releaseintotheuniverse answered your question: Once Upon a Time question?
if you missed the book you missed quite a large something
I didn't. I just thought maybe he needed more persuading than the book. It seemed too easy to me, until someone said he aged while the others didn't. For some reason that did not even cross my mind.
Rule 2: Answer the questions the person who tagged you has written and write 11 new ones
Rule 3: Tag 11 new people and link them to your post
Rule 4: Let them know you have tagged them.
1. Top 5 ships at the moment?
Rumbelle from Once UponA Time
Slexie from Grey's Anatomy (Iwill ship them forever.)
Hodgela from Bones
Serenate from Gossip Girl
Temperance Brennan and Seeley Booth from Bones
2. One goal you want to accomplish this year?
Becoming a healthier meboth mentally and physically.
3. What new shows do you plan on checking out?
White Collar
Lost
Pretty Little Liars
4. Favorite item you own?
I can't just chose one. So here's a few: bows that belonged to my grandmother, my Green Lantern mug, my Lady Gaga jacketleather jacket, every journal I've ever kept, my diamond earrings that my mom gave me for my 21st birthday, and my jewelry box from my great-grandmother
5. What movie do you want them to make from either a book or Broadway series do you want to be made next?
Wicked...hands down.
6. Who is the last person you said I love you to?
My mom
7. Biggest celeb crush at the moment?
Channing Tatum, Ryan Reynolds, David Boreanaz, Robert Carlyle, Chace Crawford
8. What is a favorite tradition you have?
Every year on my birthday, I buy myself one thingwith my own money.
9. Last song you listened to?
Remind Me by Carrie Underwood and Brad Paisly
10. What is your biggest pet peeve?
People asking stupid questions.
11. Last book you read? Would you recommend it?
Currently reading Jane Eyre. Totally would recommend it.
Who is your best friend?
What is your favorite book of all time?
If you could cast your perfect cast in a movie for the above book, who would it be?
Which is hotter: tattoos or piercings?
One place you would like to visit in your lifetime?
Favorite colors?
Favorite book to screen adaptation?
3 favorite junk foods?
Top 3 scents that make you feel happy?
Christmas or Thanksgiving?
One alcoholic drink you love or if you haven't drank yet, you want to try?
Summary: Belle is used to being in danger. In every sense of the word.
Rated: G
AN: I wasn’t going to write fic-last time I tried I wrote one drabble as a gift 9 years ago and I wouldn’t even know where to begin, so this is new for me. This prompt tackled me sideways, so I sort of returned the favor. I think. Hope you like!
Also, totally edited by only me, so there’s likely to be problems galore.
Gimme Danger
danger (n.)
mid-13c., "power of a lord or master, jurisdiction," from Anglo-Fr. daunger, O.Fr. dangier "power, power to harm, mastery, authority, control" (12c., Mod.Fr. danger), alteration (due to assoc. with damnum) of dongier, from V.L. *dominarium "power of a lord," from L. dominus "lord, master" (see domain). Modern sense of "risk, peril" (from being in the control of someone or something else) evolved first in French and was in English late 14c. Replaced O.E. pleoh; in early M.E. this sense is found in peril.
From: http://www.etymonline.com/
The Dark Castle
The Dark Castle. It left something to be desired, in the name department. That was, after all, his department. One of many.
Things like him (there was nothing like him) had castles, and minions, maybe a moat if they felt up to it. One needed proper dominion, which included fortresses to keep people out with battlements to keep possessions in.
Maybe he should build her a maze, Rumpelstiltskin thought, watching his caretaker flit about day in and day out, like a moth dancing in dust motes and sunlight. She might like a maze, it would be something of an adventure for her, amusing for the observer—which he always was—and it would keep her safe. Safe from so many things that could harm her, starting with ogres and running the gamut of the world up to and including him. Yes, a labyrinth had potential; he could give her a bobbin full of gold thread to trail behind her, a sturdy link to find her way back (to him his traitorous mind whispered), and she would be—be safe. Was that what he wanted?
Perhaps not a labyrinth; it didn’t work out so well for that one king. Of course, he kept the monster inside: it might work better the other way around.
And then oh, she had asked, hadn’t she? She had asked why he spun so much, and he should have told her it was to give her bobbins full of gold thread to lay down in a web that would lead her back to him, from any corner of the realm that she chose to weave them from, to find him always sitting in the middle, a fat jealous spider with a foolishly named castle full of treasure. Getting dusty. He didn’t say that of course, could never in a hundred years (three hundred years) and it’s not like it could help her where she is now—he’d told her to go and then she was gone.
She’d had other questions, ones he’s answered with varying degrees of falseness. He told her stories, tales of his travels, fortunes and misfortunes bartered and dealt for, and she would ask questions that would never be obvious to the average mind. He told her once about a land of Summer, and a Queen of Winter, and the wicked magic of ice and snow sweeping across verdant trees and fields, freezing the roses bent over like washerwomen at the river with heads full of blood.
What would it be like, she asked, to have a frozen heart? What would hurt more, the freezing or unfreezing?
Not to worry, dearie, he’d said, with a waggle of fingers and a knowing giggle. Summer only happens when you’re not thinking about it.
Storybrooke
Things they don’t tell you about working in the library: books grow feet, and wander away. Sometimes they’re not where they should be on the shelves, or on the display carts around the library. Sometimes they wait until someone takes them home, and then that person returns, befuddled, when the book they swore they’d placed on a nightstand is nowhere to be found and they can’t turn it in quite yet. Hope that’s okay.
It is. She understands. Books like to wander—Belle can relate.
Some things she does know—it is a prison, even if you can’t see the bars. Especially if you can’t see the bars, and while some of the town in chafing under the constrictions of the town line, some of the town—Belle among them—has found a sense of contentment in this life. There was something to be said for this land without (too much) magic and the potential for equality, but only if you kept on the right side of the invisible demarcation between being an us or a them.
Belle was an us, sort of person, or she tried to be. Us for her meant striving for all, for the greater good, for the hand of friendship and brotherhood. Or sisterhood. Maybe just a hand that didn’t hit or chain you up. Belle was for those things, most definitely, and had spent a great deal of her life assuming that she belonged with those of a like mind. It was hard to find those people in Storybrooke, however, where most people had two minds, one or both of which may be broken to some degree. She couldn’t judge, she had her own dark places of the mind to contend with, but nor could she always relate. When they stared, when she felt their eyes assessing her as being one of them . . . she knew that Storybrooke couldn’t always relate to her either. Those were the days she could see the bars.
She keeps talismans in this world, internal and external, in preparation for a long incarceration. She keeps the little paper marker on her key to the library; even though the weight of the metal ring has work it away in ever increasing circles, stretching and fraying until it encroaches on the word carefully written there. She assumes it’s his handwriting, but it was hard to say. Regardless, it had become her first talisman, her charm to carry her through adventures in this still strange land.
She tries to make the other keepsakes internal, things that cannot be lost or taken away from her. She carries words in her mind, like sachets of dried flowers to open and inhale against the mold of long stagnation. She grabs scraps here and there at first, bits of poetry to hold close and work over her tongue in the dark or the quiet. Prison poems, she thinks ruefully, in case they try and take away her books from her.
Belle adapts quickly to technology, once something is explained to her. She may not know the why or the how of some devices, but you don’t necessarily need to in order to get the what. She likes the radio Ruby lends her the best, which turns on with the press of one button and then adjusts with funny little knobs. Ruby mentions some words that don’t make much sense in this context, things like “rock” and “oldies” and “pop,” with opinions on each. Belle takes it in stride that there are as many types of music in the world as there is variations in food, in clothing, in most everything it seems. She likes to twist the little dials about, hunting for a sound that strikes her fancy, an auditory adventure or a treasure hunt.
She adds songs to the things she can carry in her mind, and while no one tells her directly, she gathers that singing to yourself is far less different than reciting poetry to an empty room. Sometimes she doesn’t get an entire song in one go, but that’s okay, sometimes the scraps of music speak just as strongly as the whole, and she can hum them to herself and remember what she did when she heard it first.
There’s nothing in my dreams, just some ugly memories . . .
Today is a humming a day, a wandering day; a day where the only bars are the ones made from sunshine streaming through the sparkling windows. Belle has found treasures in her library: old, antiquarian books hidden in dark places, and Belle wants to know the best way to clean them up and bring them out into the open. Collecting words is something of a necessity, but sharing words is a passion that bubbles up from inside her and makes her catch her breath with a smile. Rumpelstiltskin has some expertise on this matter—as he does so many, she smiles to herself—and has agreed to come look over her prizes and give a professional opinion.
Belle hums to herself as she caresses a leather spine, placing it down carefully onto a table with the others. Kiss me like the ocean breeze.
Possessions in antiques stores shift, an ebb and flow of old and older as things are purchased, restored, or revalued. The shifts are slow, not like the tides, but like the melting and refreezing of glaciers. A lamp, a chair, a china cabinet; three vintage designer hats from an estate sale, a collectible statue by that one artist, Murano glass: they twirl around the shop in figure eights, in overlapping circles, and Gold knows precisely where every piece will fall in every step of this dance. He’s heard more than one Charming family member refer to his store as lair, and he won’t argue the assessment. Mostly because he can’t be bothered to waste the breath, but there is enough truth in the term that even he can’t bend it without causing something to break.
There’s comfort to be found in a well-kept lair, even ones with dust and shuttered (curtained) windows, reeking slightly of disuse. Some might call it a good place to hide, but not within his hearing if they have any sense whatsoever.
He wasn’t hiding from Belle, not precisely. He was giving her space—this world was very big on space, from what he had gathered. They had their own spheres to control, and while those spaces were hardly forbidden to the other, they had yet to fully negotiate the extent of their interaction on neutral ground let alone in their secret sanctuaries. Secret, in the older sense of the word, private, not hidden. Not from her, not anymore.
Privacy had become something of a commodity for Mr. Gold these days; he seems always to be at ground zero of some mishap or another. Worse yet are the times when he has to reach outwards, to seek help from the White Knights reigning supreme or worse, more deplorable, Regina-shaped forms of assistance.
He can avoid Her Majesty for the most part, as long as nothing involves magic. The rub being that so many things do involve magic, funnily enough, in this world supposedly without. No one to blame for that but himself he can admit in more honest, rueful moments. Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t know who he is without magic. No—that’s not quite true. He knows exactly who he is without magic. That’s part of the problem. He is expected—no, she would like it if—he went without magic, unless absolutely necessary. He can still be Mr. Gold, for the most part, more than Dark One or Rumpelstiltskin, the persona most likely to command respect without the underbelly of terror. Eventually. Gold can remember being a begging spinner, a giggling maniac, but he can also remember what it was like to not remember. The kind of man he was before Ms. Emma Swan. The trick now was to marry the three and still be standing at the end of it. He must learn, in this new place, in this new skin, how be comfortable with himself, in the entirety, for the first time in his life.
Belle makes him decidedly uncomfortable, to the point of ridiculous verbal displays and random gestures. Yet he craves her presence when she is gone and no amount of shamefaced public incidents or aborted acts of maliciousness changes that fact. He is resolved, then, to seek her out in her domain, at her invitation, and to not make a total ass out of himself in the process.
They start with tea, which should be simple enough, except he manages to make a farce of that as well. She is preparing the cups, simple white mugs that lack form but function sufficiently, and he takes the one she prepares first.
“Oh!” Belle says, with a slight startle. “That-that’s fine.”
“What is it?” He pauses with the mug nearly to his lips.
“It’s just-that’s the one I was going to take.” She gives a small smile from the corner of her mouth, frowning with curiosity. “Don’t you like it plain? The second one was for you.”
“Ah,” is all he manages for a moment. “Well, a little lemon never hurt it.” He’d taken his tea the same as hers for as long as he could recall—perhaps he had once taken it differently, but he doesn’t remember those teas, so they must not have been particularly important. Apparently, he’d taken this practice from her, unconsciously, and her ability to recall the discrepancy made him feel wrong-footed. He decided to take refuge in the task at hand.
Belle likes the cadence of the words Rumpelstiltskin uses has he handles the books with a light touch, even though most are as foreign as Ruby’s words for music: quarto, octavo, gilt, deckled. His fingers are deft, caressing spines and pages in a way that makes Belle shiver to touch herself, even though when she handled the books her hands felt stained and rough with grime. Clearly, there was something to be said for the joys of observation.
He makes some suggestions regarding cleaning, offers to do some minor repairs on those that need it, and she smiles in gratitude and also in the joy of sharing this moment with him. He smiles at times as well, brief things that appear to be aimed more at the floor than at her, though he is willing enough to look at her slyly from the side from under a curtain of hair. She wishes he would look at her boldly, maybe even try for one of those easy, playful kisses they shared for a brief time, but she knows he cannot. Not yet. She’s not sure she would really want that either, not quite. But she grows closer to it everyday. Soon, they will both need to act on the thoughts that flit through their minds and the feelings that bind their hearts, or risk not having anything but the echoes words shared or moments like these to rattle around their empty spaces like coins in a tin cup.
Belle smiles in the sunlight, as if with a private joke, and Gold swallows thickly before he suggests in a low voice that she not circulate these particular items. Beautiful things, certainly, but more fragile than you might think. It might be better to start a special collection, something to be read with gloves and with her in attendance, keeping a close eye.
She laughs, easy and free, and says why not? These things are for use, after all, we can’t lord over everything we hold dear.
There’s risk, he says, somewhat insistently. Of damage, of loss.
She knows this, at this point, better than most, but she lays a hand on the back of one of his, still resting on top of faded blue leather of a book of poetry he can’t recall the title of while she just gives a little shrug.
We’ll just have to trust in their ability to come back, then, won’t we?
Risk is the potential that a chosen action or activity (including the choice of inaction) will lead to a loss (an undesirable outcome). The notion implies that a choice having an influence on the outcome exists (or existed). Potential losses themselves may also be called "risks". Almost any human endeavor carries some risk, but some are much more risky than others.
