Chapter Ten

"The rain began again. It fell heavily, easily, with no meaning or intention
but the fulfillment of its own nature, which was to fall and fall."

~ Helen Garner

"Now, what's the name?"

"Swan, Emma Swan."

"Emma… What a lovely name."

With a smirk on his face and a wad of money in his pocket. Rumplestiltskin left the dilapidated inn run by werewolves, a feeling of sheer giddiness rising in his as he stepped out into a cool breeze and a warm patch of sunlight.

A land without magic. The land to which his son had fled so many years ago. He'd made it; the curse had succeeded, as had his efforts at engraving the savior's name into his very soul. The man turned imp turned man again gazed around him at this both strange and familiar world and struggled to reconcile one set of memories with another.

Regina was the self-appointed mayor of the town, ruling over her little kingdom for the better part of three decades. Oh what fun she must have had with all those years of the same monotonous routine; it was no wonder she'd grasped hold of the idea of having a child, for life was never boring when playing the role of parent. The Charmings were separated, as were many of the other royal families, thanks to Regina's ban on happy endings.

And Belle. Oh gods, Belle was really alive and whole and here and… in love with Gold. This battered shadow of a woman he knew was in love with his cursed self, and while those feelings were completely mutual, it wasn't right. How was he supposed to look her in the eye, knowing that Belle herself wasn't choosing to be with him, just this Lacey who knew only Nicholas Gold and nothing of the monster Rumplestiltskin. After the things he'd said to her, the way he cast her aside as if she didn't matter…

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling nothing more than an old man in a suit and checkered shirt, a man with too much money and little that really mattered. All of that would change once he found his son, he would change, but for now… there was something he needed to do.

III

Belle French was humming to herself as she waltzed from her bedroom and into the bathroom, a half-remembered tune to accompany the act of twisting her hair up, half of it hanging loose in a waterfall of curls that needed just a little help from her trusty iron to stay perfectly shaped. She'd been experimenting with her hair for over an hour, trying different styles featured in the numerous bridal magazines Ruby had showered her with the day before, amidst their afternoon of wedding planning and dress shopping. Belle decided she rather liked this style, it looked natural while still having a spark of refinement, though the real test would be to try it with the dress she'd found and purchased in the same day.

It was crazy, she knew, even Ruby had thought so, to buy the first dress she'd tried on without even looking at another, but it had been perfect. The small part of her that had always dreamed of her wedding day, as young girls did, had fallen for the gown at first sight, with everything else paling in comparison. A fitting had commenced right away, for the dress in-store was available for purchase and was just her size, and while she and Nick hadn't yet set a date, this way they wouldn't have to wait on a dress of all things…

A knocking at the door pulled her from the thoughts of layers of lace and delicate pearl earrings to match her mother's necklace. She glanced at the little clock on the counter and frowned; he was early. That was odd; he usually arrived precisely on time for date nights when they went out. There must be something he wanted to talk about before they left for the restaurant, she concluded, turning off the curling iron and setting it aside.

She couldn't not beam a smile at her fiancé standing on the other side of the door, looking ever the proper businessman in his designer suit with his hair inviting her to run her fingers through it. "Come on in," she said between grins, closing the door behind him. "Let me guess, you've got something on your mind and that's why you're so incredibly early tonight."

He looked visibly startled at her words, which was a tiny bit confusing, but didn't faze her too much. "How did you know?"

"Because I know you better than you know yourself, my dear Nicholas," she quipped with a smirk, reaching up to adjust one of the pins in her hair.

If anything, that only seemed to make his frown deepen. "Is that so," he murmured, clenching his hand around the handle of his cane. There was something in the way he looked at her, the way his eyes lingered on the lines of her face before sliding away, as if it was something he wasn't supposed to be doing, a stolen glimpse of something he longed for but couldn't have. It was the oddest thing to see, and it made no sense. A sigh followed his words, weary and deep, and he eased himself down into an armchair. "Ms. French, we need to talk."

The words, the name he used, the tone of voice… It was like a river of ice in her veins, like someone reaching out to physically grasp her heart and twist it with all their might. "Why are you calling me that?" she asked in a strained whisper, stopping a few feet from the chair he'd chosen, but she remained standing. While standing, she had just a speck of power – the moment she sat, she would turn into a victim, and she would never be a victim again. Not even with the love of her life.

"It's your name, dearie, what else would I call you?" he tossed back carelessly, the way he spoke with everyone else. But he wasn't that way with her; he never had been, not even all those years ago when she'd worked in his shop. He'd never been hurtful.

Her left hand reached out for something, anything on which to steady herself, and after a step backward she found another chair, grasping the high curve of the back so tightly that her knuckles whitened. Her voice trembled as she insisted, "Belle, you call me Belle. You've called me Belle for as long as I care to remember." Panic was rising in her chest, filling her throat so it was hard to breathe around the sickening taste.

He winced. She watched the pain flicker across his expression, further creasing the lines there and terrifying her at the same time. "This can't go on any longer," he said, sidestepping her words with his frigid tone. "We aren't meant for each other, dearie, and lying to ourselves about it won't do any good."

Shaking her head frantically, she looked away from him, trying to find some hint that this was nothing more than a terrible nightmare from which she would soon awake. "But you proposed. You said you wanted to spend your life with me. You said you loved me."

"I was wrong." There was a finality in the words that could not be ignored.

This was a dream. It had to be. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to be happy… "Get out," she breathed, her eyes unfocused as she tried to simply keep from falling apart in front of the man who was breaking her heart.

He let out a deep breath and stood, taking a step toward the door before pausing to glance back at her. "Ms. French—"

"Get out!" she screamed, the words ripping themselves from her throat, sharp enough to cut, but the only one feeling any pain seemed to be the speaker herself, for her knight in shining armor just turned and walked away. When the door clicked shut behind him it was as if she were a puppet whose strings had been cut; she crumpled to the floor, not caring that her new skirt tore at the hem, that her knees scraped on the hardwood. Nothing mattered beyond the pure agony that threatened to destroy her soul.

She didn't move until the next morning, letting the darkness consume her as she cried and dreamed of a cell with stonewalls and a harsh voice echoing through the night.