A/N: Thank you lieselmax, TheElegantFairie, and Dr Pantalons for accepting the past two challenges. Your words were much appreciated. You and those readers who have stuck around to follow this story, I reward you with...

More angst!

(author emits evil laughter)

And a Princess Bride reference. Let me know if you spot it ; )

Chapter 16:

… Goes Unpunished

Enchanted Forest – Regina's Castle

The day of Belle's 'rescue'…

Everything had gone according to plan. At least she had thought it had.

Her part went off flawlessly at least. She had screamed like a banshee upon seeing a 'rat' just as the morning patrol guards were doing their rounds, pulling them away from the wall to allow Jones to climb over and descend into the keep. She quit her hysterics when she heard the hoot of an owl, which was his signal that he was in the clear.

After enduring some more-than-mild-mannered teasing and lectures on overreactions to trivialities, she returned to work and was a nervous wreck all day, listening for a sound of alarm. She had somehow managed to complete her chores without too many screw-ups and hadn't jumped at every little foot fall or call of her name. But her lip was a bloody mess; she had chewed on it so much.

But there was no alarm, no cry of foul play. So she assumed that Jones had gotten in and out unnoticed, hopefully with the girl, and if he had, her disappearance would be discovered by mealtime.

She didn't begin to suspect something hadn't gone according to plan, until Penny mentioned that Rocco was making a 'bloody mess' down in the guard barracks from what she suspected was a bad bout of food poisoning.

She had dropped the silver candlestick that she had been polishing right on her foot at those words.

Rocco was the one that was supposed to be on Tower guard duty. Rocco had the providential (for them) tendency to have a weak bladder and well-developed hygienic tendencies. Like clockwork, he would deviate from his post to go piss in a chamber pot that he had stashed in an alcove. A habit that the meal carriers knew about and got paid to keep quiet about, but not so quiet that she hadn't learned of it; it was a personal habit that Jones was to exploit by slipping past him with the cover of taking the prisoner's meal up early.

However, if it wasn't Rocco at the post, then it was Claude. He was a pain-in-the-arse stickler for protocol. Jones could get past him, but not without notice.

She didn't have long to wonder though. Not an hour after Penny's revelation, while she was polishing one of the many ornate mirrors that the Queen favored, her name was called in the most ominous of tones.

"Tawny."

It was Graham, the Captain of the Guard, with an apologetic expression on his face, and flanked by two severe looking soldiers.

"The Queen wishes to see you."

~0~

It had been two days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes since the 'Queen wanted to see her.'

She hadn't 'seen' her. Or at least not face-to-face. Via mystic mirror was a possibility, she supposed.

Graham had escorted her to a cell in the Tower, one without a window, and she had been stewing alone in the darkness ever since.

She didn't mind the darkness or isolation so much. It was far better than having the Shrew whisper her venomous words in her ears. It was the not-knowing that was getting to her.

She knew she should be careful for what she wished for, that she should be grateful for every pain-free breath that she had been allowed to breathe before the Queen's wrath descended upon her. But the more she sat there in the cold, damp dark, the more her imagination painted pictures of her possible unpleasant fates.

Her only saving grace was the watch that Graham had slipped her. Its comforting ticking is what allowed her to keep track of the time and not become so disoriented. It gave her something to focus on other than her nightmarish predictions of torture and death.

Who would have thought that the simple act of kindness that she had showed the lame hunting hound would have earned her the favor of the heartless Guard Captain and Queen's consort?

Two days, seven hours, and fourteen minutes…

~ S * T * O * R * Y * B * R * O * O * K * E ~

She had no Graham now. No ticking watch to have as a focal point, as a comforting totem. What was worse was that she knew her fate, knew it, and dreaded it above all else. And there was nothing she could do, except wait and watch for a moment, not even a perfect one, just one with possibility.

It was so hard to do.

Because all she had in the darkness was her terror-filled imaginings and her memories that fueled them.

~0~

Sunday afternoon…

Killian had sailed at first light with the tide, after spending most of the night preparing his ship. It had been tiring work, but worth it, as the Roger had sailed effortlessly and swiftly through the post-storm waters.

He was looking forward to a hot meal and his lass's pleasurable company. He was somewhat disappointed that she was not there to greet him at the docks. Granted, he had arrived even earlier than he had predicted, but he had been updating Tawny on the hour, every hour.

She hadn't been responding to his texts though, not even her curt K's. He had brushed off his initial concern, as he had known she had been on her Saturday ladies' night the evening before and that they had been celebrating wolf-girl's return. Mental images of four drunken women doing each other's hair had warmed him considerably through the night, and his inner-sadistic Hook had reveled in the thought of the bloody miserable hangover she was sure to be trying to recover from. However, the eager lass would have been up-and-about enough by now to respond to his messages.

The fact that she had not was disconcerting.

So he expeditiously made his way to her apartment as soon as his ship was docked, all the while praying that it was his self-centered bastardry that was hurt and offended by her ignoring of him, than for there to be any real cause for concern.

When he knocked, she did not answer. He thought about causing a ruckus so that her establishment's manager would come and investigate or Swan if need be, but he did not want to endure the tongue-lashing he would get from Tawny if he brought undue attention to her, so he resisted. Instead, he went around to the outside stairwell and went through her window, extremely grateful that the threat of iron bars had been an idle one.

Her room was messier than usual but her bed looked as if it had not been occupied the night before. The big reclining chair was unoccupied. Her unconscious body was not on the floor of either the kitchen or the bathroom.

So the lass went home with one of her friends. No worries.

That is what he tried to console himself with. But then his eyes alighted on the dining room table. No magic logic engine. It hadn't been anywhere in the apartment that he could recall. He checked again, fighting back a wave of panic. She never took it anywhere, despite it being portable. It was 'too costly to be risked.'

But it was not there.

Pulling out his phone, he sent a message to Conroy. The man tinkered with computers; maybe she had given him hers to be worked on. His wife might also know where his lass was at.

Do you have T's computer? Does wife know where she is?

Two aggravatingly vexing minutes later: I do not. Zel says that she doesn't know Gwen's location, but she is letting her know 'right this minute that you are in her apartment and snooping.'

He smirked at that. If that message was enough to bring his lass out of her silence mode, then he was willing to be tattled on. But if she had left the salon and had not come home, then…where the bloody hell was she?

He tapped out a message as quickly as his one hand could, sending: Good luck with that. She is not answering her phone. And tell her that T's bed was not slept in either.

This time, he did not have long to wait. Conroy's reply came in two rapid fire messages: Wait. No computer? Bed unslept in? She went home last night… She didn't answer Zel either. Wife is calling around. Between Ella and Red, we'll find her.

Conroy's attempt to reassure him failed abysmally. Killian could detect the man's growing concern not only by the short pause between messages, but also in his need to soothe Killian's anxieties, almost as if he was reassuring himself as well. He refrained from pointing this out, and instead requested that he be informed when they did find her, to which Conroy replied with a gratifying 'Of course'.

Killian was not going to wait around to hear from the locksmith, however. No, he exited the apartment the way he came and made for the one location that only a few of his lass's inner-circle knew about, and only he could get to the fastest – the trailer. The only person close enough to it would be Jefferson, but if he recalled correctly, his daughter was with him today, so he would not be able to do a quick check to see if the lass was there, or at least to see if she had left a note of explanation as to what her whereabouts were. Besides, he needed the man right where he was.

As he rapidly made his way through the town to the forest, he called the man's phone. It rang and rang and rang until it went to voicemail. He hung up and dialed again and again until he was greeted with a tetchy:

"This had better be good, mate. You are interrupting tea."

"My apologies to Grace, but I need to know if you've seen or heard from Tawny at all since last night."

Some of his unease must have leaked into his tone, because there was a brief pause, and then the usually infuriating man replied with abnormal civility, "I have not. She was supposed to be joining us for tea. But when I saw that you had arrived early, I figured she was ditching us."

If ever he needed evidence that the man did not have all his marbles, it was that statement right there. Tawny? Abandon Grace? The lass who waited for her father who had left her for one last madcap scheme? A story not un-similar to her own? Never.

"She wouldn't do that." He defended staunchly. "Not to Grace, at least not without telling you. You know that." And then before this conversation went down a rabbit trail, he gave a rundown on what he knew, the little that it was.

"Curiouser and curiouser. That is odd." There was another brief pause, while Jefferson considered the implications, and then Killian was informed with the disheartening news, "I have not seen her up and about today, and Grace and I played an extensive game of I-spy this morning. Have you checked the trailer?"

"No, I'm on my way there now."

"If she's there, let me know. But I will be on the lookout for her from here and any other suspicious activity. Find your treasure, pirate."

He tersely thanked Grace's father for his offer and then hung up. He knew he should have been more gracious, that Tawny would have expected it of him, as the offer was, after all, the original purpose of the call and it had been willingly tendered, (even though the tedious task would cut tea short).

But gracious gratitude, he could not do, for he wanted to growl at the barmy bastard. His parting words had been full of pity. Killian did not want pity. Nor did he want to think of his 'treasure' as lost. Lost treasure, generally speaking, was buried or miles below the sea's surface in Davey Jones' keeping. He refused to believe his golden lass was interred in earth or water.

'And, curse it! The only Jones she belongs to is me.'

~0~

They had moved her. After hours of being locked in the dark, trapped with nothing but her memories – memories of past failures, incarcerations, people long since dead or as good as, they mercifully provided her with new scenery.

A 'gentleman' with the looks of the quintessential hockey player walked up to her and... Stuffed. A gun. Into her mouth.

Over the roaring panic in her ears that was screaming 'What the ever-banging-fuck?!' and other choice phrases, she heard him growl, "You've demonstrated wisdom so far by not screaming your blond head off. Keep your hole shut and we won't add another one."

Heart-pounding, she managed to blink her understanding of terms rendered. She was too scared to risk a nod and jolt the trigger or something.

He seemed satisfied, so the gun was removed and she was unbound from her chair, before she was hustled up the stairs by him and his bulldog resembling colleague, through the austere and stately house, and out to the waiting car. It wasn't until she was escorted through the familiar trophy room that her terror-induced adrenaline levels subsided enough for her to take in her surroundings.

She had been held in the basement of the Spencer/King George residence. She had wanted to stumble and knock her wardens into at least one of the half dozen glass cases that she had cleaned for twenty-eight years, to steal a shard for cutting later if not stabbing now. But thanks to her horror-haze, she had been too slow and they had moved too fast.

She had spent the whole car ride on the floor of the car, feeling every bump and no-doubt purposefully driven over pothole and gazing awkwardly up at the starry sky of a new night. None of that bothered her as much as the fact that they hadn't blind-folded her. She could see where they were going and who they were.

This did not bode well for her chances of leaving her new destination alive.

Her destination was the movie theater. She was escorted from the car, through a back employees' entrance to the area behind one of the cinema curtains. Here they paused.

Bulldog peeled back the curtain to reveal the stage and audience seats. It was currently empty, 'shutdown' by the recent raids and search for its nefarious owner.

Hockey-douche leaned down and whispered, "Take a long hard look, Angel. That's the stage of your grand debut among the fallen. The seats filled with men and women out for your blood. Can you imagine how the acoustics will affect the sounds of your screams?"

~ C* A * M * E * L * O * T ~

~Many years ago~

Celliwig Court

Tanwen was struggling to keep her wits about her. It was very difficult to do. The king was home from one of his many quests, and the wine had been flowing freely. Arthur was home, and he was gazing at her with such adoration that she found it difficult to breath. To be admired, to be loved like that, to the point he was unashamed to show it, to the point that he looked as if he wished to devour her, was heady stuff.

But she had to focus. Any minute now someone was going to ask her to play the harp. She couldn't have that… this charade would come to a literal screeching halt.

So she suggested that Arthur make a toast or several to those he wished to honor for their contribution to his quest's success.

Being the fair and just man that he was, he raised his goblet to knights and squires and maidens alike, and then he raised his goblet to her.

"Fair ladies and honorable sirs, last but not least, I salute my blessed wife, for if it was not for her goodness and beauty to shine my way home, I would be lost to darkness."

She could feel her face flaming, as she heard cries of "Hear, hear!" throughout the hall. But she only had eyes for the man who above all others saw her as worthy and who almost made her feel as if she was, despite the horrible sin she was committing every day.

It was due to her doe-eyed infatuation that she did not see the cloaked and hooded woman enter into the back. If she had, she might have made her escape. But that 'twas not her fate.

She was jarred from her soul-gazing exchange with 'her' husband, by shrill laughter, "Oh, yes! Hail to the fair Queen of Deception! Of Trickery! Of Sorcery! Raise your cups to her! Bow to her!"

"Guards!" Arthur bellowed.

Or at least that is what she assumed he shouted in indignant fury, but she was too filled with horrified dread to pay attention to such details. The world had slowed and had become a cacophonous humming hiss, which was only drowned out by the pounding beats of her heart, as this herald of doom steadily marched towards her, parting the crowd in her wake.

And then she lowered her hood, and her world came crashing down.

"Your wife lives, and you honor another, bed another, and do not even know the difference," Guinevere reproached her king and husband with all her usual dramatic flair.

The entire hall let out a collective gasp, and heads turned back and forth between the two golden-haired sisters in astonishment and dawning revulsion. For she could not mask her rising feelings of mournful sadness, guilt, and shame as the truth was hurled at her like a slap to the face.

But that was where truth ended. More gently, Guinevere told her tale of how this farce came to be. It was a tale of witchcraft, treachery, and jealousy.

And with each word of vindictive untruth, Guinevere the False, the Lesser, began to see red. Rage poured off her in waves. The need to shut the foul bitch up rose to a level of all consuming fury. She had to stop her. She could not have Arthur believe such vile things about her, especially since this abhorrent woman had left him for another. Why the hell had she not stayed away?

Without fully realizing it, she was taking purposeful strides towards the bitch. One, two, three steps, and then – Smack!

Guinevere's head whipped around and then wobbled from the force of her blow. A satisfactory handprint was burning red on her face, marring the carefully cultivated expression of delicate victim.

And for a blissful minute, she was silent.

Her pleasure at that fact was soon short-lived, because when she glanced up she was met with a room full of people who gazed at her not with the previous expressions of admiration but with loathing, scorn, and hate, with ire, righteous indignation, and disgust, and only a few looks of pity.

Arthur's was not one of those. His was of outrage and betrayal, and this time when he bellowed for guards, it was for her.

As she was led out of the hall, angry hissing whispers followed her, signs of the cross and damnation were made, and fingers twitched towards their daggers, betraying their desire to end her wretched life.

It was a reaction she would experience for weeks to come and again months later, when refugees of the Battle of Camlann and its aftermath would recognize her and wish to take their vengeance upon her, for their lost king.

Thanks to her sister and the bitch's mother, she was never safe in a room full of pious people again.

~ S * T * O * R * Y * B * R * O * O * K * E ~

Not that any of the individuals who were going to be bidding on her were pious. No, it was much worse than that. It would be a room full of violent bastards with no compunction against brutality to women, some who even reveled in it, and all with a more than sufficient reason to hate her and wish her harm.

She shuddered in horror as images flooded her mind, images of a crowd of angry men and women calling out for her pain, for their right to inflict it, of jeering taunts, of bloodthirsty –

She shuddered again. It was too much, too, too much. And all she could think was…

Fuck. I am so doomed.