DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.
This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…
In the shadow of the toll bridge
Guilt
"I don't understand," said Christopher as he placed his hand on the stone railing of the mezzanine. He looked from his son to his daughter-in-law and back again. "The winter solstice was your mother's favorite, Thomas. We have never missed a festival since she passed."
Thomas sighed, squeezing Ella's hand even tighter than he already held it. "I know, Pop—"
"And this would have been Ella's first," Christopher continued, reaching for Ella's other hand and patting it between his palms. His fatherly smile nearly broke her heart.
"Pop," Thomas drew his father's attention away from his crestfallen bride. He didn't want her feeling even more guilty than she already did. "I promise, we will try to make it back before the end of the festival, but something has—" he paused and glanced at Ella— "come up. James has vital information for us and we must leave tonight."
Christopher sighed, distressed by the tension in his son's voice but even more so by the Ella's burdened eyes. A young woman in her condition should be at home, enjoying the comforts and service of her ladies in waiting as the birth of a new generation at Seven Gales drew near. Instead, they were headed for New Gaia on urgent business that Thomas refused to reveal. "I wish you would tell me what's happened, Son," he said with a sigh. "There must be something I can do to help."
"There's not—"
"How can you know that for sure if you won't tell me—"
"Father, we've been through this before—"
"Thomas," Ella said suddenly, wrenching her hand from her husband's grasp and shaking her head. Tears welled in her eyes as she smoothed her hand over her rounded belly. Before their first trip to New Gaia, right after Ella had gotten pregnant, they convinced her new father-in-law that they were taking an extended holiday to escape the sweltering summer heat. Now they could make no more excuses. She was eight months along, and they were leaving on the eve of the king's favorite winter jubilee. And really, given what they were up against, she didn't want Thomas's father to be in the dark any longer. "He deserves to know," she said quietly.
"Ella," Christopher started toward her, but she stepped away.
"Your Majesty, I've…I'm afraid I've made a terrible mistake," she sobbed, unable to look up.
"Ella, don't," Thomas tried, but his wife would not yield.
"I'm sure that's not true, my dear," Christopher replied, still moving toward her. "And please, as I have told you before, call me Christopher."
Again, Ella shook her head. "I don't have that right, your Majesty. Because of me, both your son and grandchild are in terrible danger."
Thomas shook his head. "It wasn't your—"
"Stop making excuses for me," she cut him off, not quite snapping, but with a firmer voice than she'd begun her confession. Both men fell silent as she turned solemnly to the elder. "I made a deal, your Majesty. With Rumpelstiltskin."
Christopher's jaw dropped. "Rumpelstilt—"
"You didn't know it was him at the time," Thomas said at once, trying again to ease her guilt.
But Ella would not allow him to defend her any longer. "It doesn't matter. I saw what he did," she said quietly. "He murdered a fairy right in front of me and I chose to ignore it because I was so…I was so desperate to get out of there I would have done anything."
She didn't dare look up then. She couldn't bear to meet the gaze of a man who had welcomed her so lovingly to his family. Who made her feel like a daughter again.
"What did you bargain for?" was Christopher's solemn response, his voice a painful combination of shock and disappointment.
Thomas moved behind her now, trying to comfort her as he drew his palm in soft, lazy circles on her back. But the gesture did little to lessen her shame. "A day off?" she shrugged helplessly. "An escape from…from that life." Finally, she forced herself to look up and explained. "A ball gown and a pair of slippers, your Majesty…so I could pretend for at least one night that I was just like every other girl in the kingdom who'd been invited to a ball."
Christopher's expression became unreadable as she spoke, and though she knew the worst was yet to come, a small part of her was relieved to finally be revealing the truth. "I…didn't figure on…falling in love," she glanced back at Thomas who gave her shoulder a squeeze. "I didn't know I would become part of this wonderful family," she looked back to the king, "and in doing so…put everyone at risk." She sighed and wrapped her arms around her middle. "I just…I just needed one night. One night to look back on…so that life with my step mother might be a little more…bearable."
"You saw how cruel they were towards her, Pop," said Thomas, lacing his fingers with hers. "You know what she lived through."
"Of course I do," Christopher waved him off. The horrendous treatment of Ella by her step family had indeed disgusted them all when it was brought to light. Such a cruel life for such a sweet girl. "But still…Ella," he said sternly, "Rumpelstiltskin always collects. To my knowledge he has never forgiven a debt nor voided a contract."
"She knows that—"
"And those who have dared to challenge him?" he looked up at his son, "Those who have attempted to change or revoke the conditions of their contracts end up suffering fates far worse than the terms of their original bargains." His warning hung with an air of dread felt keenly by his daughter-in-law. "Ella," he said quietly, tipping her chin up to meet his eyes, and speaking with as much kindness and empathy as he could manage through his distress. "What did you promise him?"
Ella looked between father and son in agony as the horrendous truth hit her now with the same intense shock and horror as it had the night of her wedding. "Our baby," she said in a hoarse whisper. And she knew, even as the words left her mouth, she knew she would never be able to sponge from her memory the look of absolute misery and despair in his eyes as the all the color drained from her father-in-law's face—
"Good morning," Emma heard behind her, and she jerked a little in her seat as her mother wrenched her from Christopher's kingdom of Seven Gales and back to their kitchen.
She turned slightly in her stool and nodded. "Hey."
"What are you doing?" Snow asked as she approached the kitchen, running a comb through her short black hair. But the answer was obvious as soon as she got a look over her daughter's shoulder.
"Research," Emma replied as she gently tapped the pages of Henry's storybook. "I think I know why Mitchell Herman is so angry with Ashley." She angled it to the side, affording Snow a closer look. Snow leaned into the countertop and inspected the framed illustration above the text that Emma had just finished reading: an oil painting of Ella, Thomas and King Christopher posed beside one of their palace mezzanines. Ella appeared to be shivering while Thomas stood close behind her, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. Snow quickly scanned down the text of the story: "What did you promise him?"… "Our baby."
"Oh my," Snow whispered, brushing her hand gingerly across the page. "I remember this."
Emma looked over. "What, you've read it?"
"No. Ella told me about it."
Emma didn't know why it should startle her, but there was still something so surreal about knowing that the events in these pages weren't only stories but memories.
"Probably only a day or two after this actually," Snow was saying, still inspecting the page. "When they arrived at New Gaia, she mentioned that they finally told King Christopher about the deal."
Emma glanced back down at the picture of the king – the spitting image of Mitchell Herman – and sighed. "Clearly he wasn't too…happy about it."
Snow frowned as she withdrew and walked over to the counter, retrieving a mug and her cocoa mix from the shelf. "No…he wasn't. That was probably the saddest part."
"Whadyou mean?" Emma asked, flipping a few pages ahead to a section of the story she'd read earlier.
"Ella's life was a lot worse than most versions of this world typically credit her," Snow explained as she poured water from the teakettle into her mug and then turned back to her daughter. "Her step mother not only robbed her of the fortune she should have had following her father's death and turned her into a maid, but she was more often treated like a slave…sometimes beaten like one too."
Emma clenched her fists and teeth. "Why didn't she just leave?" she scoffed, slightly annoyed at the girl, though she knew it was unfair to be so.
"She tried once," Snow took a sip, remembering. "That was when I met her."
"You knew her before she married Thomas?"
She nodded. "Long before. I was…on the run too."
Emma's brow furrowed in confusion, glancing down at the book and rifling through a few more pages. "I didn't see anything like that in here."
Snow shrugged, "There are a lot of things not in that book." She glanced down again, her voice soft and faraway. "Anyway, after the night of Thomas's ball, everything changed for her. Those two were a match made in heaven, but she didn't just gain a husband." She paused and took another sip, the chocolate tasting bittersweet as she thought back to the fate of her dear friend. "She gained a family. Christopher loved her like a daughter. Treated her the way a father should treat his children." She sighed and shook her head, remembering the letter she received from Ella a few days after she'd returned to her own kingdom. "After Thomas…disappeared, their relationship was never the same."
Emma shifted uncomfortably in her stool while her mother sorted through the wave memories she was revisiting now. She wanted her to continue, to fill in more of the blanks. In fact, Emma was fairly certain that Snow could tell her stories for days that never ceased to be interesting. There was so much to learn, so much she wanted to know…too much in fact. And her brain already felt like it was on overload. So she decided to stick to the case at hand, sorting it all out one day at a time. "Speaking of Thomas disappearing," she cleared her throat, flipping back to the page she'd originally sought, "what exactly happened to him? The story stops here."
Snow glanced sideways at the illustration now before her. Rumpelstiltskin was locked inside Grumpy's prison wagon while Ella stood screaming at him from beyond the bars. "Where is he? Where's my Thomas?" the princess was saying according to the text. Snow closed her eyes and heaved another sigh. She remembered that day quite well. She wasn't there of course, but she'd heard all about it from James that night. "We tried to trick Rumpelstiltskin into making a new deal. The Blue Fairy blessed a quill that would bind his powers if he used it."
Emma glanced down at the image of the imprisoned Mr. Gold. "Well it worked, didn't it?"
"Yes but not like we'd hoped. Not long after he was locked up, Thomas was cast into limbo."
The deputy straightened up, remembering her talk with her father. "Limbo," she said, "James said something about that last night. What is limbo?"
A half-frown tugged at Snow's mouth and she once again became thoughtful. The best person to answer these questions was actually Grumpy, who knew more about magic than anyone else she'd ever met, but she knew that wasn't an option right now. "Limbo is," she glanced up, trying to settle on the right words. "It's a sort of dimension between worlds. Hidden within the very fabric of magic."
"A dimension," Emma repeated, trying to wrap her brain around the concept. "Like Wonderland?"
"No, it's not that concrete." She sighed and then tried again. "Wonderland is just one of many worlds. Like this one. It can be traveled to using a portal or a spell or…well, any number of things. But limbo…well, it's…it's like a dream state. A plane of existence where you don't eat or sleep or…well, anything. You just…wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For your debt to be paid."
Emma gulped hard. She had no clue what the hell that meant. But by mother's tone, it didn't sound good.
"It doesn't happen often," Snow came around the island and settled on the stool beside her daughter, "but when incredibly powerful forces of good and evil collide, it tears a rift in the fabric of magic. So when Ella tried to go back on her deal, when she challenged 'Stiltskin's powers with a quill blessed by the Blue Fairy—"
"Good and Evil collided," Emma finished for her. "And Thomas paid the price?" Snow nodded while she glanced back down at the page. "So…what happens once you're…in limbo?"
Another sad sigh. "No one's really sure. People who come back either can't remember or … just don't talk about it."
Emma was silent for a few moments, trying to take it all in. She too looked back at the drawing of a pained and distressed Ashley, noting how very similar her expression was to the one she wore last night in the hospital. "Why wasn't it her?"
"Hmm?"
"Ella," Emma replied, looking back at her mother. "Why wasn't it Ella who was drawn into limbo?" Snow looked down. "I mean, it was her bargain she was trying to reverse. She's the one who handed Gold the quill."
A sad smile broke across her face as her daughter asked aloud the very question that had puzzled her and her husband for weeks. "We wondered that ourselves at first," she said. "We didn't tell Ella of course, but none of us could figure out why it wasn't Ella who paid the price."
After a time, Emma leaned forward, nudging Snow on the elbow. "Well?"
Snow looked up. "It was Grumpy who figured it out. He remembered something Thomas said in the mines when they first told her the plan. Ella was very worried about using the quill – rightfully so as it turned out. She felt that using magic had already cost them so much, and she was terrified what the price would be for using more."
Emma thought back, remembering that part of the story now. "That's when he promised he would pay it," she said quietly, sliding the book off the island and into her lap. The story fell open to that very spot with Ella, Thomas and James in the mines. She ran her finger down the page: "Then I will pay it," said the prince. "I will do whatever is needed to save you and our child."
Snow nodded. "His vow that day protected her and the baby. It saved Ella from being taken herself."
Emma stared down at young prince's face in the storybook, an exact replica's of Sean's of course. "Wow," was all she could say.
"James even thinks he was conscious of it," Snow added. "That he saw the rift open up beside the well and willingly stepped inside for her."
Emma blew out a sigh, closed the book and set it down. "So do you think it has anything to do with his beating last night?"
Snow retrieved her mug once more and frowned. "How so?" she asked as she hopped off the stool and limped over to the couch to retrieve her school bag.
"Well Rumpelstiltskin's magic cast him into limbo. Do you think Mr. Gold might be, I dunno, angry he escaped?" she followed Snow over to the couch, privately wishing she could convince her mother to give her ankle a few more days' rest before returning to school. But she was learning rather quickly that Snow White was just as obstinate as Emma Swan.
"I don't think so," Snow replied as the two women readied themselves to leave.
Emma's face fell. "Why not?" She'd been hoping to get some kind of lead out of the storybook, something that might help her solve this case. After all…it always worked for Henry.
"Well," Snow slung her bag over her shoulder. "For starters, brute violence? It's not really Stiltskin's style. But more importantly?" she paused and leveled her gaze with Emma's, "you."
Emma reeled back. "Me?"
"Have you forgotten your deal with Gold?"
She gasped, flashing back on the hospital a few weeks ago. "Oh."
"Your agreement released Ella's from her original bargain. As far as Rumpelstiltskin is concerned, his business with them is done. And believe me," she added with a frown, "a favor from the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming is…worth quite a bit more to him than Ella's baby." She hated seeing her daughter shudder with the same realization that had haunted Snow ever since her awakening. Emma owed Rumpelstiltskin a favor. What in the world would he require of her when he finally came to collect?
"God," Emma shook her head, "if I had known then that it was Rumpelstiltskin—"
"You still would have made the deal," Snow finished for her.
Emma looked over at her, a bit stunned. "You…don't know that," she said, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. How highly her mother thought of her. How much she didn't deserve it.
"I do though," she argued, reaching out to squeeze her daughter's arm. "That's the kind of person you are, Emma."
"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that."
"Well," Snow grinned, grabbing her coat which she'd flung over the easy chair the night before. "I do. I saw how you were with the Zimmer kids. And I see how you are with Henry. You would've done anything to keep Gold from tearing Alexandra away from her mother."
Emma wasn't quite sure how to respond. That was twice within the past 6 hours that both her parents had shown such faith in her. Faith she still wasn't sure she could ever live up to. So she tucked the book into her own bag and fumbled around for her keys.
Snow, sensing her daughter's discomfort, simply offered a warm smile and pulled the focus back to their most immediate concerns. "I think Thomas's attack has far more to do with Storybrooke than anyone from our…other pasts."
Emma looked up as the two of them headed for the door. "Really?"
Snow nodded, pulling on her coat and stepping out into the hallway. "King Christopher didn't have many enemies. Theirs was a quiet, peaceful kingdom and they kept mostly to themselves. Whoever did this, I think, had a problem with Sean…not Thomas."
"I agree, your Highness," came a man's voice through front entrance of Snow's townhouse. Both jumped in surprise and then relief as Rick Shields joined them at the door.
"Rick," Snow gasped and then rolled her eyes, ignoring the spike of panic through her veins at having once again been overheard talking about, well, old times (they really had to start lowering their voices!). "What are you doing here?"
"What are you talking about?" Frederick nodded first to the deputy and then to Snow. "You asked me to give you a ride on your first day back to school, remember?" he winked. "Wouldn't want you driving too much with that ankle."
Emma caught on first and grinned. "Right, of course not." She smirked back then lowered her voice. "Did you find anything?"
"Not a trace of magic," he said as the two of them helped Snow maneuver herself, crutches and all, to Frederick's SUV. "And I talked to a few uh…passerbys that looked harmless enough." His tone suggested these 'passerbys' were most likely Garcon regulars who weren't passerbys at all, but lived on the street. "Said they heard a struggle, a few grunts and a lot of shouting, but nothing…unusual."
Snow (having grudgingly accepted Frederick's carpool as a necessary cover for relaying this information) yanked open the passenger side door and tossed in her bag. "Any actual witnesses?"
Frederick shook his head. "Sorry. There wasn't a whole lot to go on. I don't think you and the sheriff will find much more this afternoon," he said turning to Emma. "I did hear from a few people that Sean's boss, Jack Hunter? Was really drunk last night. And from the sounds of it, kinda…pissed off all evening," he glanced at Snow and bowed his head. "Excuse my language, Majesty."
Snow smacked him on the arm. "Stop that, I mean it," she grinned then turned to Emma. "Jack Hunter is really Gaston Saoul. He was a man who—"
"Gaston?" Emma spluttered, recognizing the name. "Gaston is real too?" She felt sure most of the periphery characters were fictional inventions (After all, there were no mice in Cinderella's story named Gus).
Snow exchanged looks with Frederick and then nodded. "Very real. And I imagine not at all pleased when Belle quit yesterday. Although I don't know what has to do with Thomas."
"Especially now since he's out of bartenders," Frederick added sardonically; then with a slight bow of his head, he turned from them and rounded the car to the driver's side.
Conceding his point, Emma sighed. "Well," she shrugged. "It's a start."
But Snow could tell her daughter felt deflated. "What's wrong?" she asked as Frederick hoisted himself into the car on the other side.
"I dunno," she shook her head. "I was just…I was hoping I'd get some sort of lead out of all of this. Something from those stories I could actually use to solve the case." She paused, biting her lip, knowing how the rest would sound if she said it out loud and not wanting to disappoint her mother.
Snow wasn't fooled though, and simply stared at her, waiting for her to continue.
"I…I just…I'd hoped this one would be…easy. From a 'case' point of view I mean," she added hastily. "Don't get me wrong, Thomas is obviously a great guy, and I want to find his attacker—"
"But every minute you spend on this…is time you could be spending looking for Ava and Nicolas," Snow again finished her sentence. And this time, she took the words right from the deputy's mouth.
Emma hung her head and nodded.
Snow lifted her daughter's face by her chin and smiled. "Emma, we all want to find Ava and Nicolas…and Michael. That fight isn't over yet, and there's nothing wrong with what you feel."
"I just…I don't want you to think—"
"I don't," Snow cut in, squeezing her daughter's arm. "The queen has created…quite the mess for us to deal with. It's gonna take time to figure it all out."
"Yeah," Emma folded her arms and sighed. "Time we don't have."
"Maybe not," Snow placed her other hand on Emma's shoulder and gave her an affectionate shake. "But we have each other."
Emma gulped, staring into the eyes of a woman who had trusted and believed in her from the very beginning. That woman loved you before she even knew who she was, her father's voice reminded her. How in the world had she gone from orphaned loner to beloved daughter in a just a week and a half?
"You're gonna be late, Miss Blanchard," said Frederick in a rather sing-songy voice.
Snow rolled her eyes, but the knight had a point, so she stepped up into the SUV. She yanked the door shut and then glanced back at her daughter through the window. 'I love you' she mouthed to Emma as Frederick put the car in reverse and started backing out.
Emma watched as the car disappeared down the street. "I love you too," she whispered, "Mom."
…
Mitchell wasn't exactly sure how he'd ended up here, sitting outside the mayor's office waiting for an appointment he hadn't even requested to discuss something he never said he wanted. The last 12 hours had not only been terribly upsetting, but had flown by so fast that he couldn't actually remember how he got to be here – sitting next to Ashley Boyd's step mother of all people who was helping him obtain a restraining order to keep his own son from the woman he loved.
He kept playing that awful confrontation over and over again in his head, still trying to figure out why he'd become so venomous, so unfeeling toward the young woman – the mother, like it or not, of his granddaughter. He'd thought so often these past few days of reaching out to both of them, of reconciling their differences and begging them both to return to Mifflin Street and start over. He even thought he might confront them the tree lighting ceremony tomorrow: Christmas had always been his and Sean's favorite time of year, especially in the years following Mazie's death. But receiving that terrifying phone call informing him that his son had been nearly beaten to death had eradicated every shred of humility and sentimentality he'd had. And when he'd walked into that exam room and saw Ashley standing over his son…he'd inexplicably and violently…snapped. In fact, for as long as he could remember, every time he saw Ashley…something inside him snapped.
And then, of course, even more mysterious was her strange outburst – claiming Sean was actually her husband? Calling him Thomas? – it was crazy, right? Certifiable. And yet stranger still was the unsettling feeling that…they'd had this conversation before.
"She's ready for us," said Rodmilla, snapping him out of his haze.
"Hmm?"
"The mayor," scoffed Tremaine, tapping her foot impatiently. "She'll see us now."
Mitchell lifted his gaze to the tall, severe woman and frowned. "Why are you doing this, Rodmilla?" he asked plainly.
"Doing what?"
He cleared his throat, rising to his feet. "I've…appreciated your support all these weeks, and you've been a good friend," he acknowledged, "but Ashley is your step-daughter. I'm…kind of shocked that you—"
"Mitchell," Tremaine adopted her best, most empathetic tone. "You and I both know that you can never love someone else's child the way you love your own."
Mitchell started, and took a few steps back from her. For some reason, that sounded familiar too. But he had no idea why.
"I value our friendship far more than I do any relationship I might still have with my step-daughter," she explained. "You said so yourself last night. If it weren't for her, Sean would never have been out that late, wandering around West End."
Mitchell shook his head. "See? That right there; how do you even know about that?"
But Rodmilla was not thrown. Not one bit. "Mitchell," she said almost condescendingly, "the moment something happens in Storybrooke that concerns one of my friends and I don't know about it? That's the time to be concerned. Gossip travels fast in this town, especially from the hospital. And I for one have had just about enough of that no good relation of mine flashing her innocent little smile at every poor, naïve boy that comes along and never having to deal with the consequences."
Mitchell cringed at this description of his would-be daughter-in-law. Rodmilla had alluded before to Ashley's alleged promiscuity throughout her youth, but Mitchell had honestly heard nothing to corroborate it. Still, he couldn't quite reconcile his own indignation where Ashley was concerned. What he'd said was perhaps cruelly phrased, but accurate. If it weren't for Ashley, Sean never would have had to get himself a job in one of the seediest establishments in town – Did it ever occur to you that maybe if you hadn't thrown him out of your life, he wouldn't have had to get a job in West End to support us? – Ashley's treble retort echoed in his mind, and Mitchell hung his head in shame. Who was he kidding? What was he doing?
"Mr. Herman," came the mayor's voice as she pushed open the opulent double doors of her office. Regina Mills flashed him a warm, supportive smile and then stepped to one side of the entrance. "Come right in. The judge will be along shortly."
Mitchell felt ill, nauseous. This was wrong, he thought. This isn't the kind of man he wanted to be. But despite his doubts, despite Ashley's haunting words, he allowed the two women to usher him inside.
…
Rose slipped her receipt in the front cover of her latest purchase and tucked it into her canvas bag. "Thanks Joel," she said to the small man across the counter who had had the run of her favorite store in town for as long as she could remember. "I'm surprised you had this one in stock."
"Anything for you, Rose," came his equally small and pleasant voice. It was hard to imagine what Snow had told her about him to be true: that he was one of her legendary seven dwarfs and was more likely to be covered in soot from digging in diamond mines than swimming through receipts and inventories of used books. How strange it would be for him to discover – if he ever discovered – that he had six brothers somewhere in town and that they were once instrumental in protecting an entire kingdom from being overrun by dark magic.
Stranger yet was the fact that Joel – or Happy – just happened to have in stock a rare children's book she'd discovered online last night called Beauty which chronicled a very different, very unique version of the fantasy heroine she had supposedly inspired. Convinced as she had always been that knowledge was power, she decided that she would try to learn as much about her tale as she possibly could between now and tomorrow evening…when she and Snow would be attempting the most ludicrously insane rescue of a most unlikely target – a mental patient.
Of course the source material she most wanted to get her hands on was the famed storybook that had found its way into the hands of Henry Mills. She supposed she was in a rather long line of people who wanted to read the book, but she hoped one day to be able to glance through its pages. Her dreams were getting more and more vivid every time she closed her eyes, but they were still dreams, and the images she got were often mixed with the fears and obstacles of the present. She planned to head over to Mary Margaret's – or Snow White's school later that afternoon to see if she could have a peak.
"You know someone dropped off a whole set of old encyclopedias last week," said Joel as she turned to the exit.
"Oh yeah?"
Joel nodded, picking up his copy of the Daily Mirror he'd been reading when she came in. "Great fun those old books. One volume has tons of information on the Soviet Union."
Rose chuckled, waved, and was about to head out when something on the back of the page he was reading jumped out at him. She scanned the headline quickly and gasped.
The Daily Mirror – December 6, 2011 – Local bartender found savagely beaten in back parking lot of West End tavern – By Sidney Glass.
"Oh my God!" she cried, practically leaping back to the counter. "Let me see that." She practically snatched the paper out of his hands, refolded it along its original crease and read the headline again.
"Oh, you didn't see that this morning?" Joel frowned sadly.
"No, I didn't read my paper today. I headed straight…" she trailed off, skimming the first few paragraphs. "Sean Herman, fairly new to Storybrooke's infamous West End backstreets, was found beaten and left for dead last night in the parking lot of Garcon's tavern?" she read aloud, her heart pounding as she thought of her dear friend whom she'd seen only hours beforehand at Collodi's garage. "Sheriff Humbert states that a 9-1-1 call was placed from Herman's cell phone, but medical personnel doubt that the !"
"Just awful isn't it?" Joel tsked, looking down at the page. "Isn't that Mitchell Herman's son?"
"Umm, Joel I'm sorry. I have to go. Can I," she held the paper up hastily, "can I borrow this?"
Joel nodded, slightly startled by her abrupt exit but wanting to help in any way possible. "Of course."
Rose muttered a thanks and practically sprinted out the door.
…
"All I'm saying is whenever anything strange around here happens, one of them usually shows up, so why not just...beat 'em to it?" Emma argued as she and Graham walked up the small cobbled path to Jack Hunter's front door.
"Because there's just no reason to believe that Gold had anythin' to do with this," Graham replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "As…shady as that man's operation is, I don' recall ever seein' 'im in West End."
She stopped him before he knocked on the door. "And Regina?" she challenged.
Graham closed his eyes and sighed through his nose. "Wasn't there last night either."
Well you would know, she thought, though she wasn't feeling quite as indignant and petty toward him as she had been before he'd disappeared. She understood so much more about the sheriff and the mayor's hold on him than she ever had before. Still, she couldn't shake the jealousy that gnawed at her stomach every time she thought about Graham and Regina together. The awkwardness of his confession hung in the air between them, so instead of dwelling on it, she reached passed him and banged on the door.
Graham bit down hard on his lip, fumbling for something to say. So much about the last few weeks were hazy to him. But there was one image in his mind still crystal clear: Emma's face upon catching him sneaking out of Regina's back window – the single most humiliating moment of his life. "Emma—" he started, but he was blessedly interrupted when the door was wrenched open.
"Yeah?" came a groggy, raspy male voice along with the very singular and distinct smell of someone totally hung over.
"Mr. Hunter?" Graham asked in an unnecessarily formal tone.
The man squinted in the cold but unusually sunny morning. "Yeah?" he said again, a bit more focused. He seemed to finally realize the only two law enforcement officers in all of Storybrooke were standing at his front door…and the image brought sharply into focus the events of last evening. "What can I do for you Sheriff?" he cleared his throat, wiping his hands on his jeans, wishing he'd thought to pull a sweatshirt over his torn tee.
Emma ran her narrowed gaze up and down his form, scrutinizing every angle. This wasn't just a man hung over; this guy had been through the ringer. She counted no less than six bruises along his shoulders, a cut across his jaw, and scraped up knuckles. Thinking immediately of Sean – or Thomas's – battered body at the hospital, Emma sucked in a breath and clenched her fists tight. "Did you have a um…rough night Mr. Hunter?" she asked steadily.
Jack's eyes flew from one to the other, trying to think fast. "Y-yeah," he said with a half-hearted chuckle. "Yeah, Sheriff I think I had a bit one too many if you know what I'm sayin'."
Graham and Emma exchanged glances. "Yeah, I think we do," Graham replied. "You mind if we come inside?"
Jack decided it would be best to appear cooperative. Besides, inviting them in, having them sit down, offering them water…it bought him time to think up—
"Were you in a fight last night, Jack?" Emma asked abruptly as he led the two of them through the main hall to the wood-paneled den.
Jack panicked a moment, and then quickly settled on a story. "Yeah," he responded at once, turning around with another half-hearted chuckle. "Yeah I was, heh!" He pointed to one of the bruises on his hand and winked at the hot deputy. "You should see the other guy."
Emma bit her tongue and continued to seethe (though outwardly keeping her cool). "Who with?" she asked as Jack gestured for them both to be seated on a brown leather sofa.
The man shrugged. "Just one uh my bum customers – got feisty and a little lucky." He angled his face to the side and gestured to a fresh shiner. "Landed a few before he calmed down."
"Got anyone who can verify that?" Graham leaned forward.
"Sure!" Jack answered a little too quickly for Emma's liking. "One uh my bartenders, Sean."
Again the sheriff and deputy exchanged a look, but didn't reply.
"What?" Jack drew back, feigning ignorance. "Just ask him. Sean Herman. Helped me sober the guy up and send 'im on his way before we closed for the night."
Graham peered at him, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth.
Emma of course…could already tell he was lying.
"Sean Herman is," Graham said slowly, glancing to his partner and then back again, "the reason we're here."
Jack leaned back into his arm chair and shook his head. "Oh no, don't tell me that kid's in trouble again."
"Again?"
"Yeah he's always gettin' into beefs he can't handle. Tries to break up a fight, ends up in the middle of it – that kinda thing. What happened this time?"
Emma flew to her feet. "Mr. Hunter, Sean Herman was brutally beaten last night, almost to death in your back parking lot. You tell me what happened!"
Jack plastered a mixture of horror and concern across his face. "Brutally beat – Sean? Jesus, I had no idea. Is he—will he be all right?"
The manufactured concern was enough to make Emma want to hurl. Graham seemed to sense this and rose to her side. "Too soon to tell. He's sustained heavy injuries and is still unconscious."
Unconscious! Jack thought, even better. "Christ, man. That's nuts," he blew out a sigh and ran his hand through his hair, attempting to appear as if he were thinking about who in the world might do such a thing.
"Was there anyone at Garcon's last night that seemed to be giving Sean a hard time? Someone who had it in for him?"
Finally, Jack stood up, propped one arm up on the other and rested his thumb and forefinger beneath his chin. He thought for a few minutes, then snapped his fingers. "You know," his eyes grew wide as he looked to the sheriff, "now that I think of it, Pilfer was amblin' inside just as I was leaving for the night."
"Pilfer, really?"
Emma shot him a look. "Who's Pilfer?"
Graham sighed. "Shane Pilfer, he's a…well, I've picked him a few times for gambling in the past."
"And rough-housing," Jack added. "Don't forget about that fight at the docks."
"Yes but he's never done anything this brutal," Graham countered and then turned back to Emma. "Actually half of the times I've brought him in, I haven't even pressed charges. He's not a bad guy, he's just—"
"Whacked out since his wife left 'im, Sheriff," Jack scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. "Maybe next time you'll give 'im more than a warning huh?"
Emma jerked her head around. "Hey!" she snapped, "You wanna let us worry about that. Ok?"
Jack held his hands up in mock surrender with a slight bow and took a step back.
"Do you know where we can find Shane these days?" Graham asked, ignoring the glare he got from Emma.
The bar owner shrugged. "He's been laying low for a while. I'd start with his ex." He paused, glanced at the fuming blonde and threw her a wink (hell, this brilliant cover he'd concocted on the spot was going so well, he was in the mood to flirt again). "Word is she's been shackin' up with the doctor takin' care of her old man."
Emma bit her tongue as an awkward silence fell in the room. "We'll be sure to look into that. Thanks for your time," said Graham, seizing Emma's arm and gently urging her back to the door. "If we have any questions we'll let you know."
In seconds, the sheriff had ushered his deputy back to Jack Hunter's front stoop and closed the door behind them. "What the hell was that?" Emma asked, throwing her hands up in the air.
"Emma—"
"You know that asshole is lying about something—"
"Of course I do," Graham hissed, continuing to guide her down the drive and back to their car. "But we can't very well arrest him for being an ass, can we."
"Did you see the marks all over his arms? His chin? Someone worked him over last night," Emma argued, opening up the passenger door, though making no move to get in.
Graham blinked, as if waiting for her to continue, and then it was clear what she was implying, "Are you suggesting it was Sean?" he almost laughed. "Emma, the lad in that hospital doesn't look like he 'landed a few good ones' on anyone."
"Maybe not, but—"
"And even if he did, he's still unconscious. We won't know whether or not Jack's story checks out unless—" he paused, then amended— "until Sean wakes up. In the meantime, we've got a lead to follow."
Emma rolled her eyes and finally slumped into the seat as Graham got in behind the wheel. "More like a wild goose chase."
"Maybe so," Graham conceded, "but it's just as likely that Shane Pilfer did stop at Garcon's late last night, and if so, he might've seen something. We're doing this one," he jammed the key into the ignition, "by the book."
He started the car and headed back up to the square, sneaking a look over at his deputy every so often, wondering what she was thinking. Finally, as they rounded the corner, she heaved a sigh and gave in. "Fine, but do me a favor."
He glanced over, eyebrows raised.
"Drop me off at the hospital first. I have a few more questions for that nurse."
…
In all his years as Storybrooke's resident Mr. Fix-It, Marco Collodi couldn't remember a single tree-lighting ceremony that he didn't help orchestrate. But this was certainly the first year he'd had a dwarf felling the tree and a prince sorting through lights. After hearing about Thomas's attack that morning, he and James had talked quite seriously about the queen's precious status quo. They couldn't exactly put anything on hold or cease operating as they normally would, so it was decided that preparations for the festival would continue. A part-time amnesiac certainly had no business investigating a beating anyway (that was his daughter's job), and Grumpy – as Leroy – wasn't at all aware of the curse or his identity. So James and Leroy grudgingly trudged out to the woods that morning to claim the tree that the mayor had selected a month ago for the night's festivities.
By early afternoon, the tree arrived at the square (via Grumpy's creative rather creative towing apparatuses…after all, that job had always been Michael Tillman's, so the grouchy mechanic had improvised) and the two of them were now stringing lights and testing circuitry in front of Mr. Bridgeport's Emporium. So Marco was all on his own when an unexpected visitor walked into his shop.
"Mr…Collodi?" came a reserved voice from the door.
Marco looked up to see none other than Sean's father push his way through the double doors, fighting against the icy winds. "Mr. Herman," he nodded. Mitchell walked over, rubbing his hands together and breathing hot air into his palms. "What can I do for you?"
The man cleared his throat and took a deep breath as he reached the counter. "I wanted to um…make sure you were aware—"
"Of Sean's attack," Marco replied at once. "Yes, we heard this morning. How is he?"
Mitchell looked down. "It's uh…too soon to tell."
Marco paused a moment, the father's pain so palpable he could feel it radiating across the desk…and it felt vaguely familiar. "Well, we're all thinking of him of course…and of you. Be sure to keep us informed?"
He nodded but didn't look up. "Well…I just wanted to be sure you that…you know…you knew not to expect him in today," he said and started to walk away.
The man seemed suddenly in a hurry to leave, and given the trauma he'd clearly been through in the past 12 hours, Marco was inclined to simply allow the man a quick exit. But there was something lingering in his tone. Something that demanded attention. And it was something Marco had learned not to ignore. "I appreciate that Mr. Herman, but if I may be so bold," he called after Mitchell causing him to stop, "I don't believe that's the real reason you came here." Mitchell paused. "You could have called me from the hospital to tell me Sean wouldn't be coming in today." Slowly his guest turned, and Marco came around to the front of the counter and gestured him away from the door. "Please my friend...I understand you haven't spoken with your son for several weeks." He saw the man wince, but pressed on. "I have an empty shop and a friendly ear. If there's anything you wish to say…or ask…I would only be too happy to answer."
"What is there to say?" Mitchell mumbled, though without much conviction.
"In the matters of family, my friend," Marco leveled with him, "there is always something to say."
Mitchell's gaze widened for a moment, and then he glanced around, almost as if checking that they were indeed alone. Marco understood implicitly what the grey-haired gentleman seemed to fear, for he chuckled lightly and held his arms to the sides. "I promise my younger, more…righteously minded employees are not here to judge, Sir. Please," he indicated a few chairs near the hanging metal shelves at the front. And after a moment's more hesitation, Mitchell finally acquiesced and scraped the metal chair away from the round white table.
Sitting down, he felt weary, more aged than he had felt in years. He should be back at the hospital of course. He should have returned right after his meeting that morning with the mayor and Rodmilla Tremaine. But having been rushed and pressured through the rather alarmingly quick process of securing a restraining order, Mitchell couldn't bring himself to return to the bedside of the son whom he'd just legally separated from his fiancée. He felt like a complete heal. What was wrong with him? Why hadn't he spoken up? Why did the slim white envelope tucked into his breast pocket that contained a document demanding a space of at least 100 feet between Sean Herman and Ashley Boyd feel like it weighed a ton?
The old man waited patiently, hands folded in his lap with one leg crossed over the other. Mitchell hadn't even realized that he'd also brought two cups of coffee in styrofoam cups to the table and was sipping quietly as Mitchell sat and brooded. After a while, Mitchell finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and asked quietly, "Has he been…happy?"
He could see the craftsman's smile in the crinkle of his eyes as he finished drinking and set the cup back on the table. "Very," he said.
Mitchell looked away. "Because of…her?"
"Which her, Mr. Herman – Miss Boyd?...or your granddaughter?" Marco knew the response was a bit accusatory, but it was his aim now to remind King Christopher of the father Marco knew he could be. "He is very happy, Mr. Herman. Because of them both."
Mitchell slid the chair back and stood up again, swallowing hard. Maybe this was a bad idea.
"If you don't mind my asking," Marco cleared his throat, but remained at his seat, "your disapproval of his reconciling with Miss Boyd is quite…public. What exactly do you object to?"
"It's not—" Mitchell started but then stopped again, unable to truly articulate his feelings because quite frankly, he didn't understand them himself. He couldn't very well explain to Marco Collodi the enormous heartache he felt every time he looked at her – that feeling of disappointment in her that bordered on betrayal. "She…" he tried again, "she trapped my son," he said at last.
Marco looked down. "I see."
"She manipulated him into…into this life," Mitchell continued and suddenly the words poured out. Words that were not his, but were all he had to speak with. "And I have it on good authority that this isn't the first young man she's set out to trap!"
"Mr. Herman—"
"She just—s-she just couldn't leave well enough alone could she? I arranged everything. They could have both had their whole lives still in front of them, but she wouldn't back off! And now Sean is stuck," he slammed his fist atop the table, "stuck in this God-forsaken town with no way out and no future."
Marco did not reply, merely listened. The cursed king was perhaps wiser than even James had given him credit for. The man clearly knew his son was meant for more and deserved more than to be 'trapped' in Storybrooke. Unfortunately, Christopher couldn't possibly be aware that it wasn't Ella doing the trapping, and Marco wasn't about to try and explain it.
Mitchell slumped into his chair, rubbing his palms across his grey slacks. "Everything I wanted for him…all I did to make sure he would have a better life than…than I've had here…" he trailed off, staring at the table top. "And when I tried to tell him that…when I tried to explain—"
"He wouldn't hear you," Marco finished for him. The man looked up, caught his gaze and sighed. "This is not surprising," he chuckled. "Sean is…extremely stubborn. Something I believe he gets…from his father."
Mitchell looked away again, shaking his head. "I can't talk to him anymore. He's just…he's changed so much. The last time we spoke…" he trailed off once more, squeezing his eyes shut and willing the tears to cease before they spilled. Their last argument had been more than heated. Sean was absolutely livid, despite the fact that only a week beforehand, he and Ashley had been completely on board with the plan. True it wasn't exactly the ideal arrangement, but Gold had assured him the child would be loved and well taken care of, Ashleyhad assured him that she didn't feel she could care for a child on her own, and Sean…well Sean had claimed this was what he wanted. The full ride at Fort Kent was just supposed to be the beginning. He was getting out. He was on his way out! Mitchell laced his fingers together in front of him, staring blankly at his palms. "He's just…he's not the same boy I raised."
The two men were silent for many moments, Mitchell struggling with feelings he still didn't quite understand, while Marco was keenly aware how carefully he must choose his next words. He supposed in some ways, he had an advantage over James and Snow and Thomas. He didn't remember being Geppetto and so his brain was not addled and jumbled with two sets of memories overlapping and confusing him. He could clearly remember Mitchell Herman and the loving relationship he'd had with his son. And it was that bond between them, Marco knew, that would draw them back together. "Mitchell," he leaned forward at last, speaking in that hushed, grandpa-like tone that softened any debate. "Did you provide for Sean? Did he have everything he needed growing up?"
Mitchell drew back, furrowing his brow. "Yes?"
"And did you and your late wife…raise him in a loving home?"
He closed his eyes, having guessed where the old man was going. "Yes," he whispered.
"Then I believe Sean is exactly the man you raised him to be."
Mitchell collapsed into the seatback, unable to respond.
"Fathers," Marco concluded, "always want to give their sons a better life than their own. But in the end, they just want their children to be happy." He leaned forward, urging Mitchell to look up. "Perhaps Sean didn't choose the career you would have liked him to or gone away to school, but those aren't the choices that define us, my friend." He took a deep breath, wondering now if he was getting through, but it was too late to turn back. "The moment Sean chose Ashley, he becamethe man you showed him how to be…a loving father. That little girl knows what it is to be loved…because of you."
Mitchell shuddered, hardly able to stomach the compliment as visions of his public shunning of Ashley at the hospital flashed before his eyes. He still had no idea how he had come to be that cruel. And then of course, in picturing the hospital, he thought of Sean himself, lying on that bed covered in bandages, facing a terrifying prognosis that may yet ruin any chance he had left at a reunion between them. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked quietly, though he was talking more to himself than actually asking for advice.
Marco wasted no time in responding though. "For starters, I believe you should stop listening to whatever spiteful folks are slandering poor Ashley's name. That girl is sweeter than an angel on Sunday." He rose from his chair and headed back to his counter. Mitchell followed closely behind him, curious by the sudden purpose in the old man's step while he tried to ignore the shame at having believed Rodmilla all this time about Ashley. As he'd reflected this morning, it seemed perfectly clear that there was nothing unseemly about the girl – an impression (he'd striven to forget) that he'd had of Ashley Boyd when Sean first brought her home. "And then I wonder if you might do me a favor," Collodi shouted from his office. He'd disappeared for a moment into the back room and then re-emerged, carrying what looked to be a small shoebox. Mitchell met him on the other side of the counter and stood opposite the old mechanic who now set the box between them. "Sean commissioned these as a sort of wedding present for Ashley," Marco explained. "I finished them this morning, just before I heard of the attack."
Mitchell's eyes darted down as Marco slowly lifted the lid. Once the gift inside was revealed, Mitchell gasped at the sheer beauty and craftsmanship. He recognized at once what they were supposed to be, but was slightly confused as to their meaning. He supposed it represented some sort of private joke between his son and the girl…and then he hung his head again in shame, realizing he would have been privy to such a joke had he allowed them into his life. "What do you want me to do?"
Marco replaced the lid and then reached under the counter to obtain a bit of ribbon he'd stashed for when he finished especially sentimental repairs. Carefully, he slid the ribbon beneath the box and drew it up around the sides as he spoke. "Well, he never said so specifically, but I don't believe he wanted to wait for the wedding any longer. In fact," he added as he tied the ribbon into a simple bow, "I'm fairly certain he wanted her to have them sooner rather than later." He cut the excess ribbon off the ends and then slid the box directly in front of Mitchell. "Perhaps you might deliver them for me?"
Mitchell made no move to claim the box; he simply stared, wondering exactly how he'd been drawn into this unlikely conversation in the first place. "I don't…I don't know if I—"
"Mitchell," Marco leveled with him, his tone now demanding attention as Mitchell lifted his gaze. "There's not a one among us here who doubts that your son will wake up soon and make a full recovery." He looked down and placed his hand atop the gift. "Let him awaken to a world where his family is finally…whole."
A familiar ache pulled at Mitchell's heartstrings as Marco withdrew his hand and left him alone, hope lingering in the air with his words. Could it be that simple? Could he make amends for his wrongs with this curious gift? After considering the matter for a long while, Mitchell pulled the box from the counter, tucked it gingerly under his arm, and headed for the door. Before he left though, he paused to remove the dreadful envelope from his breast pocket, scoffed at the damn thing…and then tossed it in the trash.
…
***This chapter is lovingly dedicated to longtime reader Rebecca who inspired me to delve further into the character of Christopher and the pasts of Thomas and Ella.
School's out (finally) and creative juices are starting to flow again! Thanks for your patience with this chapter. Hoping to bang out a few more soon. Cannot WAIT to write the next scene in store for Ella.
Happy Reading!***