Once Upon a Time: Stories, in the End (1/7)
Rating: PG (a little more language and violence than you'd find in Disney, and possibly a smidge more sex)
Word Count: 2,274
Disclaimer: Recognize anything? Then it ain't mine.
A/N: *leaps onto bandwagon* Yeah, this fic confiscated my life for most of the last two weeks. But it's done, all the holes are stuffed with head!canon and I'm ignoring the rest. Chapters posted every other day. For zombres.
Summary: Regina has been deposed, but the curse is still in force. Rumpelstiltskin fetches something very precious from her vaults. Then things get really interesting.
Belle has never been in love before. The only child of a powerful father- how could she? And then suddenly there was Gaston, her husband-to-be, so... that was the end of that. He could be pleasant enough, sometimes. Anyway, he would be busy with the affairs of the village, Belle told herself. Not much would change for her. The same home, the same clothes, the same dinners, the same routine, day in and day out, year in and year out. If she wanted to grab her hair and scream sometimes, she was just being childish.
Then the war came. And a promise of help from an unlikely and untrustworthy corner and part of her will always feel guilty for the thrill she felt when she walked out of the throne room on Rumpelstiltskin’s arm. She had to remind herself that this wasn’t an adventure- she was a prisoner. A lady turned housemaid doing the lowest of the low work all alone in the trickster’s admittedly lavish estate. The dungeon she spent her first night in helped. And yet, the utilitarian activity of sweeping and scrubbing and dusting and polishing and washing and serving, on and on and on, was somehow its own pleasure, filling her days and leaving her feeling more accomplished at night than any of her dainty finishing school tasks.
And then there was her... captor? Master? Her friend? The strange man that turned her world upside down just as the noose was starting to tighten. What a mystery he was- and Belle loved her mysteries, as her library at home would show. Curiosity won out quickly once she knew he didn’t mean her harm, leading to attempts at small talk when their paths crossed. He was cagey, but Belle figured if she annoyed him he would avoid her, and he never quite seemed to. Obviously he was lonely. Obviously he was running from a terrible pain. If she could tease him into cracking a joke of his own, make a smile crease his odd face, she went to bed feeling that much better. But the mystery remained.
If it weren’t for those damn curtains, maybe things would have gone smoother. She yanked hard, and tumbled down with them, her stomach lurching in fear. But then a sudden soft stop with two strong arms holding her safe. Belle looked into Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes, surely as wide and surprised as her own, and her stomach flipped all over again. She’d never felt anything like it. And it didn’t seem to matter how many times she told herself to get a grip, this is absurd, you’re his prisoner- she knew her heart wasn’t hers anymore.
And really, she knew all the stories, and most of the songs. Maybe they hadn’t ever included some kind of bizarre power struggle between magical forces she didn’t understand, but Belle really could have been more prepared to have her heart tossed away like nothing. She’s glad she managed to speak her mind, whether any of it hit home or not, and leave him with her head held high.
So now she walks, ignores the aching tightness in her throat, and makes plans to find a coach in town to take her home. Somewhat belatedly a dark fear crosses her mind- has she broken her deal with Rumpelstiltskin? Can he undo whatever he did to end the war? Would he? Belle wonders how safe this area is, if the ogres have advanced into this region. She hears hoofbeats behind her and spins around. It’s not ogres, but something worse. The Queen’s carriage.
Belle tries to run, but she’s no match for the cadre of soldiers that surround her on horseback. Her hands are bound, her mouth gagged, and she’s bundled into the carriage in what feels like seconds. The Queen gazes at her, sighs. “Well, that little gambit could have gone better, wouldn’t you say?”
Belle glares as best she can. How dare this woman use her, trick her, poison what might have been a real love?
“Nonetheless,” the Queen continues, “it’s served its purpose. He’ll be in no position to get in my way, of that I am certain.” She leans in close, “You’re a little too impetuous for my liking, though. I’m going to have to keep an eye on you. At least until we all go where we’re heading.”
The woman is talking nonsense, so Belle turns her face to the window.
***
When the curse washes over the land, it’s exactly like someone spilling a gargantuan bucket of dirty water, like when she mopped the floors of Rumpelstiltskin’s castle. Sitting in her second dungeon cell, this one somehow even danker, it surrounds her in an instant. It drowns her in filthy grayness, and when her senses return she finds herself sitting not in a cell but in a cozy bedroom. And her clothes have changed, transformed into some flimsy things a young boy might wear.
“Anna!” someone calls from outside the room. Belle frowns in confusion as she recognizes her father’s voice. He calls again, and she hears footsteps coming closer. The bedroom door opens, and her father leans inside. He’s wearing plain clothing not at all dissimilar to what she wears. “Anna, didn’t you hear me?”
Belle’s frown deepens, “Why are you calling me that?”
Her father looks bemused, “Let’s see, why would I call you Anna French? Could be because it’s your name.”
“But it’s not. My name is Belle. And... where are we?”
She’s getting more bewildered by the second, but her father simply chuckles, “Right, right, sure. Hilarious, sweetheart. Now come on, lunch is on the table.”
Belle stands, swaying slightly with disorientation, and walks into a world that isn’t her own.
***
In this world you can be confused by electricity, scared of cars, and scandalized by short pants for only a brief period before measures are taken. Insisting your name isn’t Anna but Belle and your father doesn’t sell flowers but instead governs a village that was nearly overrun by ogres severely shortens that time. Within a week Belle desperately tries to convince Dr. Hopper, who she wouldn’t have guessed was so tall, that she isn’t insane. She doesn’t quite manage it.
Her third cell, the coldest one so far. It’s all smooth surfaces and shadows in here. She fidgets with a loose thread. A mountain of doubt presses down on her. Maybe they’re right. Even though Storybrooke feels like walking through a dream, and her memories of home are so vibrant she can taste them, home isn’t here, and Storybrooke is. Maybe she should go along with the others, at least for the sake of her freedom. Maybe she’ll get used to living a lie.
The small metal window in her cell door flips open. The Queen stands on the other side, smirking at her. “Too impetuous,” she remarks. The window snaps shut.
Belle stares at it for a long time. Damn this world. I know what’s real.
***
She’d seen bigger ballrooms, but it seemed vast in its emptiness and freshly scrubbed floors. The tune that had been running through her head all day emerged once again in a light hum. Belle grinned and glanced over her shoulder, as if she really expected someone to appear. “The pretty little girl so neat and gay,” Belle sang, voice barely above a whisper, “to the mill she went one day...”
And she was off, twirling in the light step that had been the fashion back home, turning a wide circle around the ballroom, singing with abandon, “A sack of corn she had to grind, but alas no miller could she find- singing dum-a-diddle-i-day! At last the miller did come in and unto him she did begin, ‘Come grind my corn so quick-a-ly, around your stones my corn must fly.’ Singing dum-a-diddle-i-day!”
The guard pounds heavily on her cell door, “Settle down in there!”
Her shoulders hurt from slamming into the walls.
“‘Come sit you down,’ the miller did say, ‘For I can’t grind your corn today. My stone is high and my water is low, and I can’t grind for the mill won’t go.’ Singing dum-a-diddle-i-day! So these two sat down to chat. They talked of this and they talked of that, they talked of things which you do know and she soon found out that the mill would go- singing dum-a-diddle-i-day! Now she says, ‘Fair miller man, you grind all flour and no bran.’ And an easy up and an easy down, she could hardly tell her corn was ground- singing dum-a-diddle-i-day! ‘I think I’ll make my best way home. If my mother asks why I’ve been so long, I’ll say I’ve been ground by a score or more, but I’ve never been ground so well before.’ Singing dum-a-diddle-i-day!”
Another quick rotation brought her around to face the door to the ballroom, which was occupied by a quietly listening Rumpelstiltskin. Belle’s final chorus cut off in a surprised squawk.
Rumpelstiltskin flinched and stuck a finger in his ear, “Up until then I was enjoying the performance.”
Belle clutched a hand to her racing heart, “You scared the hell out of me!”
He tutted her, “Language, dearie. And where did a girl like you learn a song like that I wonder.”
Belle felt heat rush to her cheeks, but she lifted her chin and primly stated, “I’m sure I don’t know to what you could be implying, sir. It’s a lovely old folk song.”
Neither of them managed to hold in laughter for very long.
She slides down the wall to sit on her knees. She doesn’t think of him when she can avoid it, but her only defense is her memory.
***
Time is funny in Storybrooke. Like the dream it is, days feel like hours and vice versa here all at once. Sometimes Belle thinks she spots gray wisps of the curse hanging in the corners of her cell, but they vanish with a glance. And no one comes to help her.
She lies on her cot, hoping for a nap, when in the distance she hears a massive cracking sound. It echoes overhead until it fades away. She gifts the occurrence with a thoughtful hum and rolls over. But a little while later, there are footsteps in the corridor. Different from the guards, and the nurse, and even the Queen when she deigns to peer in at Belle. They’re quick, and uneven, one accompanied by a clicking sound. Belle’s pulse increases as the stranger approaches. They’ll pass, she tells herself, They all pass...
But they don’t. The footsteps stop. And the lock on her door clanks free. And the door opens. Belle sits up on her cot and fixes her gaze on the feet that have stepped all the way here. The shoes they wear are dark and shiny, expensive probably. The tip of a cane anchors nearby. Belle lets it draw her eyes up the form of a somewhat gaunt man. The harsh fluorescent light in the corridor puts him in silhouette- Belle can’t make out his face very clearly. She can see his hair is sand-colored and on the long side.
“Belle.”
Lightning shoots down her spine. “No one calls me that.”
“They should. It’s your name. Can you guess what my name is?”
Belle climbs off her cot and edges forward. She squints as her eyes adjust to the light and his features finally form in the shadows. She freezes, part of her begging to spin around and hide in the safety of her cell. “I... I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t know,” Rumpelstiltskin says, his oddly deep voice trembling, “I would’ve come for you if I had, but I didn’t... She told me you were dead.”
“She took me. On the road, when I left. Put me in a dungeon. And then the curse came. And I was here, in this strange place, and no one knew who I was, or who they were, and...” Her breath goes jagged, her heart pounds, tears well up. Belle wraps her arms around herself as her legs fold beneath her.
Rumpelstiltskin follows her to the floor, hands outstretched but held a few inches away, like Belle is poisonous. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “You were meant to forget, like the rest. I wish you had. Maybe she would’ve hidden you from me some other way, but you wouldn’t have been held here, like this. It’s my fault.”
Belle rubs at her forehead, “I don’t understand any of this.”
His fingertips barely graze her arms, “Please, come with me. I’ll take you out of here.”
She turns her swimming gaze to him, “Home?”
He flinches, “No. Not yet. But soon. I promise.”
Belle takes a deep breath. She curls her hands over his shoulders, his hands hold her waist like she’s glass. They stand up together. A moment passes where they simply stare at each other. He looks so different, as an ordinary man. “Why don’t you look the same?”
He gives a small shrug, “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure of that myself.”
“Well. It is an improvement, I must admit.”
His face creases in a smile- and there’s something she recognizes. He tucks her in to his side in the circle of his arm. On the other side he holds the cane that supports him.
“Are you hurt?” she asks as they step into the corridor.
“Yes, but a long time ago, before all this. You didn’t know that, did you?” He shoots her a glance, one eyebrow raised.
“No, I didn’t. You’re going to tell me, though. You’re going to tell me everything.”
“I will.”
Chapter Two
Word Count: 2,274
Disclaimer: Recognize anything? Then it ain't mine.
A/N: *leaps onto bandwagon* Yeah, this fic confiscated my life for most of the last two weeks. But it's done, all the holes are stuffed with head!canon and I'm ignoring the rest. Chapters posted every other day. For zombres.
Summary: Regina has been deposed, but the curse is still in force. Rumpelstiltskin fetches something very precious from her vaults. Then things get really interesting.
Belle has never been in love before. The only child of a powerful father- how could she? And then suddenly there was Gaston, her husband-to-be, so... that was the end of that. He could be pleasant enough, sometimes. Anyway, he would be busy with the affairs of the village, Belle told herself. Not much would change for her. The same home, the same clothes, the same dinners, the same routine, day in and day out, year in and year out. If she wanted to grab her hair and scream sometimes, she was just being childish.
Then the war came. And a promise of help from an unlikely and untrustworthy corner and part of her will always feel guilty for the thrill she felt when she walked out of the throne room on Rumpelstiltskin’s arm. She had to remind herself that this wasn’t an adventure- she was a prisoner. A lady turned housemaid doing the lowest of the low work all alone in the trickster’s admittedly lavish estate. The dungeon she spent her first night in helped. And yet, the utilitarian activity of sweeping and scrubbing and dusting and polishing and washing and serving, on and on and on, was somehow its own pleasure, filling her days and leaving her feeling more accomplished at night than any of her dainty finishing school tasks.
And then there was her... captor? Master? Her friend? The strange man that turned her world upside down just as the noose was starting to tighten. What a mystery he was- and Belle loved her mysteries, as her library at home would show. Curiosity won out quickly once she knew he didn’t mean her harm, leading to attempts at small talk when their paths crossed. He was cagey, but Belle figured if she annoyed him he would avoid her, and he never quite seemed to. Obviously he was lonely. Obviously he was running from a terrible pain. If she could tease him into cracking a joke of his own, make a smile crease his odd face, she went to bed feeling that much better. But the mystery remained.
If it weren’t for those damn curtains, maybe things would have gone smoother. She yanked hard, and tumbled down with them, her stomach lurching in fear. But then a sudden soft stop with two strong arms holding her safe. Belle looked into Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes, surely as wide and surprised as her own, and her stomach flipped all over again. She’d never felt anything like it. And it didn’t seem to matter how many times she told herself to get a grip, this is absurd, you’re his prisoner- she knew her heart wasn’t hers anymore.
And really, she knew all the stories, and most of the songs. Maybe they hadn’t ever included some kind of bizarre power struggle between magical forces she didn’t understand, but Belle really could have been more prepared to have her heart tossed away like nothing. She’s glad she managed to speak her mind, whether any of it hit home or not, and leave him with her head held high.
So now she walks, ignores the aching tightness in her throat, and makes plans to find a coach in town to take her home. Somewhat belatedly a dark fear crosses her mind- has she broken her deal with Rumpelstiltskin? Can he undo whatever he did to end the war? Would he? Belle wonders how safe this area is, if the ogres have advanced into this region. She hears hoofbeats behind her and spins around. It’s not ogres, but something worse. The Queen’s carriage.
Belle tries to run, but she’s no match for the cadre of soldiers that surround her on horseback. Her hands are bound, her mouth gagged, and she’s bundled into the carriage in what feels like seconds. The Queen gazes at her, sighs. “Well, that little gambit could have gone better, wouldn’t you say?”
Belle glares as best she can. How dare this woman use her, trick her, poison what might have been a real love?
“Nonetheless,” the Queen continues, “it’s served its purpose. He’ll be in no position to get in my way, of that I am certain.” She leans in close, “You’re a little too impetuous for my liking, though. I’m going to have to keep an eye on you. At least until we all go where we’re heading.”
The woman is talking nonsense, so Belle turns her face to the window.
***
When the curse washes over the land, it’s exactly like someone spilling a gargantuan bucket of dirty water, like when she mopped the floors of Rumpelstiltskin’s castle. Sitting in her second dungeon cell, this one somehow even danker, it surrounds her in an instant. It drowns her in filthy grayness, and when her senses return she finds herself sitting not in a cell but in a cozy bedroom. And her clothes have changed, transformed into some flimsy things a young boy might wear.
“Anna!” someone calls from outside the room. Belle frowns in confusion as she recognizes her father’s voice. He calls again, and she hears footsteps coming closer. The bedroom door opens, and her father leans inside. He’s wearing plain clothing not at all dissimilar to what she wears. “Anna, didn’t you hear me?”
Belle’s frown deepens, “Why are you calling me that?”
Her father looks bemused, “Let’s see, why would I call you Anna French? Could be because it’s your name.”
“But it’s not. My name is Belle. And... where are we?”
She’s getting more bewildered by the second, but her father simply chuckles, “Right, right, sure. Hilarious, sweetheart. Now come on, lunch is on the table.”
Belle stands, swaying slightly with disorientation, and walks into a world that isn’t her own.
***
In this world you can be confused by electricity, scared of cars, and scandalized by short pants for only a brief period before measures are taken. Insisting your name isn’t Anna but Belle and your father doesn’t sell flowers but instead governs a village that was nearly overrun by ogres severely shortens that time. Within a week Belle desperately tries to convince Dr. Hopper, who she wouldn’t have guessed was so tall, that she isn’t insane. She doesn’t quite manage it.
Her third cell, the coldest one so far. It’s all smooth surfaces and shadows in here. She fidgets with a loose thread. A mountain of doubt presses down on her. Maybe they’re right. Even though Storybrooke feels like walking through a dream, and her memories of home are so vibrant she can taste them, home isn’t here, and Storybrooke is. Maybe she should go along with the others, at least for the sake of her freedom. Maybe she’ll get used to living a lie.
The small metal window in her cell door flips open. The Queen stands on the other side, smirking at her. “Too impetuous,” she remarks. The window snaps shut.
Belle stares at it for a long time. Damn this world. I know what’s real.
***
She’d seen bigger ballrooms, but it seemed vast in its emptiness and freshly scrubbed floors. The tune that had been running through her head all day emerged once again in a light hum. Belle grinned and glanced over her shoulder, as if she really expected someone to appear. “The pretty little girl so neat and gay,” Belle sang, voice barely above a whisper, “to the mill she went one day...”
And she was off, twirling in the light step that had been the fashion back home, turning a wide circle around the ballroom, singing with abandon, “A sack of corn she had to grind, but alas no miller could she find- singing dum-a-diddle-i-day! At last the miller did come in and unto him she did begin, ‘Come grind my corn so quick-a-ly, around your stones my corn must fly.’ Singing dum-a-diddle-i-day!”
The guard pounds heavily on her cell door, “Settle down in there!”
Her shoulders hurt from slamming into the walls.
“‘Come sit you down,’ the miller did say, ‘For I can’t grind your corn today. My stone is high and my water is low, and I can’t grind for the mill won’t go.’ Singing dum-a-diddle-i-day! So these two sat down to chat. They talked of this and they talked of that, they talked of things which you do know and she soon found out that the mill would go- singing dum-a-diddle-i-day! Now she says, ‘Fair miller man, you grind all flour and no bran.’ And an easy up and an easy down, she could hardly tell her corn was ground- singing dum-a-diddle-i-day! ‘I think I’ll make my best way home. If my mother asks why I’ve been so long, I’ll say I’ve been ground by a score or more, but I’ve never been ground so well before.’ Singing dum-a-diddle-i-day!”
Another quick rotation brought her around to face the door to the ballroom, which was occupied by a quietly listening Rumpelstiltskin. Belle’s final chorus cut off in a surprised squawk.
Rumpelstiltskin flinched and stuck a finger in his ear, “Up until then I was enjoying the performance.”
Belle clutched a hand to her racing heart, “You scared the hell out of me!”
He tutted her, “Language, dearie. And where did a girl like you learn a song like that I wonder.”
Belle felt heat rush to her cheeks, but she lifted her chin and primly stated, “I’m sure I don’t know to what you could be implying, sir. It’s a lovely old folk song.”
Neither of them managed to hold in laughter for very long.
She slides down the wall to sit on her knees. She doesn’t think of him when she can avoid it, but her only defense is her memory.
***
Time is funny in Storybrooke. Like the dream it is, days feel like hours and vice versa here all at once. Sometimes Belle thinks she spots gray wisps of the curse hanging in the corners of her cell, but they vanish with a glance. And no one comes to help her.
She lies on her cot, hoping for a nap, when in the distance she hears a massive cracking sound. It echoes overhead until it fades away. She gifts the occurrence with a thoughtful hum and rolls over. But a little while later, there are footsteps in the corridor. Different from the guards, and the nurse, and even the Queen when she deigns to peer in at Belle. They’re quick, and uneven, one accompanied by a clicking sound. Belle’s pulse increases as the stranger approaches. They’ll pass, she tells herself, They all pass...
But they don’t. The footsteps stop. And the lock on her door clanks free. And the door opens. Belle sits up on her cot and fixes her gaze on the feet that have stepped all the way here. The shoes they wear are dark and shiny, expensive probably. The tip of a cane anchors nearby. Belle lets it draw her eyes up the form of a somewhat gaunt man. The harsh fluorescent light in the corridor puts him in silhouette- Belle can’t make out his face very clearly. She can see his hair is sand-colored and on the long side.
“Belle.”
Lightning shoots down her spine. “No one calls me that.”
“They should. It’s your name. Can you guess what my name is?”
Belle climbs off her cot and edges forward. She squints as her eyes adjust to the light and his features finally form in the shadows. She freezes, part of her begging to spin around and hide in the safety of her cell. “I... I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t know,” Rumpelstiltskin says, his oddly deep voice trembling, “I would’ve come for you if I had, but I didn’t... She told me you were dead.”
“She took me. On the road, when I left. Put me in a dungeon. And then the curse came. And I was here, in this strange place, and no one knew who I was, or who they were, and...” Her breath goes jagged, her heart pounds, tears well up. Belle wraps her arms around herself as her legs fold beneath her.
Rumpelstiltskin follows her to the floor, hands outstretched but held a few inches away, like Belle is poisonous. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “You were meant to forget, like the rest. I wish you had. Maybe she would’ve hidden you from me some other way, but you wouldn’t have been held here, like this. It’s my fault.”
Belle rubs at her forehead, “I don’t understand any of this.”
His fingertips barely graze her arms, “Please, come with me. I’ll take you out of here.”
She turns her swimming gaze to him, “Home?”
He flinches, “No. Not yet. But soon. I promise.”
Belle takes a deep breath. She curls her hands over his shoulders, his hands hold her waist like she’s glass. They stand up together. A moment passes where they simply stare at each other. He looks so different, as an ordinary man. “Why don’t you look the same?”
He gives a small shrug, “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure of that myself.”
“Well. It is an improvement, I must admit.”
His face creases in a smile- and there’s something she recognizes. He tucks her in to his side in the circle of his arm. On the other side he holds the cane that supports him.
“Are you hurt?” she asks as they step into the corridor.
“Yes, but a long time ago, before all this. You didn’t know that, did you?” He shoots her a glance, one eyebrow raised.
“No, I didn’t. You’re going to tell me, though. You’re going to tell me everything.”
“I will.”
Chapter Two