This story was submitted as part of the Clementine Discord Server's Valentine’s Masquerade of '25. You can read it on ao3 here. Content warnings in the tags.
--
Fifteen minutes before Ronald Weasley was due to arrive at Presque L’amour for the most important Valentine’s Day dinner of his life, his floo erupted with an emerald flame.
“Ron? Where—oh, there you are.”
He froze, clad in only a dress shirt and pants, clutching an iron above his wrinkled trousers.
“Hermione, I’m not decent!” Ron squawked, but she batted away his trouserless outcry. “Now’s not a great time—.”
“Conmenticius Amorem!”
Ron blinked. “Er, who’s what?”
Hermione huffed, “A curse, Ron. Draco Malfoy’s not in love with you. He’s cursed.”
Ron straightened, put the iron down, and assessed her. Shadows wreathed Hermione’s eyes.
“It's known as 'Cupid's Arrow,'” she continued. “It pierces a target and causes them to instantly fall in love with the next person they see.”
“Herm,” Ron groaned, “I know you don’t believe Draco's changed—.”
“He hasn’t changed, Ron. Your Draco doesn’t exist .” Her words stabbed deeper than a dagger to the heart. “Didn’t you ever find it strange? How quickly everything changed? How quickly he changed—falling for Ronald Weasley, of all people?”
“Thanks.”
“It never made sense,” Hermione insisted, rifling through her handbag. “And, deep down, you knew it too.”
She sighed. “Remember when he collapsed? At our reunion?”
Ron needed to sit down. How could he forget? That bizarre evening changed his life.
He went from making small talk at the bar one second to dashing, as fast as his long legs allowed, to catch a crumpling Draco Malfoy the next.
Malfoy showed his gratitude for Ron’s heroism by generously luring him to the nearest hotel for a night of “Interhouse Bonding.”
Afterwards, Malfoy started making random appearances to whisk Ron away: dinners, holidays, quidditch matches. A few months later, Ron gave up the pretense of keeping Draco at arm’s length.
Eventually, he let himself fall for the absurd man.
Hermione pulled out her mobile. “I got the tape from that night. Look.”
He did. Ron witnessed the moment a flash of light hit Draco square in the back. He watched his past self leap into action to catch the man before he hit the ground. He saw the shadow pass over Draco’s face: a disgusted sneer melting into something softer, something magical. Ron put down the mobile.
“You see, Ron? He is cursed. He doesn’t—.”
“Love me,” Ron murmured, “Yeah, I see it, now.”
Hermione’s thrill at being validated quickly cooled. “Oh, Ron.”
Ron shook his head. “Is there a cure?” Hermione, uncharacteristically quiet, nodded. He mimicked her nod and tugged at the hem of his dress shirt.
“Yeah,” Ron cleared his throat. “Er, just after I put my trousers on.”
Hermione spoke gently. “Ron, don’t go to him.”
Ron couldn’t look at her. “Why?”
“Because it isn’t real.” Her words sank in his chest like a stone.
Ron slumped back against the wall behind him.
“Then,” his voice trembled, “Herm, what do I do?”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me tell him.”
It was hard for him to breathe. “I should do it.”
“Maybe,” Hermione admitted. “But, I’m offering.”
She only needed a reluctant nod before she disappeared in a verdant flash. Ron staggered over to his sports coat hanging on the coat rack and reached into the inside pocket.
The velvet box in his palm made his hand look gigantic, his grandad’s wedding band nestled inside. Stubborn pieces of lint from Ron’s sock drawer clung to the box from months of waiting for the right moment to emerge.
Ella Fitzgerald crooned “Funny Valentine” from Ron’s wireless into the quiet flat. He unplugged the iron.
Honestly, he should have seen it coming, but with how good everything had been lately, he just hadn’t thought of it. Maybe he just didn’t want to think of it.
Bumlets slowly sat down next to Swifty on the floor in front of the bed that had become his in the last month, putting a hand on his shoulder, not sure if he’d seen him with how he was hiding his face between his pulled-up knees. “Vince? Are you okay?”
“You know what day it is.”
So not okay then. “It’s not much different from what we practiced. I know you’ll control it, and just in case something happens I can easily defend myself, we talked about this.” Bumlets kept his voice calm and steady, wanting to coax the other boy out of his defensive shell. It was only a matter of time until he had confront what would happen, and they’d trained a lot for this.
“It’s different. It forces me to transform, not just- not just like when you help me. I- last time I attacked you-“
“Last time we didn’t know each other yet. You were scared.” Bumlets slung an arm around Swifty’s shoulders to pull him close. “And you didn’t hurt me at all.”
“Just because you’re a wizard, but I didn’t know that, anyone else I would’ve hurt-“
“But you didn’t.” Finally deciding to forcefully pull his head out of the defensive position, Bumlets grabbed both of Swifty’s cheeks, looking him in the already bloodshot hazel eyes, tears threatening to run down his face. “It was your first time transforming, you were scared, you got new instincts and didn’t want to be hurt yourself. It’s not your fault and nothing happened, Vincent.”
Now exactly one moon cycle ago, Bumlets had been interrupted at his midnight-full-moon-collecting of herbs by a large wolf running through his garden, startling as he saw him and snapping in his direction, clearly confused and scared. Bumlets had tried to calm it and get closer, assuming an injury, almost getting bit if it hadn’t been for his magic shielding his skin. The problem here had been, that the wolf wasn’t just that, but a werewolf, Swifty, to be exact, after he’d turned the first time.
He’d seen it as he got closer, seen the too human eyes, felt the too strong river of thoughts running through the creature, using a weaker, non-specific spell to communicate with him at least enough to make him understand that he’d be safe here, that he could hide here until morning if he needed to.
Bumlets wasn’t sure why Swifty had agreed, he hadn’t asked, but the next morning he’d found Swifty as he was now, curled in on himself and scared, but trusting him enough to not run far away.
It was easier to explain when they could both use words properly, and he’d found that Swifty never knew he was a werewolf until that transformation, having not grown up with his biological parents, so naturally, he’d been panicked. Then he’d also apologized over and over for attacking him, no matter that nothing happened, and of course Bumlets had told him he had nothing to apologize for.
Instead he’d offered him to stay, if he wanted. As a wizard, Bumlets had ressources to help him with transformations – not to mention knowledge on things and spells to protect himself – and in the forest there wouldn’t be anyone else he could potentially injure. “There’s no one around for a few miles and I can protect myself. I can help you try to control it, if you want.”, he’d said.
And had gotten a new roommate since.
It had been nice, too nice, everything going great and them getting along well, so of course it had to go worse again, to where they were now, Swifty terrified of what he might do, even though they had trained, even practiced the transformation without the full moon – which allowed clearer thoughts and control of one’s actions.
But it only made sense Swifty was still afraid.
“Let’s go downstairs into the garden. No matter what happens, it’ll be better outside.”
Bumlets just pulled him up as Swifty nodded, holding onto his arm and wiping at his eyes. “Sorry for being a mess.”
“You have every reason to be one.” He opened the door to the back, the last rays of sunlight already having disappeared, the flowers and herbs already in the dark. “It’s not something you knew of until a month ago and it changes you, completely, you have every reason to be afraid.”
Swifty just nodded and let himself be led near the stone fence, where Bumlets stopped. “Do you want me to stay close? Or- I could hold you. I just want to help when it happens.”
As much as Swifty was still scared of what he could do, of how he could hurt Bumlets in particular, he’d feel even worse if there was only the dark, cold garden here to comfort him. “Please.”
He wasn’t sure how long he still had, how hight the full moon was, but he did his best to ignore it, head lying on Bumlets’ lap while his eyes were closed. He could feel the sensations starting, slowly, much less intense than what had happened a month ago, but not of his own volition like the last few times he’d practiced it here.
“How long?”
“Maybe half an hour at most until the highest point. Don’t resist it, all will be okay.”
He kept trying to stay calm while Bumlets pet his head, soothing words and touches all around him. It was possible that the wizard also helped with spells, but he didn’t care, just trying to not get overwhelmed, limbs twitching now, waiting for what was inevitable.
When it came, it was sudden, almost surprising, making him roll off Bumlets’ lap to the grass, not fighting what was about to change him, that would only worsen the pain and make him slip somewhere into the instincts and far away from control.
“How do you feel?”, he heard, minutes later, the sensations ebbing down, having done what they aimed, leaving him a wolf, with no way to turn back until the sun turned up again. Getting on his four feet, he looked up, seeing Bumlets much clearer now in the dark, the slight blue hinting at his magic being used shining from his eyes, but not keeping his distance from him, as dangerous as he could be.
As he couldn’t answer, he just nudged Bumlets’ hand with his head, relieved to find his head mostly clear, no panic from last month left, though the new instincts and senses overwhelmed him still.
Swifty laid his head back on Bumlets’ lap, just wanting to close his eyes to at least not have to see anything, the new sounds of the surrounding forest and smells of the garden already enough.
“I told you we’d be fine. Just get used to it in your own time, I’ll be here.”
Swifty didn’t move from his spot much the entire night, and even after finally turning back, he just fell asleep in the same position again.
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Maurice | Moe French, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Alex (OC)
Additional Tags: AU, Curse gone wrong, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cruelty, Abuse, Triggers, Eventual Smut, Romance, Character Death, Gaston is evil, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform
Summary: Casting a spell, any spell - at least the ones that involve more than just the wave of a hand, or worse, the wave of an irritating fairy’s wand - takes time, and patience, and the right ingredients, and… just like any recipe, if you get it wrong, it doesn’t mean the cake won’t cook, rather then will, just with unexpected or unintended outcomes. All of Rumplestiltskin’s careful planning and manipulation, all of his hopes and dreams turn to dust; ashes in his bitter heart in the blink of an eye… in the fall of an equine heart. Belle exchanges one terrible prison for another, and it’s one she is desperate to escape, and though Rumple’s fate as The Savior was severed from him centuries ago, sometimes fate itself has a way of finding an alternate route home.
The mayor’s office in the town hall was just as he expected it would be; gaudy and overstated, and but for her threats, he would have refused her outright. Whatever mess she’d gotten herself into screwing up the casting of The Curse was hers to straighten out, not his, and he’d be damned before he’d give her a moment more of his time than he had to, after what she’d done to him.
So what if Rumplestiltskin wasn’t stuck in the godforsaken hell hole that called itself Storybrooke? So what if Regina’s leverage, Belle of Avonlea, wasn’t where the queen had planned for her to be, safe and sound in the asylum; hadn’t exchanged one prison for another, and another? That was her problem, not his.
He pouted, feeling as petty and as petulant as he looked as he caught sight of himself in the mirror while he waited for Regina to deign to look up from what she was scribbling on the piece of paper in front of her, as though making him wait gave her even more power over him than she already had.
“Well?”
Regina finally turned around the piece of paper and thrust it in his direction, and Jefferson snatched it up, focusing for a moment on the drawing Regina had made. He tried to school his expression to one of neutrality, even confusion, and not the dread of recognition as he set eyes upon even the first wave at the edge of the drawing. He tried for ‘carelessness’ as he tossed the paper back onto her desk.
“It’s pretty, but I don’t seen what it’s got to do with—” He was surprised he even got that far before she interrupted.
“Don’t play games with me, Jefferson,” she snapped, “I know damn well you understand what it is you were looking at, and why I want it. You spent enough time in the Dark Castle to know th—”
“—that he’d kill the first person that came looking for it. Even me.” He turned and started to head toward the door, his long coat flaring out behind him, but thought better of it, and turning back came to get right up into Regina’s face, almost nose to nose as she stood up from behind her desk. “No,” Jefferson corrected himself, “especially me.”
**
Belle drifted in sleep, in dreams, and they were strange dreams indeed. She was first in a castle with a bizarre little man who spun straw into gold, like in the old folk tales her nurse told to her as a child. Then she was a captive in a dungeon, with a mirror that showed her pain and torment… torture, almost, of one she loved. She couldn’t see his face, the mirror was blurred, or too bright from the torch in the sconce at her back. Odd that she should have one, if she were truly a prisoner.
Prisoner…
The word gnawed at her awareness, clawed at her wounds to open them all again, until she could see her blood running, like rain, from her neck, and hands that pushed at a weight on her body. Hard wood at her back, and nothing but pain, and the rolling grunt of effort becoming a growl of thunder.
Belle woke with a cry, pushing and scrabbling at what covered her before she gained true, yet somehow numb, awareness, and ceased her struggles to the murmur of a soft voice that she recognized but did not know.
What covered her was the softness of a cotton sheet, and the gentle weight of the softest blanket she had ever felt. She opened her eyes. They felt gritty and sore, and she remembered crying. Then she remembered the rain, and the storm… and the gentle strength of arms lifting her from the terrified horse… everything.
With another soft cry she struggled to sit up, the movement sending needles of pain through her back, her belly and…
“Easy, Belle,” the soft voice surrounded her again and she turned her head toward the speaker as Master Rascende moved from the stool he had been sitting on to kneel beside the cot on which she lay. He reached toward her, and she couldn’t help but pull back in avoidance. He froze, but said equally as quietly, “You’re safe. I promise.”
She looked down at her hands. They trembled when she raised them, but she could clearly see that they had been washed and the worst of the cuts on them tended. Her wrists too, where she knew she had been bruised; which had hurt, now she felt only dully, and she could see that she was dressed only in the shift she had worn beneath her dress.
“You…” she tried to speak but her voice was hoarse, her throat painful, and as she watched, Rascende picked up a cup from a nearby table, and offered it to her. She smelled the honey as soon as it was close enough, took it from him and took a sip. The watered honey slipped over her tattered throat, and soothed away the ache. “You did this,” she tried again, and lifted her free hand so that the bandage it held would be visible. “You tended me, cared for me.”
“Yes,” he said. “I did what I could to ease your pain.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, then added in a soft but spoken voice, “Master Rascende—”
He interrupted her. “No need for titles here.”
She stared at him for a long moment, taking him in, properly, perhaps for the first time; the fall of his long brown hair, soft around his face. His deep brown eyes looked into her with all the warmth and concern it seemed the universe possessed, and yet a spark within promised fury, danger held in check behind the serious tension of his lips that were set into a line, as though he were fighting to contain it.
“Here?” she asked softly.
“My home,” he answered. “In Amberley Forest Hollow.”
Her heart started racing as he spoke their location, she struggled to rise, to force her uncooperative body to move. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t far enough away. They would look there for her. It would be among the first places they would seek for her, if Gaston had a mind to recall where he had found her.
“You… you have to… I can’t…” she all but fell as she sat up to swing her legs from the side of the cot as liquid fire burned up into her belly from her core, and down into her legs, making them ache as though she had been standing in frigid water for hours. He caught her as she began to tumble forwards, and she wanted to push back up… push away from him, but something… something in the way he touched her; held her and soothed her with soft sounds that were words and yet not words both at the same time, halted all the trembling tumult inside and instead she clung to him until he wrapped her tightly against him, tucked against his chest, beneath his chin as he moved to sit on the side of the cot, for her comfort, because she wouldn’t let him go.
Even so, she wept, “They’ll find me here, find you and—”
“No,” he assured her on an outgoing breath. “Unless they know exactly where it is, only you, and me, and Alex can find their way into this place, see?”
As he spoke he lifted one arm from around her slender body, and gestured in an arc around them. She felt a sudden… tingling in the air, like the moment a storm breaks and her eyes widened as, in the wake of the movement of his hands, a shimmering of the palest translucent mauve encircled all that she could see of the entire cottage.
Belle gasped softly, but in wonderment, not in fear, as she might well have done. “So it’s true,” she breathed against his chest. She had heard the rumors in the corridors of Amberley Hall, whispered by serving maids and housekeepers. Heard and dismissed them, as pure fancy. Such things weren’t real. Such people, and abilities did not exist, and yet… “You are a sorcerer.”
**
It was the most natural thing in the world for him to reach out and catch her as she began to fall, but his heart still clenched and he expected her to fight him. She didn’t, and relief ran through him so strong that he could have wept from it.
He was, at that moment, such a seething ball of conflicting emotions that it was a wonder that there were not things exploding around them; a testament, he supposed, to the control that centuries as the Dark One had given to him, not to mention his growing mastery, and familiarity, with the magic of this realm.
At her soft words, spoken against his chest, he chuckled softly and all but whispered, “Yes.” He wasn’t going to deny the truth to her. Not now, not ever, he promised himself - even if she still didn’t remember.
The thought pierced his heart, a hot wire of pain edging through him. Did it matter, when she was there and in his arms? He shook the thought away. It would be a kind of a lie. It gave him hope that, in time somehow, something would unlock her memories of their time together at the Dark Castle, before he had banished her in cowardice - and she had been right about that too - and because of his need to keep his power in order to find Baelfire, but… what did that matter now?
The Dark Curse had been miscast. Months wasted, rotting in the Charmings’ little prison, and for what? Nothing! He wasn’t in a world without magic, so he couldn’t find Bae now. But Belle… she was real. She was alive… and she needed him.
“And I will do everything in my power to protect you,” he promised.
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Maurice | Moe French, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Alex (OC)
Additional Tags: AU, Curse gone wrong, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cruelty, Abuse, Triggers, Eventual Smut, Romance, Character Death, Gaston is evil, Graphic depictions of violence
Summary: Casting a spell, any spell - at least the ones that involve more than just the wave of a hand, or worse, the wave of an irritating fairy’s wand - takes time, and patience, and the right ingredients, and… just like any recipe, if you get it wrong, it doesn’t mean the cake won’t cook, rather then will, just with unexpected or unintended outcomes. All of Rumplestiltskin’s careful planning and manipulation, all of his hopes and dreams turn to dust; ashes in his bitter heart in the blink of an eye… in the fall of an equine heart. Belle exchanges one terrible prison for another, and it’s one she is desperate to escape, and though Rumple’s fate as The Savior was severed from him centuries ago, sometimes fate itself has a way of finding an alternate route home.
Read on AO3
[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4]
Chapter 5 - Embrace the Storm
This chapter contains the aftermath of what Gaston did to Belle. It will likely be triggering for many people. If this is likely to be you, please skip to the section after the double asterisks
I was given the prompt: Footman!Gold saves Lady Belle from her runaway carriage. From then on, the House of French looks toward their servant with new eyes. Some aspects of that are now quite different, but follow the spirit, if not the letter of the prompt.
Belle wasn’t one to weep and yet she could not stop the tears.
Everything ached, and she felt wretched and filthy; sick to her stomach. Even the cracking of the fire couldn’t mask the sound of his lips smacking as he ate. He disgusted her. Slowly, she uncurled from the ball by the hearth at which he’d tossed her when he was done and saw him sitting at the head of the long table, sipping red wine from one of the unbroken crystal goblets, and sopping meat juices from his fingers; ignoring the debris that was strewn around the room. His feet were up - his ankles crossed on the corner of the table.
She looked away, down at her hands as she tried to straighten up, then looked away from her broken fingernails, and the cuts on her hands - the bruises at her wrists. For a moment she thought of simply plunging her hands into the fire, pulling out hot coals and carrying them across to grind into his face. It couldn’t possibly hurt more than she already did. She dismissed the thought, not because of any sense of self preservation, but because she knew she wouldn’t get close enough to do him harm. He had overpowered her once, he would do it again.
Belle wasn’t one to run and yet she knew she couldn’t stay.
**
Rumplestiltskin barely retained the presence of mind to grab his cloak before rushing out of the cottage. Overhead through the branches the sky was split by forks of lightning and the clouds were almost visibly gathering, huge and dark, and pregnant with the chill of an icy rain that he could already feel in his heart as though it already soaked his soul.
“NO!” he turned his face to the heavens. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you DARE!
He reached out, embracing the gathering storm, the power in the air and wove it in with his fear and his anger. To think of Belle afraid… in pain… He filling himself with all he needed to reach her, to find her - heal her pain and take away her fear.
**
Ignoring the additional pain that moving caused her, Belle grasped the side of the mantle and used it to draw herself up to her feet; to hold herself in place and to keep her balance until the room stopped spinning. She could do this. She could leave; had to.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Gaston roared at her, and she jumped, but refused to stop moving; refused to answer even if she could have spoken through her cracked and bleeding lips. “Fine then,” he said dismissively as she took another shuffling step, and then another. “Get to bed. I’m done with you… for now.”
Each step felt as though she was being run through by scalding needles. Even breathing hurt and she knew it was going to get worse, before it got better. If it could ever get better. It must. It did, at least by a barest thread, when she closed the heavy door to the hall behind her, shutting him out; no longer able to feel his eyes on her.
**
Her cries again reached him, sharper now, more acute and for a moment, overwhelmed, he lost control, and sight swept over him, confusing images and sounds and scents.
…There was a sound, like thunder only sharper, and the smell of ozone and fire. A weight in his arms, the tightness of tears, loss, a hollow in his chest. “Who’s Belle?” And lights, so bright… so, so bright…
“You won’t take her from me again!” he snarled, and threw up his hands, conjuring a wind that gathered the deep purple smoke of his magic that was all that was left of him in the space outside of the cottage, and scattered it over the landscape like some sick, lurid fog.
And then the rain began.
**
“Oh,” a cry from a voice she knew, one of the older housekeepers, almost broke her resolve. “Oh, Miss Belle!”
She shook her head, then shook of the soft touch that fell against her shoulder.
“Don’t…” she rasped, her throat as broken as the rest of her. “I… I can’t…”
“But Miss…”
She swallowed hard, and shook her head again. “Do as he says… that, and no more. Do not endanger yourselves. I will…” her voice hitched, “Find help.”
She knew it was a lie. Where would she go - save to his father, and what good would that do? He was at the root of this blight on her people, she was certain of it.
“But Miss… you…”
“I’m all right,” she lied again, and pulled herself up to the extent of her height, ignoring the added pain, to walk the rest of the length of hall with as much dignity as her broken form would allow. “Do as I say. Now go. Tell… the others.”
**
**
When he materialized he was in the field outside of Amberley that bordered the road. He cursed himself aloud as the cold wet drops fell in huge splashes against him, against his face. He had focused on Belle, on the feelings he was sharing, her pain, her fear. Why wasn’t he with her? When was the last time he had failed to reach the intended space when he aparated? Then he saw it - saw her. Like a beacon in the storm, emerging from beneath the gatehouse arch, her form limp and listless, lolling on the back of a horse in nothing but her dress - no cloak, nothing to keep her warm and dry.
“Belle?” he murmured, though he knew she could not hear him. A hundred different imagined insults crowded his mind and threatened to crush his heart. He felt suddenly lightheaded from lack of air, began shivering from the cold of the rain in a way he had not for tens of tens of tens of years.
He saw the boiling of clouds above the gate to Amberley as if they were made of smoke from a raging fire, swirling and gathering, turning the air to a sizzling mass of charge in the air.
“No,” he repeated his cry of earlier, to some unseen, imagined thing, already beginning to run toward the road. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you—!”
The crack of discharge was an explosion of sound and light, and power that threw the men and women who were milling in the sudden torrent of increased rain to the ground, as the lightning struck beside the road. It almost took his own feet from beneath him.
The horse that carried Belle screamed and reared. Rumple echoed, heart strangling him, tearing him in two, but somehow Belle held on, a shrill cry of her own joining the cacophony of panic in the instant before the horse bolted.
Rumplestiltskin cursed the finite reach of his grasp on the magic of this realm with its natural vibrations, even with his centuries of experience. He would have to do it the hard way. He ran for the nearest of the mounted guardsmen and leaped at him like some great, wildcat, knocking him from the saddle before somehow righting himself, grasping the reins and spurring the enormous warhorse into motion, wheeling its great head around and spurring him after Belle smaller, but terrified mare.
He leaned down closer to the horse’s neck and urged him on, faster and faster, scattering people on the road who must barely have found their feet again after the uncontrolled flight of Belle’s horse. Their anger drifted after him, for him to gather to himself, storing it, feeding the power growing in him, fizzing like the activator in some complex magical potion.
Nearer and nearer, stride by stride, the warhorse carried him, out-pacing the smaller mount. The beating of hooves matched the pounding of his heart, until at last he drew the horses side by side, matching flight with flight until he reached across and wrapped his wiry arms around Belle’s slender waist.
Already frantic, she him fought like an angry dragon as he hauled her across into his lap, letting the mare run on… run herself out. He slowed the warhorse, keeping a tight hold on Belle, until he could slip the both of them from the saddle and onto solid ground. He caught her fists as she beat at him, her wrists as she made claws of her already bloodied hands; wrapped her in his arms as he took her in, bit by bit. The state she was in slowly registering in him now that he had her, held her… whispered her name over and over again.
“Oh, my Belle,” he breathed against her hair when she finally ran out of fight, or else realized that he meant her no harm - and if he were honest, he wasn’t sure which. “My Belle, my sweet Belle… who did this to you!”
She flinched at the snarl in his voice, the growl as understanding of what had happened to her resolved in him. He could guess who had been the cause of it. He had to concentrate so hard to draw it in, his mounting rage. She needed him now. She needed to be healed and whole, and could not do that for her if he was so angered that every little part of him screamed for murder.
“It’s all right, Belle,” he murmured softly when he could at last trust his voice. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you now, and I won’t let anyone hurt you any more.”
He passed a tender hand over her brow, letting what reserve of peace and warmth he held within him flow from the near touch into her, until she calmed, and went all but limp in his arms. Only her hands remained tense; tight little fists in the woolen fabric of his cloak.
“Master… Rascende…” she barely whispered, as though her voice was ragged, in ruins.
“I’m here, Belle,” he said around the painful knot in his own throat. “You’re safe,” he promised her. “No one will hurt you any more.”
…Ever…
“Sleep.”
He held her close, and lifted her into his arms as his compulsion took her, and in the next moment, the mist of his magic, as dark and angry as the clouds above, whisked the two of them away.
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Maurice | Moe French, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Alex (OC)
Summary: Casting a spell, any spell - at least the ones that involve more than just the wave of a hand, or worse, the wave of an irritating fairy’s wand - takes time, and patience, and the right ingredients, and… just like any recipe, if you get it wrong, it doesn’t mean the cake won’t cook, rather then will, just with unexpected or unintended outcomes. All of Rumplestiltskin’s careful planning and manipulation, all of his hopes and dreams turn to dust; ashes in his bitter heart in the blink of an eye… in the fall of an equine heart. Belle exchanges one terrible prison for another, and it’s one she is desperate to escape, and though Rumple’s fate as The Savior was severed from him centuries ago, sometimes fate itself has a way of finding an alternate route home.
Read on OA3
[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]
Chapter 3 - Manhunt
Jefferson stood at the window of the upstairs landing, looking out over the woods behind his mansion sized home, watching the flashes of color move through the trees as the line of men and women combed the undergrowth, looking for an escaped mental patient that he, (and he suspected, Regina), knew did not exist. Not in Storybrooke anyway.
He shook his head, covering his eyes with his hands for a moment, feeling once more overwhelmed. He had no idea why, or even how he had escaped the effects of the curse that everyone else had suffered; how he had retained his memories of his Enchanted Forest life on top of his new, Storybrooke memories, which he knew were fake, but which didn’t hurt any less.
Moreover, he didn’t understand how he knew the things that he did; how he knew that Belle wasn’t here in this realm… and neither was Rumplestiltskin; how he was sure that this made a huge mess of everything that should have been.
He leaned his aching head against the cool of the glass, listening to the shouts and whistles, whispering tiredly, as if Regina were standing right behind him, “Why this charade, when you know what you did is the cause of all this.”
Belle ignored the repeated shouts of her name and leaned against the mare, who seemed to sense her despondency and hooked her neck over Belle’s shoulder, as if attempting to give her comfort, but she despaired that there was no comfort to be had.
Unconsciously, she looked back toward the stable, wondering what it was that had come over her as Master Rascende had pledged his loyalty to her with his kiss to her knuckles. For a moment, a moment only as her eyes met his following the kiss, she felt as though she had shared another lifetime with him; together in another place, but it made no sense, and the moment was gone in the instant Gaston had called her name.
She blushed as she remembered the feeling that had accompanied the thought, a deep and spiralling ache inside, and a fluttering of her heart, but how could she feel that way with a man she didn’t know, and had little dealing with, other than as her father’s vassail.
“Belle!” Gaston interrupted her confused emotions, and they were replaced by a deep sense of dread. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”
She backed away as she turned to see the expression on his face, as dark as a winter storm, and the irritation in his voice, like thunder. She was afraid, but she refused to be cowed.
“I wasn’t aware that I was at your beck and call,” she answered, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
“My beck and--” his voice rose as if he were about to bellow at her, but then he lowered his tone, leaned toward her and said, “Woman, I know that you spoke to your father, and told him how unhappy you are. He suggested I try to woo you… Imagine that…? So you and I are to have dinner this evening, just the two of us… alone. I suggest that you make an effort to be there.”
There was no invitation in his voice, only threat, to match the way he suddenly grasped her upper arms and pulled her away from the horse, and closer to him as he leaned down still further, almost nose to nose with him.
“I know you’re up to something,” he warned, softly, “but let me caution you… little girl… no one gets the better of Gaston.” Another pause before he finished, “Especially not you.”
“Lay your hands on me again,” she snapped, twisting away from him then, and raised her face so quickly he was forced to pull back, or suffer a blow from her forehead, likely against his nose… at least that was her hope. “And I will find a way to ensure your welcome to this kingdom is well and truly at an end.”
“Oh,” he laughed in her face. “You and what army…?”
He hadn’t the slightest notion of the location to which he should aparate, just simply away.
As if the soul crushing knowledge that his Belle; his sweet, strong… brave and true Belle with all her wide eyed innocent hope for the world had died at her own hands, driven by a cruel, uncaring father who cared only about appearances and his own reputation, had not been enough to break him apart, shatter him, and scatter all the pieces to the four quarters of the Earth, seeing her alive, yet with no knowledge of him - and no real hope of ever regaining that knowledge before her death should come - was enough to fill him with a rage of despair strong enough to do the same to all the Realms.
Materializing in the heart of the forest surrounding Amberley, he let out a cry that tore his throat to shreds, echoing across the landscape like that of the Kingstag in rut that had lost his queen. He staggered backwards, his arm missing the trunk of the tree that he sought for support, and landed with an ungraceful thud on his rear, uncaring, as he reached up to tear at his hair. Feeling suddenly helpless, lost and uncertain.
His hands clenched into claws, fingers digging into the mossy ground beneath him as he let out another cry - the fear that harm would come to Belle at Gaston’s hands and there would be nothing he could do about it… even feeling the muted trickle of magic that was pulling from the ground and into him… but it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. He’d lost them. Lost them both; Lost the chance to find Bae, the chance to redeem himself to his son, and now… had lost his Belle all over again, thanks to Regina and her arrogant incompetence. Oh, how could he not have seen it? How could he had been so foolish as to allow her to cast the curse unsupervised, unguided? How could he not have checked that he had dotted every i and crossed each t in the drafting of the Dark Curse? How did he not see through Regina’s tale spinning, gloating, mocking lies? How could he not have known!
The growl that accompanied his final thought in the string of self deprecating thoughts echoed and amplified, a storm around him and within him until it burst forth in furious release. The power of it shattered the old oak that stood directly in its path, a rain of sawdust and wood chips falling to the mossy forest floor.
Rumplestiltskin took a breath, held it, and forced his mind to calm; to stop the world and his thoughts; out of control emotions from spinning and driving him, when he should have been driving them.
“Magic. Is. Emotion,” he murmured softly another deep breath bringing himself further under control; reminding himself, assuring himself that he was not helpless here.
He would, however, have to tread just a little carefully; carefully until he had everything, every one entirely where he needed them. Slowly, he stood up and dusted himself off. Given that he had no idea where he’d apparated to, he would need to do the same back, and once he was… the entire castle and the visiting entourage would learn just how confident Master Rascende was… only… Belle… with Belle, he must be more gentle yet.
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Maurice | Moe French, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Alex (OC)
Summary: Casting a spell, any spell - at least the ones that involve more than just the wave of a hand, or worse, the wave of an irritating fairy’s wand - takes time, and patience, and the right ingredients, and… just like any recipe, if you get it wrong, it doesn’t mean the cake won’t cook, rather then will, just with unexpected or unintended outcomes. All of Rumplestiltskin’s careful planning and manipulation, all of his hopes and dreams turn to dust; ashes in his bitter heart in the blink of an eye… in the fall of an equine heart. Belle exchanges one terrible prison for another, and it’s one she is desperate to escape, and though Rumple’s fate as The Savior was severed from him centuries ago, sometimes fate itself has a way of finding an alternate route home.
Read on AO3
[Chapter 1]
Chapter 2 - So Wrong it’s Right
Mayor Regina Mills took her usual daily walk along the main street of the town of Storybrooke, Maine. It was a town her curse had created, with meticulous care, a place for everyone, and everyone… well… out of place. That was the point after all, to bring everyone to a place where all their happy endings would be destroyed. Yet, that day, the same as every other day she’d walked those same sidewalks, crossed the street at exactly the same point, watched the residents of the town going about their cursed business, not knowing who they truly were, something wasn’t right. She should have been happy, ecstatic even, but…
It struck her then, as if out of a deep gray sky that threatened rain, exactly what - or more to the point who was missing. Gold.
Stopping dead in her tracks, she turned around and deviated from her well worn path around her demesne, retracing her steps until she found herself outside of a particular store. She looked up at the overhead sign, that read, as expected, “Mr. Gold, Pawnbroker & Antiquities Dealer.” but the sign was turned to closed and the door, when she tried it, was locked.
As she cast her mind back over the last several days, she recalled that every time she’d walked past it had been the same. No lights… no sign of life… and for a moment, for just a moment she actually worried. Had bringing the Dark One to a world without magic, magic to sustain the hold the curse had over him, been the death of him - literally?
Then another thought took hold and one that was far more urgent. Abandoning the conundrum of Gold’s shop and the whereabouts of the missing imp, she pulled out her cell phone, and turned again, hurrying to where she’d left her car, dialing the number of the Storybrooke Hospital as she went and, already fearing the answer she would get, had her call transferred to the basement, the asylum, where she instructed Nurse Ratched to perform a wellness check on a certain… patient.
She heard the alarm go off in the background even before the nurse returned to the phone and spoke the two words that confirmed Regina’s fears: “She’s gone!”
**
Belle paced.
After visiting her father, in spite of his physicians insistence that she not tire him, she had told him everything. He had listened and she’d watched his face falling and his spirits descending again from the height they’d reached simply from her visit, as she spoke of her deep unhappiness. When she’d finished he’d reached for her hand.
“I know he’s not the best, Belle,” Maurice said softly, “But… but we need him, need his strength. Amberley has never been the most secure of places, since the church has always relied on the fear of God to keep others from invading, but…” he broke off coughing and struggling for breath for several long moments before he could continue, “but times have changed, and people’s respect for the church has… diminished. I fear for you when I’m gone.”
“Papa,” she took his hand and squeezed it, hard. “Papa, I’ll be fine, and that will be a long time coming.”
Her father chuckled completely without mirth. “Look at me, Belle,” he said. “I can barely catch a breath, and I’m wasting away. I know you don’t want to hear it, dear daughter, but… I am not long for this world.”
“Don’t say that,” she dropped his hand, and backed away as though putting distance between them would belie his words. “You’ve years yet, and I’ve already told Gaston that there will be no wedding until you can walk me down the aisle.”
“Belle, please…” her father said, and spent the next few minutes coughing uncontrollably until Belle, fearing for him, returned to his side and took his hand again, murmuring apologies, and mopping his brow with the cool cloth left at his bedside.
“Please…” he murmured softly when at last he could, “...please hear me, my love. I didn’t make this match lightly. Amberley needs his strength, where mine is gone.”
When her father had lapsed into sleep, Belle had returned to her rooms, instructing her maids that she was not to be disturbed, and had taken to her books. There was something not right. With all of the physicians attending her father, he never rallied, he simply languished in that horrible state between life and death; his room already smelling of decay, a charnel house in the making. When she could find nothing useful, nothing that made sense, she began to pace, and in her pacing began trying to put together the pieces of everything that had happened.
Needing more information, she set off with a determined stride, to her father’s study, where she read every single piece of correspondence from the last few months, scouring the words for any hint of conspiracy or wrongdoing; trials or troubles.
She was about to give up, finding nothing particular of interest, when she stumbled - almost literally as she moved around the darkening study in search of a candle stub to light - over her father’s ledger, fallen at the base of one of the chairs by the fireplace, and with a smudged and crumpled piece of paper half out of one of the pages, as if marking a place.
With a candle lit, at last, she took the ledger back to the table, and opened it to the page the paper, which turned out to be a letter, marked. It was a page in which the figures did not paint a rosy picture of the duMarche household finances, nor of Amberley’s resources. She glanced at the letter then, looking first to the signature at the bottom of the single page of closely written words. It was from the neighboring lord, Gaston’s father, and in the light of the single candle she fought to make out much of the contents of the letter, between the close text and the fact that a hand - presumably her father’s - had crumpled the letter, as though denying the contents. She could make out only a few: vassail lord… alliance… debt… marriage… It didn’t take much to put the pieces together then.
She was the price her father had been forced to pay in order to avoid falling into debt and servitude of another lord, and he’d tried to keep the truth from her… lied even that day when she’d spoken to him of what had happened.
But then, even that didn’t make sense. Her father was always so careful, so frugal and sensible, there was no way he would have gotten the household and the town into trouble enough to need the help of any other lord, unless…
With renewed determination and vigor, she began to go back over each and every page of numbers, the picture growing darker, as was the sky outside, as she did.
**
Rascende took his time dressing, getting used to the unfamiliar attire he’d have to wear as his lordship’s footman. The pants were a deep purple, and the waistcoat of a gold colored silk with purple brocade, reversed in the long coat worn over the top of the ensemble, beneath it all a white shirt and cravat caressed his skin… perhaps not quite so unfamiliar as he thought on it, and shrugged a little to settle it all into place. It wasn’t exactly leather, but it reminded him of some of his more garish outfits he’d worn on his travels outside of the dark castle.
He sighed softly, and picking up his white gloves, he paused on his way through the cottage to check on Alex. The boy was still groggy from sleep, and from the medicine Rascende had given him. He perched for a moment on a stool next to the boy’s cot.
“You know, you really should rest, my boy,” he said softly, “and since I’m technically in charge of the stable hands, I’ll happily excuse you for the day.”
But Alex sat up, wincing, but shaking his head all the same. “I’ll not give him the pleasure of knowing he hurt me,” he said, “Nor will I make her ladyship feel guilty for what he did to me.”
Rascende sighed again, softer this time, but he nodded his head, understanding. “Then at least take your time,” he said, “and if anyone asks, I’ll tell them you’re running an errand for me.”
“Thank you.” Alex smiled, and then gave him an almost playful push, before he added, “but you better get going. It wouldn’t do to have his lordship’s footman late for his duties.” Then his playfulness evaporated as he added, “that would be all that Gaston would need to be rid of one of Lord duMarche’s men and bring in another one of his own.”
Rascende growled softly, and standing, mumbled under his breath, “Over my dead body,” then worried at why it should matter so much. What did his subconscious mind know that his wakeful one did not?
“Never you worry, lad,” he said more clearly, “I’ll not be late.”
As Alex had slept the night before, Rumplestiltskin had shed the persona of this world, and tested the extent of his magic. It wasn’t quite as strong as it had been in the Enchanted Forest, nor as it would have been if Regina - damn her eternal soul - had correctly cast the curse, and matters had progressed as they should toward the breaking of it, and the return of magic for which he had made provision, but there was enough superstition and the wild magic of the sympathetic hedgewise fuelling the natural order of things that he could still perform such magic as would likely be useful in this world, including apparating himself from one place to another, if the need arose.
Still, the need had not, and he had plenty of time to clear his head with a walk from the cottage to Amberley Castle, where his duties awaited; plenty of time to check into the stables, to see to it that Alex’ duties were covered by the other stablehands until the boy would get there, and plenty of time to acquaint himself with the household and the rest of the staff and, he thought more darkly, to take the measure of Gaston, and to find out whether--
A small, dark hair whirlwind of a woman, in a flowing golden gown almost took him from his feet as she rushed at him, grasping his arms and pushing him back within the relative privacy of the stable, out of sight of the main courtyard. He didn’t need to see any more than that, nor to hear her speak to know… sweet gods, he would know her anywhere.
Her touch burned him, sending pulse upon pulse, and wave upon wave of undirected magical energy through him, scorching him, stinging his eyes and filling his head with a ringing whiteness that was so pure it was painful. He gasped and staggered backwards for a moment, his ankle suddenly giving way as though he was in a world without magic and the old self harm took hold of him once more.
As he did, her ladyship - for he had yet to discover whether her memories from Avonlea were hers or if the curse had taken them from her as it ripped her out of space, and it seemed time, for had not Regina told him of her death? - seemed to come to her own senses.
“Forgive me, Master Rascende,” she said, her voice washing over him, squeezed his heart, wringing all the love he felt for her out into his blood to leave him drowning in it, “but I must know: how is Alex, please tell me--”
How he maintained the presence of mind to answer her, he would never know, but he raised a hand between them, interrupting her with words spoken in a soothing tone, while at the same time feeling his heart begin to sink. She was cursed. She did not know him.
“He is well enough, my lady,” he said, inclining his head, part in respect, and part so that she would not see that his eyes shone with unshed tears. “I bid him take his time today, and treated his wounds before he slept last eve.”
“You’re a godsend to us,” she told him, then almost hesitantly asked, “If… if it came to it, Master Rascende…” Then trailed off and looked around her as though suddenly fearing to speak what it was that was on her mind.
“Go on,” he prompted softly.
“If it came to it,” she leaned a little closer, and the familiar, remembered and much beloved scent enveloped him, and he breathed in deeply of her, “can I count on you; on your loyalty and support.”
His breath shuddered in his chest and his heart refused to beat a moment longer without contact with her sweet, soft skin, and he reached out then and clutched her hand in his, using the pretense of loyalty to take for himself a selfish moment, he lifted the back of her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles softly, feeling the flush and the burst of the gathered magic she had awoken in him burst from the contact.
For a moment he dared to raise his eyes to hers, to find her gazing back at him, light in the clear blue pools of her soul filled with a second of almost-recognition and then…
“Belle!” Gaston’s voice.
… it was gone, as she snatched her hand away from his.
“I must go,” she said, her eyes filled with deep concern. “I cannot have him find us together like this. Tell me quickly. Are you with me?”
“Always, my Belle,” he said, uncaring of the slip of his tongue.
She nodded with a whispered, “Thank you,” and then rushed out through the stables into the meadow beyond, to where her favored mare was grazing… and Rumple, that was Rascende, staggered back as he watched her go, unable to hold the rage of emotion inside of him any more, as tears of love, and loss, and anger and fear… even fear, burst from inside of him in huge, wracking sobs even as he raised his hand, twisting his trembling wrist, and left only a swirl of burgundy smoke in his wake.
