, ever-hopeful girl, who always believed the best, go? What made her so addicted to power as to use the slightest excuse to pull the dagger at him? She could have reasoned with him; asked him nicely; told him the truth and explained why she really, really needs his help. She did nothing like that: eagerly and rashly she grasped the dagger, and abused its power yet again; just like Lacey when she was eager for another drink.
Did she become addicted to this thing? Did the dagger, which she carried with her always, infect her with its' darkness so that she'd stop at nothing at the chance to use it? Even the sight of her husband's terse, hurt and disappointed face didn't stop her, didn't bring her back to her senses.
She just stood there, staring at him madly, a cursed piece of steel with his name on it shaking slightly in her nervous hand.
He looked into her blazing eyes, and shut his eyes, for an instant, and lowered his head just a fraction, accepting his fate; and he went along with her.
And she didn't find anything wrong with that. She felt completely justified.
And, as it always happens, punishment came right after the crime.
She walked into the Snow Queen's cave and found a mirror — a magical mirror that captivated her completely. She looked beautiful in it, and determined, and strong; she was completely clear-headed, all dreams and illusions gone, only the harsh practical side of her remaining. And she spoke to herself — spoke the truth, the naked and ugly truth about everything in her life. She was a fool susceptible to silly dreams, a victim of manipulation and tricks; she was a coward who couldn't face the truth even when it stared her in the face; she believed in love and goodness, when there was nothing but selfishness and darkness. Of course the dagger was fake; of course he did not love her and trust her — how could he love and trust someone as silly and weak as her? How could he love at all — he belonged to darkness?..
He must have sensed that something wrong was happening to her; she did tell him to stay outside and guard her, and that's exactly what he did: he just felt that danger approached her from within the cave. He came in, and for a second she saw his horror-struck face reflected in the mirror along with hers, and in his handsome, dark-eyed, nervous face, which she caressed and kissed so often she saw ugliness much greater that he possessed when he actually looked like a monster. She saw an enemy who ruined her life; a beast who devoured her youth and hopes; a trickster who abused her love.
So she turned and she struck — she attacked him with the only weapon that could kill him, his dagger, and she even drew his blood.
And then he whisked her away — took her away from the mirror that told her the truth, and she was screaming and kicking, and trying to fight him, and then, suddenly, the spell was gone, and she was sobbing hysterically in his arms, on the floor of his shop, devastated by shame and guilt, clutching at him, deaf to his soothing words. She was terrified. What came over her? What was happening to her? Was it just the dark spell, or did something in her really turn into this dark, hateful creature unable to forgive, forget, trust and love anyone?
He cradled her in his arms as if she were a child. He told her that the spell was to blame — that everything the mirror told her was false. His voice was so gentle and his hands, as he pressed them to her cheeks, were so warm; the chill of the ice cave suddenly caught up with her, and she shivered. He kissed her brow, and her eyes, and whispered how beautiful she was — how much he loved her. He lowered his face so that his lips could find hers, and the next shiver she felt was not brought on by cold; it was brought on by that familiar, but ever-trilling sensation of their tongues touching, and his breath catching as he pressed her closer to him. She closed her eyes, and let her fingers caress his face, fingertips getting wet with his blood where she cut him. He did not stop her — he welcomed her touch, whenever she touched him with cold steel or soft skin. He let his lips trace down her neck; his fingers stroked her breast, and she gave out a soft moan. He lowered her on the floor, gently, and took off her clothes — slowly, caressing and kissing every bit of skin he uncovered. He remained fully clothed, looking at her, as she spread naked before him.
He let his hands fall limply by his sides, not touching her.
'You are so beautiful'.
His voice was so sad.
She pulled herself up to kiss his cut — right there on the spot between neck and jaw, where he loved her to kiss him.
'I love you', she whispered into his skin.
'Yes. And I love you too', came an echo — just as it did once before.
She wanted his touch, and told him so. He let his fingers run down her spine, and stroke her buttocks. He undid his clothes and pressed her to his naked skin, and he spread apart her legs and gently came between them, softly and slowly, as if afraid to break her, and they moaned and gasped as they felt and touched and became one, and she knew she was the silliest girl in the world to ever, ever doubt him. Everything that he did, he did for her — she could feel it in his touch. She could see it in his eyes.
Yet when everything was over and they stood up from the floor, smiling and laughing and checking whenever the door to the shop was closed, yet again, and went into the back room to get some tea and use sentimentally familiar comforts of his camp-bed, she still found a moment to check if the dagger was back in her bag.
Now would have been the perfect moment to give it back to him — to explain that it frightens her, that it burdens her with its darkness; she hurt him with it — who knows what other horrors it might prompt her to do?
Now would have been the perfect moment to give the dagger back to him.
But the thought never crossed her mind.
