22Credit goes to natural-blue-26 for the inspiration for the last section of this. My muse is very susceptible to suggestion, and much was provided. Thanks! There are probably going to be some AU bits once the show fills in backstory, but in the meantime, I'm going to have fun mucking about with the characters and their history. I don't own OUAT, but I'll gladly lay claim to this version of Rumple. I'm getting rather attached. Once again, please review! Reviews are my happy ending.
Rumpelstiltskin wandered far and wide. Maybe. In a dreamscape, these things are flexible, and he wasn't really paying attention. He was remembering. Belle. His love. Lost to him… was it thirty years? Or just months? Or days? Dream time and curse time combined to disorient his sense of time, until he wasn't quite sure which end was up. Except that his feet were down there, and his head was above them, so up had to be that way, and wasn't he glad to have that sorted out?
He snorted. Oh, yes, very glad. The imp in him was just thrilled. Peachy.
Damn you, Regina, he thought. "Damn you, your Majesty!" Damn the woman who had tricked him out of his love, who had gloated over the shards of his heart. Damn the woman who had stolen that which was most precious to him! And damn, damn, damn her for cursing them all and stealing even Belle's memory from him! He'd lost all else; how could he bear to lose that as well?
"How could you!" he howled. "How could you! How could you lose her?" he screamed, as his wrath switched targets from the ethereal to one closer to hand. "How could you send her away? She loved you! You beast, you monster, she loved you! You loved her! But you stupid, stupid, arrogant imp, goblin, beast - you knew better! You knew better, didn't you! You killed her! You killed her…" he broke off with a sob, pounding his fist against a tree trunk. "I killed her…"
His storm of self-loathing abated, and Rumple rubbed his hand across his dry, red eyes, cursing, not for the first time, not for the last, that monsters couldn't cry.
It had been…decades, perhaps more, since he'd been able to shed tears. Since before his transformation. It had been a relief, at first; with his new power, no more cowardice, no more cringing, no more blubbering in fear in small corners. Now he caused men to tremble, to soil themselves, to unman themselves with womanly tears. Nevermore would such water pour from his eyes…!
But he could not cry when he lost his son.
Power comes at a cost, and that day, Rumpelstiltskin learned another thing that his power had cost him. He could not grieve, as a father ought to properly grieve for his son. He could storm and rage and wail and curse, but he could not cry. He could mope and mourn, sink into the earth until even his immortal powers struggled to keep him alive, but he could not cry. He could wreak havoc and destruction, but all that was cured by a snapping of fingers, easy, simple; and still, he could not cry.
Even as Mr. Gold, even in human form, on a magic-less plane where all happily-ever-afters were in permanent standby, even there, he could not cry. Dr. Whale said it was a medical condition, called it dry-eye, gave him drops and a good-luck handshake. But he could not cry; still, he could not cry.
Even here, in a dream, neither man nor monster but a phantom of both. His face went tight, the breath shook in his chest, his lungs heaved for air. His muscles grew weak until he could not stand, could only sink, could only sob, but they were dry sobs and no relief could be had from them. He could not, could not cry.
Rumpelstiltskin swallowed hard and rose, brushing the loam from his clothing, tying back his hair with a leather thong that appeared so-conveniently in his pocket, binding it out of his eyes. He ran his cool palm across his face. Were he a human, it would be red from the emotional storm; as a goblin, he was only a slightly yellower shade of green.
As he was shaking his outer appearance back into order, his dream-self was noting his surroundings. He could almost - almost - recognize the place. He'd been here before. Not… not waking, but in dreams.
He stared about him, noting the vaguely familiar landmarks, the particular angle of shadows, the way the moss grew here and not there. And he followed the pull on his gut, as if a thread were tied beneath his diaphragm and someone on the other end was pressing the treadle to draw him in.
Footsteps never faltering, he made his way off of the trail, the undergrowth whispering about his waist as he waded through it, the raindrops that lay glistening on the leaves dampening his trousers. The soft chuckle of a stream grew louder and then faded to a whisper as he bypassed the main body, following instead a tributary, if such a shallow, meandering gathering of water could be called that, up to its source among the moss and the rocks on a hillside. He was forced to use his hands to climb, to steady his boots against sliding on this slick surface. Up there. The thing he sought was up there, just ahead, just… there.
The cave mouth caught him by surprise, as he reached for the next handhold but didn't find it, having to scramble as forward momentum propelled him upward regardless of the lack of purchase. He lay facedown on the floor, hands outstretched before him, before pushing to his feet and continuing forward.
It wasn't far, down, and in a few turnings. The sounds disappeared behind him, as did the light, but that didn't matter; the way was lit by phosphorescing mushrooms, glowing an eldritch blue along the ceiling and floor. His feet led him, surefooted, along the passageway, and even his thinking self was united with his dream self as both yearned toward the end of the quest.
He came out into a cave; too large to be a nook, too small to be a cavern. It held at its center a pool of water, glowing bright blue from the mushrooms that grew beneath its surface, reflecting ever shifting, ever shimmering patterns on the walls and ceiling. Three hexagonal stones led from the edge to the pool's middle, where there rose a waist-high plinth, made of the purest crystal and shining with magic. The air rang with the soft chimes of bells, and in those small sounds, Rumple heard the voice of his lost love.
"Where are you...? Where are you...? Rumple? Where are you…?"
"Belle?" He whispered it. It wasn't her, it couldn't be her, but he knew her voice. It could only be her. "Belle?"
"…belle…" whispered back his echo. "…belle…"
His first step onto the stepping stones was hesitant. He didn't know what he would see here. His second, one of trepidation. Did he want to know what was here? His third, fearful. What was it…?
He turned his eyes downward, and fell to his knees on the stone steps beside the crystal, hands splayed against its hard, unyielding sides, trying against all logic to shove his way in.
For inside the crystal, Belle hung suspended. Not in sleep, but in grief, curled around herself, tears frozen to her cheeks. A single drop of moisture clung to the tip of her right eyelash. Her lips were parted in a sob. Her knees were drawn up to her belly, her right arm holding them tight, her left hand stretched out above her, to the roof of her prison, as if she could sense Rumple there. His hand hovered over hers, pushing down, down, a frustrating half inch of hard, solid glass between his flesh and hers.
"Belle!" he cried aloud. "Belle!" As if she could hear him, as if she could respond. But she looked so real, so lifelike - so alive - that he couldn't help himself. He shouted her name until his voice was raw, hammered at her crystal prison - tomb? - until his hands were bruised and bloody.
"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."
With raw, red eyes, Rumpelstiltskin looked up into the face of the queen. He shifted his body, so that he was between her and Belle. "What are you doing here, your Majesty?" he demanded, hoarsely.
"Moi?" The black-clad seductress touched her décolletage innocently. "I come as you have always come - at the extremity of distress, the apex of desperation, the climax of despair - to offer you a Deal."
He looked her up and down, wariness turning to weariness. "This is a dream," he said, sitting down beside Belle. His Storybrooke brogue slipped back into his voice. "You're not actually here. You bloody well sound like me, or how I used to. Funny; I'd have thought my subconscious would be smarter than that."
The dark haired woman stepped closer, so close to the edge of the pool that he could see the blue light flickering in the depths of her eyes. "Perhaps it's all part of the game, Rumple. Make you doubt, play with your head. After all, who knows you better than I?"
"She would have. If we'd have had the time." Rumple ran the back of his fingers down the crystal block, caressing it in lieu of his love.
"You could still have it." The voice of the queen was like oil on glass. "She's not dead you know. Just in storage. Make a Deal with me and I can tell you how to rescue her."
Rumple looked up sharply. "Not dead? You mean…she's alive?"
"Goodness, you're stupid. 'Not dead' necessarily means 'alive.' Though more like hibernation, in her case. Such a long sleep…" She had crossed the stones and was now standing across from Rumpelstiltskin, leaning on the crystal block and drawing casual designs on the dry surface with a fingertip. "It's one of my specialties, you know."
Rumple batted her hand away in annoyance. "So I've heard. How do I save her?"
A predatory smile crossed her lips. "Ah. So you're willing to Deal for it, eh? Well, well, well, that was easier than I thought it would be. What will the terms be, then?"
Before she could get started, Rumple cut her off. "Nothing. You owe me, Majesty, and I'm calling in the favor. Tell me how to save her."
The queen laughed. "Are you sure you want to use that promise up on this? Such a valuable commodity, the favor of a sorceress and a queen. Do you really think she's worth it?"
The goblin snorted. "Aye. She's worth it. She's worth more than you, your curse, and all your happy endings put together. How's that working out, by the way? Happy, are you?"
Regina hissed, the queen's persona dropping away like a cheap coat. "You're lucky I don't just leave right now, Gold."
"But you wo-on't," teased Rumpelstiltskin, his fairy-tale voice back. He leaned on his elbows and waggled his fingers at her. "You're too tempted by the chance to clear the books."
Regina scowled, turned to go, then turned back with a sharp exhalation. "Fine," she said, doing the refined version of angry spitting she'd perfected in her days as a noble. "I tell you how to free her, and you cancel our former Deal? I owe you nothing?"
"Yep," answered the goblin, popping his lips on the final 'p.' "Is it a Deal?"
"It's a Deal," she said. And smiled. A cat-with-feathers-on-its-jowls smile.
And Rumpelstiltskin felt like the boat he was in had suddenly sunk right out from underneath him.
"How do you save her? Why it's simple, dear Rumple," said the queen in her sing-song voice. "You just have to cry. One tear from your eye melts that block and sets her free. Ta-ta."
She sashayed away, down the tunnel.
Rumpelstiltskin screamed after her, "Regina! Regina, you tricked me! You tricked me, you witch! Bring her back, damn you, bring her back! Reginaaaaa!" He flung himself after her retreating form, but she waved a hand back over her shoulder and the tunnel closed up, new earth forming right in front of him. He couldn't get through.
He ran back to the pool and the plinth, but they weren't there. The light had gone out, and everywhere he felt it was earth; dry, choking earth that closed in on him, pressing against his chest, closing up his lungs, squeezing him so hard that he couldn't move even a finger…!
And Gold awoke, sweating, panting, his nighttime thrashing having tangled his sheets around him so tightly that he was threatened with suffocation by his own linens.
He remembered the dream, as clearly as crystal. He remembered his name. He remembered what he was.
Freeing himself, not even noticing the all-too human hands that were doing the work, the pawnbroker went to his cabinet, the place where he kept all his precious treasures.
For twenty-eight years, his mind had been fuzzy. He would look at these objects occasionally and wonder, what were they to him, that he kept them safe? Most times he forgot the thought as soon as he had it. Sometimes, a fragment of a dream would rise to the surface as he looked on his things, teasing him with hidden knowledge. There is something wrong, here, his mind would whisper. Something isn't right. Look around. Don't you see it? Who are you? Who are you?
Who am I?
"I am Rumpelstiltskin."
That felt right. He tried it again, rolling the syllables around in his mouth, with a tongue that didn't form the sounds correctly. The wrong accent. The wrong speech. Regina had stolen that from him as well. "Rumpelstiltskin. Rumpelstiltskin. Rrrr-um-pelstiltskin!" he said, trying a slight caper that only made him feel foolish.
Shaking his head, he attempted it again, a grin and a leap, followed by startlement and a near-fall as his foot landed sideways rather than flat. He grabbed his desk for stability, and the move brought his eyes directly level with a blue and white porcelain cup with a chip along the rim.
Gold reached out for it. He'd treasured it, as a memento of the girl he'd once employed in his shop, who had a penchant for dropping things but had brought sunshine into his life. They'd had an argument - he couldn't remember over what - and she'd left. Taken her car and just... driven off. Never to be heard from again. It was a memory, but, not a memory. A curse-memory.
Belle…
He remembered Belle, the real Belle. Everything he'd done, everything he'd said. Everything he'd felt. A monster could feel love, he'd proved that. A monster could feel anything.
And now, this monster felt hatred. Regina was behind this. Regina was behind all of this. How she must laugh, seeing all her pawns wandering around like puppets, their minds hers to control! She must have taken especial pleasure with him, erasing his mind and his memories like a hyperactive child given an etch-a-sketch. Even his precautions, those few days of warning he'd had, to marshal his magic and his memories, hadn't been enough to save him from her curse. He'd been her dupe.
No more, Regina. I'll not play your game by your rules. Rumpelstiltskin is back.
But how to play this out…?
What's different? I've dreamed before. For twenty-eight years, I've dreamed. That same dream, or most of it, the beginning. Why can I remember it now? What brought the dream to its end? What is new?
The question answered itself. Emma.
The new girl in town. The only new person who had ever come to town. Somehow…somehow, she was the key. Regina's power was slipping, and Emma was part of it.
Gold carried Belle's cup with him to his living room. He pulled a chalice - the Holy Grail? maybe, who cared - off of his mantelpiece. He pressed his lips to the cool porcelain before placing his most prized possession in pride-of-place, at the center of his home. At the center of his heart.
He vowed vengeance on Regina. She would pay. She would pay for everything.
But as he looked at that lonely cup, small and incongruous against the heavy mahogany backdrop, Mister Gold felt his heart breaking.
He raised his hand to brush his hair back from his face, and then held it out, looking at his fingers with mild surprise.
They were wet.
He was crying.
And somewhere within him, the imp was crying too. Belle. Belle, hold on. I'm coming for you…