Part 11: Brave Soldier Boy

All told, Storybrooke had lost twenty-five men and women—twenty-seven if you included those who died in human-to-human conflict. Belle's throat tightened at the thought of Graham, and Anton. Dad and David had worked closely with the gentle giant in his beloved greenhouses.

Kathryn and Fred, both injured from their firefight with Regina, stood swaying in front of Rum and Belle at the sheriff's station. All of them had worked the night away to restore a semblance of order. Mei-Xing and Dad were at Whale's surgery getting patched up—Belle herself was under strict orders to get plenty of rest. The Nolan family and Phil were at Granny's helping distribute hot food and blankets.

"The town is secure, Sir. The walls held," Fred said, pressing a wad of fresh gauze to the gunshot wound in his left arm. Six inches to the right and Regina would have killed him. Belle rubbed her gritty eyes, fighting the weight of exhaustion as Fred spoke.

"Thank you, Mr. Greene. Where are we on clean up?" Rum asked, his face grey. He looked tired and worn.

"Whale is tending our injured—mostly bruises and scrapes. The walker bodies have been burned, our own are being buried." Pain struck Belle's heart like a fist. The all-clear had scarcely been called before Rum had recovered Bae's body. Together Belle and Rum had found a good spot for him: a grave dug by his father's own hands nestled beneath one of Storybrooke's towering pines. The letter Rum had written for him was clasped in Bae's cold hands, over his heart. A permanent token of his father's devotion. Belle had carved the marker on the tree: Bailey Gold, Beloved Son.

"Were any bitten?" Belle asked, dread penetrating the fog. Kathryn's mouth thinned, blue eyes flashing.

"Two. Their families are dealing with them," she said. Belle shuddered at the thought.

"Make sure they're quarantined. We don't want an outbreak," Rum said, pushing to his feet. Hair wild with blood scabbed black at his temple, he hardly looked the polished mayor, now more a battle-scarred warlord.

"Set our freshest people on watch with two hour rotations. Then we should all try to get some rest."

She and Rum leaned on each other as they limped back to the shop. A warm shower and scalding cup of broth went a long way to making her feel more human. She sat on Rum's attic bed, watching him ease into a loose sleeping shirt. Every movement was careful, as if afraid he might shatter. Belle understood the feeling. He collapsed bed beside her, staring at his hands. What terrors was he reliving inside his head? Her throat closed, she couldn't even imagine what he was feeling now. It was so cruelly brief, his reunion with his dearly-sought son, then tragedy of his death, then the herd. Belle herself remembered vividly the walker lunging for Mei-Xing, putting down Anton, the soul-jarring sight of Rum dangling from the wall's edge.

A/N: So it ends. I hope you enjoyed this demented idea! Shout out to Shannon for the Hunchback idea!

"I'm sorry." The words seemed too small, too inadequate when she said them, like a band-aid over a gushing wound. She augmented the pathetic words with a trembling hand on his turned shoulder. Rum faced her, tears falling from unblinking eyes; God, grief yawned in his eyes, bleak and endless, an abyss painted in shades of sweet brown. Belle's own heart quailed at the sight.

"How . . . how can I live when Bae is dead?" he said, choked with tears. Belle swallowed the hot knot in her throat, trembling in earnest now. She had no words, nothing to mitigate this loss or even a frame of reference to understand his pain. Despairing anger coiled in her chest, a fury aimed at God, the twisted world they lived in, her own helplessness. Death was commonplace in this world, even more so than in the old, but the pain was no less real or devastating.

"Belle," he said, his rough palm cupping her cheek, "He's . . . he was my reason for . . . for—living. I wanted to make up for . . . I needed to tell him-" his voice crumbled with his expression.

"Oh Rum," she whispered, drawing him in a tight embrace. She held him as he went to pieces, lean body wracked by horrible sobs, hands clinging to fistfuls of her clothes.

"Oh my boy . . . my sweet boy. Bae . . . Bae . . ." Belle wept with him and soon exhaustion and the grey weight of grief dragged them down into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

Belle roused to the sound of the attic stair clattering down. She was upright and reaching for her gun before she was even fully awake. Kathryn's golden head appeared through the aperture, haloed in morning sunlight. Rum didn't stir. Belle stayed Kathryn's progress with a gesture.

"Rum?" she said softly. He lay on the far side of the bed curled in a ball beneath the blankets, lost to the world. An empty bottle of rum sagged from his fingertips. Belle frowned. She knew he was trying to cope, to sleep, to drown out the pain, but still it worried her. Pecking a kiss on his stubbled cheek, Belle shimmied into her jeans and shoved her gun into her holster. Kathryn had taken her ease on one of the shop's stools, looking tousled and well-rested. Her rifle lay across her back, as much a part of her as her sharp blue eyes.

"We'll let him sleep. If there's news, I'll take care of it," Belle said firmly. She moved to the hot plate and put the kettle on. Lipton tea bags weren't coffee, but they'd do. More than anything, Belle wanted something to do with her hands. If Rum was mayor, Belle was determined to be a deputy mayor—vice mayor?—if only to ease some of his burdens. Kathryn's mouth thinned, but she gave a grudging nod.

"He's been to hell and back, even more than the rest of us. No parent should have to bury their child."

"You knew about Bae?" Belle asked. Kathryn gave a tight shrug.

"He trusted me with Storybrooke's security more than Regina. I knew a little. I knew he had a kid and he was lost." Belle caught the kettle as it murmured its warning whistles. She poured two mugs and set the bags to steep.

"News?" Belle prompted, offering Kathryn a mug.

"Thanks," Kathryn said, pausing to take a ginger sip, "There's still a lot of walkers out there: clustered at the gate, at the pier, and a few at the greenhouses. Fred says they might be able to smell Anton's cattle. The walls are holding without a problem, but if we're planning on scavenging anytime soon, we'll need to come up with a plan. The two that were bit have been put down and buried. Whale's bitching that his stores of antibiotics and bandaging are running low. We're good on food for now, but we need to make sure the walkers didn't taint the wells. Ammo's another serious concern."

"I've found several books on the process of reloading," Belle offered, "Do we have gunpowder?" Kathryn's brows rose, her long mouth curling slightly.

"Not that I know of. I'll look into that. In the meantime, I'll tell all the kids to gather up the shells and casings."

They lapsed into silence and Belle composed a mental list of the books she'd need from the library. Mr. Tillman and Phil could probably fabricate the reloading equipment, she could enlist Dr. Whale in growing their own penicillin spores. Gauze was easy enough to manufacture, given they had access to clean cotton. Something like relief bubbled up. These problems she could fix. It was something tangible she could do, far removed from dead sons and corrupted dreams.

"What about Regina?" Belle asked. Kathryn's easy posture coiled, like a tiger preparing to pounce.

"What about her? If there's any justice, she was torn to bits by the herd."

"If she lived, then Storybrooke is an open book to her. She knows the people, the weak spots, our safety protocols. She could sneak inside and we wouldn't even know it."

"She could try." There was the faintest savage underlining of the last word, a wealth of hunger for vengeance. Kathryn sipped her tea; Belle's own had gone tepid next to her. Kathryn sighed.

"We can talk to Gold about changing the protocol. But in the meantime we have bigger problems." Belle pushed herself off the stool and ran a hand through her hair.

"Right. Let's get to work."

Belle spent most of the morning seeing to Storybrooke's defenses. The mess at the docks was of prime importance, and she chose David to head up the repairs. The gate was Phil's. Mei-Xing and Dad were—forcibly—tucked into Dr. Whale's makeshift infirmary in the elementary school cafeteria, along with dozens of other wounded. Along the way, a dozen people stopped her with complaints and concerns. Being a deputy mayor was a headache—literally. Belle pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the pounding. Noon saw her back to Rum's shop. Rum was up, washed and dressed in cleanish jeans and shirt. He was bent over a worktable, cleaning his guns.

"Where were you?" he asked softly without turning. Belle frowned, baffled by the sudden chill between them.

"I was seeing to a couple things." She recited the list of problems she and Kathryn had gone over this morning, and the ones she'd picked up on her rounds.

"How . . . industrious," he said. Belle clenched her teeth. Anger and a faint uneasy terror warred in her belly.

"I thought so. I wanted to give you time, Rum. Time to rest, to grieve. Everyone here has lost someone irreplaceable—" He whirled around, pain blazing from bloodshot brown eyes.

"And what do you know of loss? Your father, your closest friends, all have survived." Belle took a half step back, pushed by the contempt and venom in his voice. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she mustered calm, patience.

"That's not fair, Rum. I lost my mother before all of this. Everyone I knew when we moved here from Melbourne. And after? I've seen countless friends die, some pulled apart right in front of me. I'm so sorry about Bailey. I can't imagine what you must be feeling now. But let me help you. Please, I love you." She laid her hand over his. A shudder wracked him, his expression melting.

"Belle," he whispered. In the breath of her name she heard apology, pain and aching, aching need. He wouldn't let himself admit he needed her, but he did. Just as she needed him. Pain bottled in her throat, Belle drew him into a crushing embrace, lips peppering his stubbled cheek, his ear, his hair. A couple hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

"Belle, my darling Belle , I love you so. . ." he wove the words together in a psalm as rough hands reached for her clothing. The heat from their argument transmuted into something sweeter.

"Rum," she breathed, aflame with desire. The ache was for that sweet moment when he entered her and their hearts hammered so close to each other, so achingly close to being one. Belle yanked his shirt over his head, throwing it aside. His own fingers flew over the buttons of hers, the clasp of her bra. His mouth met hers, hot and hungry. She drew him down on the hard floor, among a nest of their discarded clothes. Rum ground his pelvis against hers and Belle moaned softly at the feeling of his hot cock through their jeans. She raked her fingernails down his back, hard. Rum sucked in a breath through his teeth, brown eyes ablaze with a potent mix of lust and adoration.

"Mo chroí," he choked out, breath fluttering warm and sweet against her neck.

"Rum, please," she whispered, clawing at their jeans. His hands moved to help and once freed, he rocked against her sex, teasing.

"I don't know how you can love me, but I thank God you do," he said, framing her face between his hands.

"I do, Rum. I love you," she said, craning her neck up to kiss his chin.

He sighed and eased inside. Belle cried out with him, exquisitely stretched. Their loving was fierce and hungry, a blind affirmation that they were alive, in love, and together.

In the cooling heat that followed, Rum buried his face in her hair and clung to her, his only shelter in the storm. Belle twined her limbs around him. They would be all right. They would make it. Together.

Belle nuzzled close, breathing deep of his scent, and Rum's fingers toyed with her hair, the both of them drowsing in a precious moment of peace. Rum heaved a deep sigh, rolling on to rest his head on her chest. The alternating warmth and cool of his breath on her sweat-damp skin was delightful.

"I'm sorry, love. I . . . I scarcely can say how I feel. Bae is gone. I built Storybrooke as a place he could live in when I found him."

"Storybrooke is now a safe place for other children, for people like me," Belle whispered. Rum's dark eyes swam with emotion and he laid his hand over her heart. She shuddered at the sensation of his warm, callused palm on her breast.

"Yes. I'll keep it safe. For you, my darling Belle."

"Oh Rum," Belle said, choked. She drew his head close for a kiss. Their kisses blurred and softened, desire's heat a distant burn. For now, sleep took them.

A loud knock roused her from the gentle dose, Rum groaning where he lay spooned behind her, his arm tightening around her middle.

"Shop's closed. Leave your complaints at the door," Rum quipped through a yawn.

"There's a bit of a situation at the gate, Gold. You should come see this," Kathryn's tone was odd. Energy sang through her, urging her up.

"Walkers?" Rum demanded, both of them rising to dress. Belle rubbed sleep from her eyes and found her jeans under the table, and shoved Rum's shirt toward him. Staggering to her feet, she climbed into her jeans, dragging the weight of her holster and pistol. Once her weapon was snug against her hip, she felt more prepared, even as she untangled her bra. Rum cursed as he struggled into his jeans and Belle hid her smile.

"No, sir. People," Kathryn said through the door, "They say they're from a town called Calais? A place like Storybrooke to hear them tell it."

"Then why are they here?" Belle wondered aloud. Now dressed, Rum reassembled his pistol, tamped in a loaded magazine, racked one into the chamber, and tucked it in its holster—all with startling speed and dexterity. Belle bit her lip against a pulse of arousal.

"Let's find out what they want," Rum said, grabbing his cane.

Outside, Storybrooke was seething nest of activity, like an upset anthill. This morning their energies had been focused inward, on repair and recovery. Now Storybrooke gathered to face another possible threat. Kathryn, Fred, Snow, and a dozen others of their fiercest and sharpest formed up behind Rum.

"Have they identified themselves? How well are they armed?" Rum asked, leading the group towards the gate.

"Roughly a dozen, and they're all seasoned. Decent arms, nothing military-grade though. Except for the big blond fella, he's military, you can tell. Plus he's got a fucking sword," Fred said. Being ex-military himself, Fred was as good a judge as any.

"They'd have to be strong to make it this far," Belle said.

"Eyes on all of them, find a mark and stick to it. We'll be ready if this turns ugly," Rum said, as he set his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.

"And if it doesn't? What do we do with them?" Snow asked, knocking an arrow in her bow.

Rum mustered the curling dragon's smirk.

"We'll see what their worth first, Mrs. Nolan," he said.

Phil loped toward them, speckled with grease up to the elbow and brandishing an M16.

"The gate's buttoned up tight, Gold. Nothing less than a tank will break through."

"Good work, Mr. Chevalier," Rum said and the look of mutual respect between them made Belle smile. The brief good feeling carried her past where Rum had nearly fallen to his death the night before. They were together and strong. They could face what was beyond the wall.

Belle scaled the ladder behind Rum. Atop the wall, Kathryn shoved a battered rifle into her hands. Belle nodded to her, winding the strap around her fist and settling the rifle against her shoulder. The people below stood ranged in formation, their dented blue van behind them. The leader was a large blond man with a goatee, decked in body armor. In his gloved hands was a battered machine gun. Rum or Phil would know exactly what it was, but Belle was distracted by the longsword he wore across his back, just like Fred said.

She glanced at the rest of the group: there were a couple old men, two children, three women in their mid-twenties, and a young man who stood oddly stooped. Was he injured?

A tense moment passed as the two groups sized each other up. If this was their show of strength, their leader was doing the lion's share, Belle thought.

"I am Mr. Gold, mayor of Storybrooke. Who are you and why are you here?" Rum shouted without preamble. Of all things, the blond man cracked a crooked grin.

"I'm Samson, and this is my group. We built a place like this not far from here. The herd tore through our town, and the fire took what was left. We're good people, and we'll contribute." Samson's group was armed, but none of them seemed to have the strength or desire to lift them in their direction.

"Why should we trust you?" Kathryn said.

"Trust is too much to ask, wouldn't you agree? Tolerance would be easier to swallow," Samson said.

"Well said," Rum replied.

"Thank you." A husky female voice joined the mix and Belle swiveled to find a woman easing from the van on Samson's arm. Massively pregnant, the olive-skinned woman leaned heavily on Samson. A glance at her leg found it crudely splinted. Belle's heart went out to her. They did need help. The woman's vividly green eyes scanned the wall, settling on Rum.

"Storybrooke is the first good place we've seen in a long time. My name is Eleanor. I was a doctor, before. I can help you. We can help each other."

"Plus, we could have killed you if we wanted to," said a soft voice in Belle's ear. Sucking in a gasp, she swiveled and stared into a grotesquely deformed face. Beneath a shock of red hair, a bony protuberance bulged one eye out, his jaw was too small, the nose caved in. Their man wasn't injured, but a hunchback, bent almost double by his twisted spine. The pistol looked like a child's toy in his massive hands. The sharp jolt of fear made her heart pound, hands trembling slightly on the rifle.

"Take one more step big guy, and I'll drop you," Rum snarled, voice hushed with menace. The man limped back and spread his hands.

"No need for violence. From the looks of it, you guys had it just as rough as we did. We need each other. We need people to survive this. I'm Quincy by the way."

"Quinn, you've proved your point. Get down here before these good people decide to shoot you," Eleanor said. Quincy descended the wall as deftly as a monkey. At the woman's signal, the group dropped their weapons and spread their hands. Belle swallowed hard. Excitement, fear, and wariness warred within her. Either they were good people, or very talented liars. Rum surely would be able to tell the difference.

"Give us an hour to consider it," Rum said, every inch the warlord in his icy tone and brittle posture. Quincy's trick had rattled him.

"Of course," Eleanor said. Samson helped her back into the van and the rest of the group formed a loose semi-circle as they settled to wait.

Storybrooke's defenders clustered on walkway, conversing in hushed tones.

"I think they're full of shit, especially after the stunt they pulled," a grizzled vet named Thomas said.

"The woman seemed sincere," Snow said.

"They could be lying," Kathryn said.

"They could be telling the truth," Belle countered.

"It's Schrodinger's hunchback," Rum quipped dryly with a wave of his hand, "they could do damage enough if their intent was less than pure, but they could also be invaluable allies. Samson wouldn't risk his pregnant woman's life. The rest rely on Samson, and Samson relies on Eleanor. We will take them in and watch. And if the hunchback makes a move for Belle again, shoot him." Rum shouldered past Fred and grasped Belle by the shoulders.

"Are you all right?" he asked, every inch of him vibrating with restrained energy. Belle squeezed his hand on her shoulder. There had been no malice in Quincy's green eyes, only earnest appeal and gentleness.

"I'm fine. He meant no harm, Rum. He could have killed me if he wanted." Rum's jaw fired.

"You're too understanding for your own good," he said.

"I'm with you, aren't I?" Belle fired back with a cheeky grin.

Rum chuckled, then quickly sobered.

"Are you sure you can close the gate once we open it, Mr. Chevalier?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," Phil said, squinting at the controls through his glasses, "we only had a problem because the idiot before me didn't lubricate the-"

"It was a yes or no question, Chevalier. Open it please."

"Sure thing," Phil said, cracking his knuckles.

The wall shuddered beneath their feet as the gate opened. The group shuffled in as their group descended the ladder. Belle felt a sense of déjà vu upon seeing the huddled group facing the watchful, armed might of Storybrooke.

"Welcome to Storybrooke," Belle said. Samson gave a short bow.

"A pleasure. I hope Quinn didn't scare you. He's been climbing since he was a kid, I took a risk that you wouldn't shoot him."

"He's lucky. It isn't wise to sneak up on people these days," Belle said with a smile.

"True," Samson replied. Rum began his opening spiel.

"You may keep your weapons, with the understanding that we keep ours. Also, we will require the use of your vehicle. I will assign your duties tomorrow once you're rested. Miss Arlind, please help me escort Miss Eleanor to Dr. Whale. He'll take a look at that leg." With a wink to her, Rum ushered them off with a gesture. Deft of him, isolating the group's de facto leader under the guise of giving her care. If this went south, as she knew Rum always planned for, she would be a useful hostage. Samson trotted after her, like an obedient puppy.

The gate slammed home with a resounding crash, and Belle turned to say something to Phil as he stepped off the ladder. Something in his expression worried her. He looked pale, like he'd seen a ghost.

"Phil? Are you ok?" Snow said. He tilted his head this way and that, as if trying to clear his vision.

"Chevalier," Rum said, frowning.

Belle followed his gaze toward one of the newcomers, a young woman with a riot of red-brown hair. The hair on the back of Belle's neck prickled and she grabbed Rum's hand, motioning to Snow for silence. It couldn't be. Before the world ended, Aurora had been in a coma from a car accident. There was no way she could've-

"Rory?" Phil whispered, his voice cracking over the singular syllable. Tears welled and fell from unblinking eyes, as if he didn't wish to wake from the dream. The girl stood from where she bent gathering supplies from the van. She glanced around to find the source of her name. Such a lovely girl, Belle thought. That long wild hair, blue eyes, a wry quirk to her mouth. She froze, grocery bags falling from nerveless fingers and spilling their contents on the asphalt.

"Phil?" she breathed.

"Oh my God. I thought you were—that we had-"Phil was incoherent, face twisted in mingled joy and disbelief. Watching them stagger toward each other was like watching magnets collide. Tears flooded Belle's eyes. Their embrace was fierce, tumbling to the ground as Phil's knees buckled. Aurora petted Phil's face, and Phil kissed the tears from her cheeks. Sweet words of reunion flew, in between joyful sobs. Belle squeezed Rum's hand, she saw the ghost of his smile and felt a fist of tension within her relax. She knew seeing such a reunion touched close to Bae's loss, but the bittersweet note to his expression revealed no resentment. Belle leaned against Rum's shoulder. Everything would be all right. They could make it, as long as they had each other.