Chapter XIV

Trespassers

Killian Jones was a patient man. He had spent lifetimes biding his time, waiting for his chance to skin his crocodile. The injustice of his beloved Milah's death screamed to be set right. It burnt in his veins like cheap rum.

Even today, hundreds of years later, he could see the look on her beautiful face, the horrified agony when the filthy monster had put his hand in her chest and taken out her beautiful heart. His Milah's precious, still beating heart. He still had scars on his chest where he had fought against the rigging that had magically wrapped around him. He had fought so hard to get to her, to stop Rumplestiltskin from hurting her. The hook, the first thing he had laid his hand upon, had freed him. It was no small irony that he had chosen it to replace his severed hand. Had it always been attached to his wrist he would have released himself in time. Only, he'd had two hands of flesh and blood and he'd been too slow. Too late, he had been too late.

He had caught her body, the sweet, supple body that he had mapped so many times with his hands and mouth, and he had held her. If he had only known, in that second, that it would be the last time, he would have held her all the tighter and he would have never let go. She had touched his face, and looked into his eyes that had been his entire world for that last precious moment.

"I love you" Her last words had been her sweet confession of love for him. An orphaned brigand with no claim to fame or position in the world and she had loved him. Why, he had asked himself more times then there were stars in the sky, had he not told her that he loved her too? Just then as he held her in his arms, why had he let his sweet lover die without telling her that he loved her one last time? Then she had been gone. A final gasp and shudder then she had been limp in his arms, her heart dust in the wind. The Demon, the Crocodile, told him that he wanted him to suffer, like he had suffered.

Rumplestiltskin, the murderous coward, could not have suffered, not like he had. He could not have loved Milah because his heart was black and his soul was foul. He had smothered her free spirit and had almost killed the light in her beautiful eyes long before he had crushed her heart. Milah had never been meant for a mundane life as a wife and mother. She, like him, had been born for adventure. She was his heart, his siren, his beloved Pirate Queen. His Milah had been everything to him. Take his hand, take his ship, take the very sea from beneath him, as long as she'd been at his side, he would have been happy.

The Demon had wanted him to suffer? Suffer he had. No matter how many whores he took to bed, no matter how much alcohol he drank, no matter how many men he killed, his love for Miah still burned in his soul, ever bright and as strong as it had always been. She was his strength, she was his weakness. She was his only joy and his deepest despair. She was, if you believed the stories, his One True Love. The Crocodile had taken her, killed the other half of his soul. The good half, the half that had been capable of love and life. Now all he had left was his revenge. His glorious revenge, blood retribution for Milah.

He had waited long enough. He knew, because Cora had told him in that cold, mocking voice that she favored, that the only way to kill The Demon was to puncture his coal black heart with his own enchanted dagger. A steel hook simply wouldn't do, Cora had tutted him. So in the early morning light he stalked across the quaint seaside village of Storybrooke with one destination in mind. The Demon's haven, his little shop. He'd watched the Gypsy visit it the day before through his spy glass. She was a brave thing, not scared of The Dark One, not scared of Cora. There was a thin line between bravery and stupidity and the Gypsy had crossed it long ago. Then again, so had he. His quest for revenge had consumed him, nothing else mattered and his narrow-vision had cost him but he dared not stop. To stop would be to let Milah go, to betray her memory, to abandon his love for her. He could not do that, not then and not now.

Now he had a purpose, a clear step to take in his quest. He had to find the dagger and where else would a coward hide his only weakness? In his safe place, his castle, his beloved little shop full of odds, ends and magical potions. Mister Gold, what a fitting name for the man. His skin, cracked like a crocodile's, had a goldish tint to it. Fool's gold, a hideous shade of mottled and unhealthy yellow. His evil oozed through his very skin, marking him for all the world to see. A yellow-skinned coward with cold eyes and blood on his hands. Milah's blood.

The glass door broke easily under his hook. He could have picked the lock just as easily, but he wants to unleash some of his pent-up fury. A little destruction would do his soul good. Milah had always chuckled when he'd indulged his violent streak. He was, after all, a pirate, she'd said time and time again. He stepped inside and smirked at the sound of his boots crunching the recently shattered glass. It was dim, the only light came through the windows. Still, though, it was more than enough light to search by. He moved through the room, kicking things out of his way as he went. Useless items that meant nothing to no one, he supposed. He wrapped his gleaming hook around a string of crystal beads and unicorns. A baby's mobile, how sweet. He ripped the strands hard enough to snap them and watched the unicorns fall to the polished wood floor and shatter. He walked towards the counter, pausing only long enough to deliver hard kicks to each of the glass display cases. More glass tinkled and fell, and he crunched over it. The register was ornate and over-decorated, but not particularly safe. He wrenched it open in two strikes and scowled at what he saw: paper script and small grubby coins that probably weren't worth the metal the kings' faces were stamped upon. No enchanted dagger. Pity that, he would just need to keep looking. He walked through the room, tearing things off of shelves, running the tip of his hook through the canvas of paintings on the wall, ruining them. Still no dagger.

He stepped into the shop's backroom and felt fury burn through him. The spinning wheel. Milah had told him of the spinning wheel and how it had come to represent everything she had loathed about her life. It was a woman's trade and a coward's tool. His hook jerked thanks to a twitch of his long gone hand. The hand that Milah had held, the hand that had curled in her raven locks, the hand that Rumplestiltskin had cut off with a cackle. A cold smile spread across his bearded face. He may not find the dagger, but he would destroy this shackle and chain that had held his Milah prisoner for so many years.

He kicked it over and the wood hit the floor with a satisfying crack. He did not indulge his rage often, he controlled it and his pain with a tight grip. He softened his fury with smarmy remarks and innuendo. He had always had a smoldering ruffian's charm that had been one of the things Milah had been attracted to. There was no need for that here. He brought his boot down on one of the spokes and chuckled when it broke. He systematically tore the large wheel apart using his boots and hook. How she had hated it, the drudgery and monotony of endless days spent spinning. The only thing she'd ever regretted leaving behind was Baelfire. He brought his boot down on the spinning wheel's broad frame once, twice, three times and it splintered and cracked under his heel.

Baelfire, whom he had betrayed to The Lost Ones. Baelfire who hated him, who had hated his mother for abandoning him. The boy hadn't seen the misery in her eyes, the desperation. Had they not run away together on the Jolly Roger, Milah would have abandoned her son anyway. She had told him, years ago wrapped in his arms that she had been planning to take her own life. The coward's way out, she'd said mirthlessly, just like the husband she'd loathed. Rumplestiltskin had been a soul-sucking demon long before he'd become the Dark One. He grabbed the spinning wheel's needle off of the floor and moved away from the decimated remains of Milah's servitude. He moved through the room, destroying glass vials, tossing them and watching little puffs of smoke rise, magic wasted.

He opened a cabinet and tore through it. Tossing things negligently over his shoulder. Rubbish: papers full of incomprehensible scribbling, more glass vials and books. A wooden box, small and flat caught his attention. It was too small to be the dagger, but he opened it anyway. He had always been a curious little wretch. It was another bottle with a clear liquid in it. He scoffed, it probably wasn't even alcohol. He hurled it against the wall and smiled as the small vial shattered. He tossed the box to the ground and didn't bother to read the small, neat inscription on the inside of the wooden lid: "Tear of a Raped Maiden".

He was not going to find the dagger here. It was not even in the laughably easy to break safe. This merry-making was an enjoyable but ultimately fruitless endeavor. He could continue to make a mess, but there was little point to it now. He walked back out into the shop's main room and reveled in his destruction. He could almost hear Milah's rum-soaked laughter in his ear. Milah. He reached into his coat and removed the drawing. The pen and ink sketch that he'd kept by his heart since the day Bae had thrown in back at him, contempt on his young face. He caressed the line of her cheek on the page. This was all for her. The needle was still in his hand and he looked at the counter and searched for a clean place amongst the broken glass. The register, right where the bloody crocodile could see it. See it and know that his death was coming, that Killian Jones was coming for him. He wanted the sniveling coward to know that Milah was remembered and would be avenged. He pushed the needle through the parchment lovingly, and carefully. He couldn't bear to injure the only likeness of Milah left in any world. Then he shoved the needle into the cash register's metal side. The sound of steel crashing against and through steel was as musical as Milah's voice had been. He left the shop without a glance backwards. He didn't need the drawing, he saw his love every time he closed his eyes. He saw her perfect face staring up at him, pain written in her eyes, her last breath hitching in her chest.

Rumplestiltskin would pay and so would anyone else who dared to try and stop him.

The Storybrooke Free Public Library had suffered from twenty-eight years of benign neglect. The curse had maintained the building, but its contents had not been updated since its magical creation in 1983. Still, it was Belle's domain and she had gone over every inch of it, scrubbed it down, organized and catalogued it, and she loved it. Truly and dearly, she loved her library and couldn't wait to open it so all the citizens of Storybrooke could love it just as much as she did. She had not lied to Lia Weathersby, there was a very healthy budget to work with. She had stayed up several late nights and balanced it as best she could. If she watched every penny she could bring the reference section up to date, double the size of the children's and young adult selections and tackle at least part of the adult section. Books had not come in so many varieties in their old world. The sheer number of authors and their works was staggering. Not that this world's books were the only thing in the library. She had combed through the stacks and had several volumes set aside for a different sort of collection. Books from their homeland had been brought over. Histories, genealogies, reports and records from the Ogre Wars, religious texts, romances, poetry. The things she had grown up reading, leather bound and familiar. There were also books about magic. Not spell books, exactly, but books of mythology and lore, tales of the fantastic and records of sorcerers and sorceresses of the past. These were the books that made her uncomfortable. Which was silly, she had lived with The Dark One, she shouldn't let a little magic scare her. She was scared, though. Yet she was in the Special Collections Room with Mulan pouring over thick tomes and volumes looking for any information that might help them save Prince Phillip.

Mulan was on the yellow and white tile floor, legs folded under her. She frowned in concentration as she looked through one of the many books they had found with information on Wraiths. They were very mysterious creatures, dark and deadly, feared by almost every culture. Belle thought they looked like Dementors from the delightful Harry Potter books she had read. Though there were many entries in the books about wraiths, they often said the exact same things. They were soul devourers that were linked to a twin-set of medallions. One rode on the Wraith itself and the other marked the victim. Phillip had been marked and when Regina had opened the portal to their Old Realm she had, unwittingly, sent the Wraith strait to Phillip. She wondered if Mulan knew that the wraith's sudden reappearance in The Enchanted Forest was due to the Mayor's actions. She doubted it. If Mulan knew, she would be at the big white mansion on Mifflin street and not here. She looked very different, dressed in Storybrooke's modern attire. It was her attitude, the stoic quiet and seriousness that remained exactly the same. Mulan was a warrior through and through: strong, brave and loyal. She spoke best, she had once told Belle, with her sword.

"Here. This says" Mulan brought the book closer to her face, "That a perfect circle of silver, salt and-"She scowled at the book.

Belle left the table where she had been pouring over old yellowed parchments and leaned over to see what Mulan was struggling with. "Sage. It's an herb."

Mulan nodded her thanks and Belle watched her silently mouth the word over and over, as if committing to memory.

"A perfect circle of silver, salt and sage will protect those inside of it from a wraith."

Belle looked around for the notepad where she'd jotted down anything useful and scribbled down that bit of information. It was good to know that there was something less destructive then fire that would stop the wraith from sucking their souls away. What she really needed was a good patronus spell, but magic was not as simple as that. Life, unfortunately, wasn't as simple as that. The villains didn't always wear black and everyone that wore black wasn't always a villain. Even villains, the darkest and bloodiest of them, had good sides. People weren't sorted into four houses and there were no benevolent half-giants to make sure you were okay. There were only Kings and Queens, she scowled at the memory of the newspaper article, and their battles for dominance.

"You seem distracted."

Belle blinked and refocused her attention on her companion. "I, yes, a little I suppose."

Mulan frowned, "You need to be extra vigilant. Hook and Cora are ruthless and with your connection to The Dark One, you are an obvious target."

Disgust rose in her throat, she remembered Hook all too well. "I've dealt with Hook before. He doesn't scare me."

Mulan unfolded her legs and stood. "He took Aurora's heart. He is more dangerous then he appears to be and Cora is more dangerous still."

Cora, she knew, was Regina's mother, and apparently she was very bad news. She was worse than The Evil Queen, if the rumors were to be believed. The Voldemort to Regina's Malfoy.

"I don't think Cora would be interested in me. I'm just a librarian."

Mulan crossed her arms over her chest, "You are not just a librarian. You are clever, resourceful and you were the prisoner of The Dark One and The Evil Queen and lived to tell the tale. Not many people can say the same." The Chinese Warrior stepped closer, "but trust me when I say that you are no match for Cora. I am no match for Cora. Emma Swan was the only person who was able to stop her and she used magic."

Emma had magic?

"So if either Hook or Cora comes near, run."

Two hands fell on her shoulders and she found herself staring into dark almond eyes. "Promise me."

Belle shifted uncomfortably, "Running would make me a coward."

Mulan gave her a shake, "And not running will get you killed, or worse."

Belle shrugged out of her grasp, "Fine."

Mulan let her arms drop, "If you will not listen to me, maybe I should get your other friend to speak sense to you. Would you listen if your Ruby told you to run?"

Ruby. Belle felt a little lurch in her chest. She had told her to run, during the last full moon. Belle hadn't. She had refused to abandon Ruby in her hour of need. So the other woman had shackled her up and left instead. She had been locked in her own library, worried sick that a mob would corner the woman in her wolf form and kill her. That exact thing had almost happened. Thank God for David Nolan, he had saved the foolhardy, beautiful, too-noble-for-he-own-good wolf woman.

"I don't let anyone dictate my decisions." Anymore, at least.

If she had blinked, she would have missed it, a fast and small smile crossed Mulan's face.

"I saw how you interacted with her, she is not just anyone to you."

Oh this conversation was not happening.

"Don't be ridiculous."

Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was the earlier conversation about Cora and Hook, but when the chimes at the front door rang, Belle jumped. Mulan, of course, did not jump. She twisted with a fighter's instinct and drew her sword, ready to fight.

"I thought you said that your library was not open yet."

She had and it wasn't.

"It might be Marco, I asked him to build some tables and chairs for the second floor."

She knew, in her gut, it wasn't Marco.

"We will see."

The Special Collections Room had originally been a conference room of some kind and it was at the back of the building. She could hear something, someone moving around. The noise echoed through the building. Mulan moved silently along the shelves, sword out and ready.

"Hello?"

Fear made her heart beat a little faster. Nightmare images of Hook and Cora and hearts being ripped from their chests played in her imagination.

"We're not open quite yet." Which the opening soon signs should have told them. There was no answer beside the door chime going off again, indicating whoever had come, had gone. Or that their accomplice had joined them. Adrenaline pumped into Belle's system and she told herself that she was not afraid. She was a very bad liar. Mulan reached the front before she did, and she could hear the other woman's boots come to an abrupt halt.

"Belle, you should come see this."

The Warrior's voice was flat and visions of heartless corpses, she unfortunately knew what one of those looked like thanks to Rumple, danced in her head. When she turned the corner, though, there was nothing. No pile of bodies, no crystalized hearts. No Cora, no Hook. It was just her pristine and orderly library. Mulan's sword was aloft and pointed at the circulation desk. Belle turned her head and prepared for the worst. There was a plate sitting on the counter and a glass beside it. She stepped closer, and found herself smiling. It was a hamburger from Granny's with all of her favorite fixings and a large order of fries and a glass of iced tea with lemon that was still cold enough to have condensation on the glass. If that wasn't enough, the word "sorry" was spelled out in ketchup on the fries.

Ruby. How could she stay mad at the woman?

She couldn't help but smile and could hear Mulan give a small chuckle.

"Oh shut up."

Purple mist filled the foyer of 108 Mifflin Street. Cora Mills looked around, and took in her new surroundings and sneered. Neither Regina nor Esmeralda had bothered to cast even the most basic protective spells or wards. She was not surprised at the Gypsy whore's incompetence, but expected better of Regina. Then again, why bother? She had given Regina a castle and she had traded it for little more than a hovel on a hill. If this curse was supposed to be her "Happily Ever After" then Regina had less imagination then she did magical ability. She lived in a laughably small house with no servants in a tiny, rebellious fiefdom that had forgotten who their Queen was. Regina had let them forget. She had, apparently, been content to be a mayor, lower than the lowest Lord. She had always thought so small.

Cora began to walk through the home, taking in ever detail. There was not enough color. Everything was black and white, utterly boring. A splash of red always made things more interesting. She loved the vibrant play of red blood on white skin had become one of her favorite color schemes in Wonderland. The realm her dear daughter had banished her too. It would have driven a lesser woman to the brink of madness. Cora was strong and she had not bent or broken, she had twisted the realm to her liking, brought in under her control. The self-righteous citizens of Storybrooke would fall to their knees just as quickly. Regina may have let them run amok and mock her power, but Cora would show them what a true "evil queen" could do.

She walked through the living areas, and avoided the kitchen. That was a room for servants, not queens. She had tried to teach Regina that over and over again, but some lessons never took, no matter how harshly they were delivered. She ran her fingers along plush furniture. This realm was so odd, so full of marvels and comforts. Things that she'd never imagined before, and she had imagined a great many bloody and glorious things. Perhaps Regina's Storybrooke was not all that bad.

She picked up a small portrait, the artists here were very good the image was extremely life-like. Her daughter, hair boyishly short, and her smiling grandson. Adopted grandson, Cora amended. Regina shared the boy with the infuriating Emma Swan. It was, apparently complicated. Was that what they called it here? It hadn't seemed very complicated last night when the So-Called-Savior had put her hands on Regina and held her close. It had not sounded so complicated when the blonde had tried to soothe Regina's very legitimate fears. Pulling Regina's hand to her heart hadn't been so complicated, it had been intimate, personal, a lover's touch.

Her daughter had learned nothing. These little infatuations and dreams of true love were pointless and would only end in disaster. Love is weakness. Regina's taste had not improved. Stable Boys, huntsmen and now a lowly lawman. A sheriff with a royal pedigree, but a peasants'' ways. Not to mention that she was the granddaughter of Regina's dearly departed husband. That was a tad too scandalous, even for her admittedly eclectic tastes. Not to mention she had given birth to a child out-of-wedlock. That little blunder marked her as someone without proper morals, or at least as a fool without enough sense to rid herself of her shame after rutting around like a common prostitute.

Her shame, though, had become Regina's joy, her beloved son. Cora ran her fingers over the two faces in the portrait, her weakness. She had named the boy after her father, typical. What had Henry ever done for her? What had he sacrificed? His life, his weak and cowardly heart, was the only thing he had ever given her, it had been the least he could do. She had been the one who had ripped her own heart out to provide Regina with her chance at greatness. A chance the foolish girl had squandered. Her enemies, darling Snow and her charming prince, were still alive and well. They had, once again, wrenched Regina's power from her grasp and flaunted it in her face. How could Regina tolerate the humiliation? How dare she let them humiliate her? It wasn't tolerable, it wasn't how a queen should act. She should have squashed both of them under her heel, crushed their hearts to dust, and reminded all of her people exactly who was in charge. Since her daughter was too weak to do it, Cora would have to. Mother always knew best, and it was time Regina was reminded of that. She went up the stairs, and let her hand slide along the polished banister. She went through the upstairs rooms one by one. The room that reeked of cinnamon and gypsy magic had to belong to Esmeralda. Cora resisted the urge to set the room on fire. She had no desire to leave a mess behind her. That would be crude, sloppy, and it would only let Regina know how close she was. Her daughter was not ready to embrace her yet, she would have to continue to bide her time. All good things came to those who took them, but the time had to be right. The next room was messy and full of what she supposed passed as playthings in this new realm. Playthings, books and paper drawings. Henry's room, she supposed. That only left her daughter's chambers.

White, her daughter's chambers were almost blindingly white. White walls, a white bed, white linens, there were touches of color here and there but the overwhelming cleanliness of white dominated the room. Even the unrelieved black of her castle had been better then this. She wandered into the large walk in closet. Here was where color lived in the house: Blacks, grays, reds, royal purples and smoky blues. All these styles were so different. There were trousers and skirts that were cut far shorter then had ever been permitted in their world. There were no long gowns, no corsets and no cloaks. An entirely different wardrobe for an entirely different place.

A mirror dominated the back wall of the closet and Cora stared at it for a moment. Regina's obsessions with mirrors was somewhat disgusting. Vanity had its place, but beauty faded, only power remained. She watched the violet smoke consumer her and in the blink of an eye the mirror reflected a different face. Emma Swan stared back at her from the mirror. Young, cocky, more powerful then she realized and too stupid to take advantage of it. She tilted her head from side to side. Her shape-shifting spell was second nature to her, but taking on a new form always took a moment or two of practice, just to get things exactly right. Smoke filled the closet again and the form she wore was more rugged, clad in leather and foreign. The Eastern Warrior she had fought at Lake Nostos was not known very well here, which meant that none would realize that she was being impersonated. Not that people had ever caught on to her machinations before. She changed forms again, as easy as breathing, and the face of her daughter appeared in the mirror. The short hair, the red lips and the scar that marred them, Regina was an easy form to take.

Manipulation was something she excelled at, she had learned from the master himself. She couldn't see the future like dear Rumple, but she knew very well that there was a reckoning coming. So many royals in one small town would never live peacefully. There were too many power-mongers and not enough power. They would fight amongst themselves, and tire out their resources, so when she was ready it would be easy. With her daughter at her side, it would be a bloodbath.

She smiled and in the mirror Regina smiled back. Her daughter would be hers again and the town, and everything and everyone in it would be theirs. Cora disappeared leaving only amethyst smoke and an echo of a cold chuckle behind.

Author's Note: In my head canon Hook is a little coo-coo for cocoa puffs. I mean he floated around on a ship in Neverland for a LONG time just thinking about his revenge. He hides it underneath the innuendos and the bravado, but on the inside, I think Hook is just as broken as anyone else. I picture Milah as Edna Pontellier from The Awakening with a happy ending…until her estranged husband ripped her heart out and crushed it, I mean. Also, yes, I think one of the first books Belle read when she got out of the Asylum was the Harry Potter series. It's such a perfect fit for her. Also, the dementor/wraith parallel was just too obvious to ignore. As for Cora, well that's what you get when you have no heart. I hope everyone enjoyed this little side trip to check up on some of our supporting characters. Regina, Emma and Henry return in the next chapter.