22I own much. I do not own Once Upon a Time, more's the pity, though I'm making a bid to own at least a bit of the lore with this story... Set before 'Skin Deep,' this story is dually inspired by the show and Paul Byrom's song "If I Could Cry," though this latter inspiration won't truly be showing its head until the second chapter. Funny how inspiration works, isn't it? I meant to write about tears and got sidelined into dreams instead. Anyhow, please read and review! Reviews are my happy ending ~
Gold wandered.
It was woods, this time. The trees around him soared up, a canopy that barely admitted there was a sky, much less a sun. It was raining up there, probably; water was dripping down all around, making flat splashes on the broad leaves of the undergrowth - hellebore, Jack-in-the-pulpit, other plants that Rumple couldn't identify.
Huh. When did that happen? he asked himself. It was Mr. Gold dreaming, he knew that much, because he had been Mr. Gold when he went to sleep, but it was undoubtedly Rumpelstiltskin who stood there being dreamed of. His skin was green, for one thing.
But that didn't perturb him. He was often Rumpelstiltskin when he dreamed. It had used to be disturbing to his human self, but by now he was accustomed to it. No, what perturbed him was the same thing that always perturbed him in his dreams: that he was dreaming.
Monsters don't dream. He was a monster. A card-carrying member of the Oogy-Boogy club, if, in fact, there had been such a club and they were so prosaic as to issue cards. That was a fact of life; had been ever since he'd picked up that thrice-damned dagger. And whatever else characterized monsters, the fact remained that monsters do not dream.
And yet here he was, dreaming.
He looked about him as he walked, peering into thickets, glancing behind trees, searching out the source of every sound. He didn't know what he was looking for, but his dream-self felt the urgency of it, that he had to know, had to find… something.
When had he begun dreaming again? He searched back through his memory.
All the time he had been Mr. Gold, he had been able to dream. How long was that? His waking self was fuzzy on that score; then again, to his waking self, everything was fuzzy. Part of the curse. He was still sharper than everyone else, excepting, probably, the queen, though Regina had never let slip that she knew more than she could be expected to know. Hah, as if that were any clue - Gold kept his own counsel and knew that the queen, his old rival, his old adversary, his old enemy, did the same. He would forget this dream when he awoke, as he always did, as he always forgot about the curse when he was awake, but the sense of it would still be there, waiting in his subconscious for the next time he slept.
And so, as he wandered, and his dream-body searched, Rumpelstiltskin thought. How long have I been able to dream?
It had started before the curse. Of that much, he was quite certain. He could remember waking up, magic-less and desperate in that cave of a cage, grasping for the whisps of dream-smoke as they vanished into the ether, the only escape those bars of iron afforded. He had dreamed then, he knew. But had he dreamed before?
Memory is tricky. Memory of another world, another life, trickier still. Memory trying to sneak out the back window of a mind with a curse on it, firmly ensconced within it, trickiest of all. One can't grab, naughty-naughty, hands to yourself and be patient young Rumple…
His dream-self smiled. Once the parlance started coming back, his old habits of speech and thought, memory recall couldn't be far behind.
His steps brought him through a thicket of flowers. Raspberry blooms, small stars nodding their heads as fat yellow bees hummed about the thorns, helping themselves, beside lily of the valley, white blossoms dangling all in a row like church bells; pretty, many-petaled asters claiming their corner while a wild rose bush sprawled in pride-of-place alongside the path, her pink flowers seeming to nod him down the trail. It wasn't here, the thing he was looking for, but the flowers sparked a hint of a thought.
Rumple followed the path, desperately holding himself back from lunging at that gossamer thread of memory, watching the roses as they passed beyond him.
Roses. Wild roses. Red roses. A single, red rose… on a table…
He knew that image. It was no phantasm of a dream, it had been real. It had been… a memory. A cherished memory. A monster has something he can cherish?
Rumple stopped, closed his eyes. Let the scent of damp flowers and wet woods wash across him, teasing his hair back. His table. It had been his table. A hand held the rose, not his, not green, not thick, not male…
And then the thought failed him. He hurtled after it, but it was gone. Dream-smoke. His disappointment threatened to wake him up, but Rumple calmed himself, soothed his sleeping body down, back to the dream. He didn't want to wake yet. Still so much to do!
He executed a hop and a twirl, settling his mind back down into the thought-track of Rumpelstiltskin, then shook his head in disgust at himself. He'd never had to caper for himself, not back in the real world, in the land of fairy tales. Others, yes, absolutely. A goblin cutting a jig could name his own terms. A green-skinned orc playing the fool set everyone who encountered him back on their heels as their minds scrambled to hand them a script for this ludicrousness. It kept people off-balance. It kept them wondering.
It kept them at arms' length and out of his business, is what it did. A strange body doing strange things - they cut Deals they'd later regret, just so they could get out of his weird company. Did wonderful things for his business. Not so wonderful for his personal life.
And with that thought, it all came flooding back.
Belle!
Anguish seared his soul, and he cried out, falling to his knees there in the middle of the wet loam.
Belle!
How could he have forgotten her? Even for an instant, even under the curse, how could he have forgotten?
Belle!
His agony ripped through him like a lightning bolt, rending him speechless and immobile.
And then settled down, in the pit of his stomach, a throbbing ache that was as familiar to him as his own hand. He had mourned her. He remembered that now. Her loss. Her death. He'd… not come to terms, no. Accepted it, maybe. That he would never see her face again. That she was gone. That her face was a mere memory, that he could only see here, in his dreams.
How long have I been dreaming?
Since her.
A monster didn't dream. But with her… With her, he had been a man.