Perhaps it was that they were too successful. They had become more than a nuisance. Lesser gods and Titans died at their hands, weakening with each reincarnation. Stronger ones fled, alive and nursing their wounds. The names of the Dark One and the Light One were spread by apostates and heretics. They became the tip of the umbrella under which resistance flourished. As long as Schlaraffenland stood, the subjugation of the Enchanted Forest remained incomplete.
The gods, who would not have their faithful diminished, and the Titans, who would not have their prey grow teeth, struck back.
Rumplestiltskin and Belle of Schlaraffenland would be written out of history. Time travel was not so impossible for those who had never been entirely bound by time. But it wasn't a simple matter of murdering a child in a cradle or making sure they would never be born.
They were (had become) children of the Wood Beyond. True Love was magic that transcended time and space. They were the spine of the world tree. But a tree may be whittled down, its bark stripped, its roots gnawed away. So it went across the timelines. Belles and Rumplestiltskins picked off one by one, the most vulnerable ones first, all the reflections and echoes of the two at the heart of Nevethe. Then it became a race to gather up those reflections and echoes to shelter in the Wood.
It seemed they were winning. That was when Belle (after one too many less-than-reassuring reports from her motherland) thought it would be safe to make another attempt to get into Avonlea herself. That was when she found out that one drop of divine blood was one too many.
Her first step across the border triggered the trap. Light engulfed her. She couldn't sense Rumplestiltskin anywhere, though he had been holding her hand the instant before. The cloak of mortality and belonging, borrowed from an Avonlean peasant, was ripped away, revealing Belle's true identity.
Child of the House of Aphrodite.
She refused to hear it. She would not acknowledge that title. Her hand held tight to nothing. Rumple, are you there? He had to be there. She tried to find her shadow. Rumple!
A presence took shape inside the blinding light.
Belle gritted her teeth against the urge to abase herself. Rumplestiltskin!
"Our child." The voice was warm, seductive. "Stand with us, in the light of Olympus. That is where you belong, not wallowing in the darkness, courting your own corruption."
"I am human," Belle bit back. "I belong in the mortal world." Even as she said the words, she sensed the falsehood in them. She had claimed, been claimed by, Nevethe.
The other chuckled gently. "No longer. You have proven yourself worthy of something more. But think: would you not rather walk among the gods as one of our own? Or skulk in the shadows like some woodland beast, doomed to a life of suffering?"
"Life with my true love is hardly suffering."
"That's a lie you tell yourself to endure what you think you must." The soft, feminine voice turned sympathetic. "I know how it feels. I've been there myself, once upon a time."
The words evoked memories Belle wished she didn't have. Among the echoes and reflections of herself and Rumple were many, many painful alternate versions of their history together.
We're fixing that, she told herself. That was what the Dark Hunters were for, to mend the broken bonds of their alternates, to save the ones on the brink of self-destruction, to protect their hearts before they shattered...
"Some things cannot be fixed," said the other. "The Dark One among them. He is a monster..."
"No, he's not," Belle bit back at once. "But if he is, than so am I." Out of all those tortured alternatives, far too many times it was the beauty that tormented the beast. They were in the abyss together — sometimes one, sometimes the other, facing the darkest depths.
"But you don't have to be. You could be a god."
"Like you? Who are you, exactly?"
"You know who I am."
"I thought I knew, but I was always taught that Aphrodite was the goddess of love." Belle's fingers clenched around nothing, clinging to what she insisted must be there. "Surely she would not be trying to sever a woman from her true love!"
"From an ugly, crippled old man. A cruel beast," said the other in disgust. "A coward, a deserter. His 'love' can only be a poor, withered thing, clinging to you and dragging you down."
That was when Belle remembered that Aphrodite was also the goddess of beauty. That she had rejected her husband — the lame and ill-favored smith god — to run away with the handsome, brutal god of war. "It's not like that."
"Give him to us, and we can free you," coaxed Aphrodite. "It was an arranged marriage. We would be doing you a favor."
"I will never betray him," Belle said. She had heard it all before. "Not for my father, not for griffon king, and not for you!"
"Not for yourself, but what of your child?"
Belle moved to shield herself with her free hand. "You will not touch her." She still couldn't sense Rumple anywhere, but they would always be linked through the daughter they shared.
"I mean her no harm. Can you say the same for your 'husband'?"
"He would never—"
"He's done it before. Abandoned his child."
"And regretted it at once. He never stopped looking until he found him again." Belle knew it was a bad idea to be drawn into this conversation, but she couldn't help herself. Rumple wasn't even here to defend himself. The goddess was so infuriating in her condescension. "He changed. He—"
"Murdered his wife."
"Not his finest moment." Belle pushed at the magic holding her in place. How were they doing this? Why couldn't she break free? "But he would never hurt me. His heart is true."
"Yet filled with darkness." The goddess pressed her point. "Is that what you want for your child?"
"I want our child to be free from meddling busybodies like you!" snapped Belle. Darkness had its place. She wished desperately to be in that place, but she couldn't find it. Her hand remained closed on nothing at all. Rumple! Where are you? Where am I? She had the sinking feeling that she wasn't in Avonlea anymore. Was this even the mortal realm? She squinted into the blinding light, but could make out no distinguishing features.
The goddess sighed. "This would be so much more pleasant with your cooperation. It's for your own good. But alas, children can be so short-sighted..."
Short-sighted? If Belle couldn't see beyond the end of her own nose, it was only because they had blinded her on purpose! And wasn't that the way of it. The enlightenment of the gods? What a joke. "Let me go."
"But you were so eager to return to Avonlea. To your family." The word was ominous from Aphrodite's lips. "And here we are, indeed. Family. You would not be here if you had not accepted the truth, that you belong with us."
"No..." But the denial felt hollow. It had been a ruse, she wanted to say. A trick to slip past the divine defenses covering Avonlea. A way to get to her parents, her sister — the people she had grown up among. The royal house of Avonlea had always claimed descent from Aphrodite. It had merely been symbolic — until Aphrodite had descended from Olympus and claimed them in turn.
Claimed Belle.
A chain she had placed around her own neck (no matter that she hadn't meant it) could not be shrugged off now that one of the higher powers had picked up the other end. Belle had admitted the connection herself. No one decides my fate but me. But she had decided to go back to Avonlea, and now magic sealed that fate.
"Your family is safe in the hands of the gods." The statement hid a threat in its inverse. Rebel, and they are in danger, it implied. "And you. You belong to us."
It was true. True for her as it had been a deception for Rumplestiltskin. That was how they had been separated — by the knife-edge between truth and lie.
The gods' truth welled up inside her, one drop of divine blood overpowering everything else she had ever been. Mortal memories became thin as clouds. Fog to be seared away in the light of Olympus. She would be reborn.
Rewritten.
"Belle!" Rumplestiltskin's shout sank without trace in the blaze of light that caught them in the uplands just inside the border of Avonlea, just as his wife had vanished without a trace. He flexed fingers that had clasped hers only a moment ago.
The light faded, leaving behind a night that seemed darker than before.
The peasant whose aura they had 'borrowed' groaned and collapsed to the ground.
He didn't have time for this, thought the Dark One viciously. He had to find Belle— but no, already the barrier was pushing him away. He crouched next to the fallen man, grabbing him around the shoulders. "Reynard... Reynard! Get up, old fox."
"Nnnngh," came the grunted reply. He scrabbled at the rocky slope, lurching upright and twisting away from Rumplestiltskin's touch.
Rumplestiltskin caught his arm. It felt oddly elusive, as if the man could slip away into another reality in the blink of an eye. Everything itched with wrongness. Hills grazed by sheep and goats that should have been just like the ones in the Frontlands turned flat and distant, like a painting he could see but never be a part of. Divine magic, he thought, trying to expel the Dark One. But Reynard had a right to be here, and he was bound to Reynard by his own magic. He reminded him aloud, "We had a deal."
"Yeah, yeah." Reynard stilled. Reality settled. "What happened? Where did m'lady flit off to?"
"They took her." With one hand still gripping Reynard's arm (gripping his native connection to Avonlea), Rumplestiltskin brought his other hand to his chest, close to his heart. Faintly, as if heard through distant memory, he heard her calling his name. Belle?
No answer. He couldn't feel her through the link. Desperate, he drew out the blade that held her name. "Belle!"
Nothing.
Had she been taken from Avonlea? Was she even in an earthly realm anymore? He muttered a curse. He would find her. Of course he would.
It's a trap. As usual. How stupid can you be?
It wasn't so much a trap as it was an open invitation to surrender himself. No need for a message: We have your wife and unborn child. No need, but it came anyway, delivered in a haughty tone and highborn accent alien to the peasant's mouth.
"Dark One." Reynard's eyes were lost under a sheen of pale golden light. His hand twisted to reverse their grips, Rumplestiltskin's wrist now encircled by rough, callused fingers. "You dare befoul this kingdom with your presence. Your feet tread on sacred ground..."
"Not that Avonlea ever rolled out the welcome mat for me, but this is what they call 'over the top'." Rumplestiltskin jerked free and took a step back, rubbing at his wrist. "Release my wife."
"All she needs to be released from is the degradation of being wed to you." Reynard's mouth twisted in an unnatural smile. "She has come home. For your part in bringing her back, the gods will be merciful and let you walk away alive. Know your place, Dark One."
Rumplestiltskin glared. "I'm not leaving without her."
"She has already forgotten you." That smug tone. The sneering contempt.
It was all too familiar. All too deliberate. Rumplestiltskin shook off the ghost of the cringing spinner. He wasn't that coward. His wife was not the faithless woman of his first marriage. Belle had passed the three trials to be with him. They had been to hell and back. Not even the gods could force them apart. "A memory spell? Not as powerful as what binds us together."
"Is it more powerful than death?" And there it was. The knife behind the smile. "The river of souls washes away all bindings."
"If you kill her, if you kill our child, you die with her. All of you."
"You'll destroy this realm if you try..." Said with an assurance that the Dark One must be bluffing. The gods wanted dominion over the mortal kingdoms. They imagined him to be their rival, as the Titans were their rivals. The realm was a prize to be fought over. Too valuable to break.
Everything breaks, in the end.
Did they think he would care? The darkness laughed inside his head. "To hell with this realm and everyone in it."
A flicker of alarm in the borrowed face, quickly covered. "Hardly a sentiment your wife would agree with."
"Then let her go, and she can tell me to my face!"
Not-Reynard shook his head slowly. "Her fate lies with the gods. You are no more than... this..." The word dropped from his lips as if no insult could be low enough. He waved a dismissive hand. "Belle is of an ancient and noble line. As an immortal, she belongs on Olympus."
As a mortal, and a commoner with no divine ancestor in his heritage, Reynard was not so fortunate. The light burned through him, the weight of the god too much for mortal flesh to endure. On the word "Olympus", his shape disintegrated into millions of sparks. It seemed to hang briefly in the air like an after-image. Then it was gone.
Rumplestiltskin stared blankly at the crumpled pile of cloth lying on top of a pair of old boots, all that was left of Reynard. The soul lingered, a frail presence emanating reproach.
"I am sorry," Rumplestiltskin said softly. He hadn't thought that this 'borrowing' of auras could go both ways, or that the gods would wear their mortal cloaks with such disdain for their wellbeing.
What was he to them but a traitor, an apostate? hissed the darkness. It's called divine retribution.
Well, nothing to be done now but to send the soul on its way to the Underworld with a wish from the Dark One to guide him. Rumplestiltskin hoped that Reynard would find his way to friendly faces. That his time in hell would not destroy him.
It was out of his hands now.
Belle. He looked down at the dagger in his hand. The letters of her name seemed to shimmer. A trick of the light — he was still shaky after that encounter, coming down from rage and terror. But a closer look dispelled any hope of tranquility. Her name... it was fading. Erasing itself from the metal as if it had never been there. The name reflects the soul. Her soul... He fought back a wave of panic. No. No, he had to believe she was still reachable.
She had the other dagger.
If she stabs you with it, you will die, warned the darkness. If they take it from her...
If anyone stabbed him with it, he would die. Yes, yes, he thought. But only if they can reach me. What if I stand in the tree?
The Wood Beyond was never more than a step away for him. Now that he was bound to Nevethe's vision, some part of him could never leave. A thought was all he needed to cross back.
His name on the blade. His name on her lips. His name in her heart.
The name is the wizard; the wizard is the name, went the saying. Three times repeated, his name gave him enough presence to touch her soul and bring her to their tree. True love, the most powerful magic of all, strong enough to transcend realms.
For a moment they were there, together, in the embrace of their tree.
But if Belle was not Belle, if she was not the one he loved, if one drop of divine blood could displace everything he knew to be Belle—
"Help me..." It was one last pitiful whisper before she forgot herself, and him. She clutched the dagger in her hands.
"Belle." He moved to clasp her to him before she could slip away.
She turned the point of the dagger towards him. Fending him off. As if he were a stranger—
"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed. "You don't mean that."
She wavered. A slow blink. "It's the wrong knife."
What? Rumplestiltskin stared at her in incomprehension, but she didn't repeat herself. "Belle?"
But now the name felt wrong, as if it didn't match the person standing before him. If love was gone, then she had no standing to be here, was never here at all. He watched recognition drain from her eyes, and he couldn't—
Last words? No, no, no, those couldn't be her last words. They twisted painfully inside his chest, a tight ball of despair and grief. Why couldn't it have been I love you or...
No. She wouldn't waste them when— when she still hoped to change her fate. No, when she hoped he could change her fate. So. The wrong knife? The wrong knife! Why say such a thing except to imply the existence of a 'right' knife? And why say it to him unless she trusted him to find—
Oh, clever, clever Belle. Not for nothing was she called Breaker of Chains. This time he would follow her example and break hers. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the Shears of Destiny to his hand. Under the light of the golden blades, the lines of fate became visible. He focused on the strongest thread — a thread glistening with power, searing away all others.
The thread repelled the blades. Gods were not as easily diverted from their fates as mortals. Metal could break on the twist of that immortal fiber.
He didn't care. If he had to force the issue, he would. He clamped the twin blades around the thread of her newly swollen fate. Sawed at what he could not cut. Poured all his strength into the enchanted shears, channeling the Dark One's capacity for destruction (he couldn't afford to think about what would be left afterwards) to break this bond.
It wasn't what she chose, he reminded himself. An accident of birth can't be more powerful than true love!
The blades bit through at last, metal sliding against metal to rip the thread in two..
Fate exploded, a conflagration of destiny.
The shears melted.