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The first time the Dark One visits the Amaranthine Library, he is summoned.
The little librarian, oblivious for precious moments to his presence, amuses him somewhat. The silly thing had thought to read aloud from an ancient tome, pacing reading hall alone. His name had slipped out of her mouth by chance as she was lost in thought. It was an accident.
He had heard her murmured, absentminded words across worlds and continents. "Rumpelstiltskin, I summon thee!"
Well, who is he to refuse an invitation?
"Did you need something, dearie?" his voice echoes, high and sharp. She jumps out of her pale skin, hands trembling, mouth agape.
The sound of a teacup, dropped from numb, shaking fingers, crashes through the silence.
"I... I..."
"Now, now," he purrs, creeping closer. She's a young thing, the librarian, petite and pretty in her blue dress and crisp white blouse, dark hair neatly pulled back with a matching blue ribbon. The very picture of startled innocence. Rumpelstiltskin grins, hunger pulsing in his veins. He can hear her pulse jump in her throat. "There's no need to be afraid when you invited me here. I heard your call three oceans away."
"I..." she straightens her spine, a remarkable show of strength for a cornered, shaken girl. When she speaks, she does not stammer. "I believed the name to be dead and gone," she admits. "Dead names have no power. I had no intention to summon anyone or... or anything. I apologise for the intrusion."
Now, wasn't that a curious thing? An apology, crisp and clean, even perfunctory, as if the power of a thousand bloodied deeds didn't crackle at his fingertips. He all but expects a polite, neat curtsey.
"Oh, I assure you I'm very much alive," he sneers. "As is my name, Those who imagine otherwise are the victims of wishful thinking."
"This book is centuries old!" she argues - argues! - with him. "I can be forgiven for assuming the title may have passed by now!"
He narrows his eyes, cocks his head to one side. "Are you frightened, dearie?" he clicks his tongue. The girl's shoulders shake but her head remains high.
"You startled me," she replies.
"That's not what I asked," he sing-songs, wagging a finger before her face. Her eyes narrow, something flashing behind them.
"You're trying to frighten me," she says. He cannot argue with that, although in all honesty he does not usually have to try very hard.
"Perhaps," he cannot suppress a grin, halfway impressed by her mettle. He steps back.
She looks down at her feet. Whatever she was about to say is swallowed in a soft cry. "Oh no!" She drops to her knees, and cradles the dropped teacup in her hands.
"Whatever is the matter?" he half-sneers, somewhat irritated that his taunts earn only a raised chin, but a teacup merits a cry!
"It's chipped!" she says, rising to her feet. She doesn't look at him: her eyes are on the small broken piece of the rim, and the shard in her palm.
"You can hardly see it," he sneers. She looks at him, and her eyes flash with something sharp before she smothers it.
"Of course," she mutters. She continues to cradle it in her hands all the same, like an injured baby bird. "So, is there anything I can help with?"
He eyes her: what kind of a question is that? "The question you should ask is what I can do for you."
"I told you, the summoning was an accident," she says, breathing a little easier now he has retreated somewhat. "I have nothing to ask for."
"Come now, dearie," he bares his mossy teeth, his eyebrows flicking up sharply. "No need to be coy about it: everyone has something to ask for. What do you desire? Fame? Fortune?
True Love?"
The girl frowns at him. For a moment, he almost gets the impression that none of that had yet occurred to her. "I have no need of any of that, thank you," she says, crisply. "I have my books."
Rumpelstiltskin glances about. Books line every wall of thee grand reading hall from floor to ceiling. The ceiling towers, hundreds of feet above the floor, arching into a high, windowed roof. The soft lamplight only illuminates the lowest level, casting the upper floors in deep shadow until they meet the stars above. Spiralling staircases reach toward that dark sky, meeting and connecting walkways along the endless rows of books.
The dark, reddish stone from which the Library gets its name only adds to the gloom. And in that darkness, a flicker of light from the librarian's candle, illuminating just enough to see her face, the books, and the monster she has summoned.
"I can see that," he murmurs. "I wager you have more books than you could read in a lifetime."
For that, he earns a small smile. She is a beautiful creature, this tiny librarian. Too pretty and too graceful to be cosseted away among dusty tomes. Curiosity itches at his fingertips. She must yearn for more than this.
"I'm trying my best," she says.
He quirks a smile in response. "There is not a single tome you require?" he asks, almost hopefully.
She shakes her head. "They say a copy of every book ever written exists somewhere within these walls," she says, proudly. "And any that do not, we can procure."
He purses his lips. "Then how about a mended teacup?"
She looks at him, eyes narrowing a little. She is tempted, and his curiosity is so powerful he can almost taste it. "And what would you want in exchange for that?" she asks.
"Only something small," he waves his hand "Something you give everyday for free. Something you have in infinite supply, and will not miss."
"Whatever do I have like that?" she wonders aloud, puzzling out his riddle like a seamstress untangling a knot. "Small... freely given... infinite... time? Breath?"
"Your name, dearie," he says, softly. He wishes he hadn't a moment later. He has a feeling that given an hour, the librarian would have worked it through on her own.
"Oh," she frowns, a small line appearing between her eyebrows. "But my name is alive, as is yours," she says. "There's more in that than a form of address."
"Indeed," he agrees, pleased beyond measure to have been found out. "And more in that cup than a vessel for tea."
She thinks on that for a moment. Then, slowly, she holds out the cup.
A plume of red smoke chases his finger run along the rim, over the chip and its sharp edge, leaving it whole and clean in its wake. A small seam of shimmering gold, so small as to be almost invisible, marks the broken place.
"Thank you," she says, the deep gratitude in her voice disproportionate to the service performed.
"Now, you," he gestures with one finger. "Your name, as agreed."
"Belle," she says, lifting her chin and holding the cup close to her chest. "My name is Belle."
He grins, “It suits you.”
He is entranced by her blushes. “Thank you.”
Makes a small gesture, summoning the spell to vanish him away. "Goodnight, Belle."
---
It is weeks, months, before Rumpelstiltskin finds himself at his wits end.
The spell he requires, an ancient curse to doom the victim to eternal, nightmarish slumber, has been lost for centuries. When he foresaw Snow White in her glass coffin, centuries ago, he had imagined her dead and Regina empty in victory. But as time has passed and the hour has drawn near, the vision has shifted and clarified. Not dead, merely sleeping, albeit a sleep from which only true love can wake her.
Fate is a tricky, difficult, capricious thing. Regina hasn't the skill, imagination, or tenacity to seek out the curse herself. No, that sorry task falls to Rumpelstiltskin.
A week after he begins his search, his private store of books and scrolls is exhausted. Scrying spells fall short, as do his attempts to shake down lesser sorcerers. It is a myth, a legend, lost to time, and yet vital to his success.
He cannot fail now, not when he is so close.
He arrives at the Amaranthine Library without a second thought. Every book that has ever been written, Belle the Librarian had boasted. Time to test that theory.
He finds her reading (of course she is reading) her head bowed over the book. The soft scent of earl grey tea rises from a cup he recognises.
"Open for business?" he demands, sharply and right over her shoulder, startling her. He lets out a manic giggle as she turns to face him, face red with annoyance.
"Rumpelstiltskin!" she cries, surprised and confused. "I know I didn't say your name, this book doesn't even mention you!"
"You need better reading, then," he replies. "And I am more than capable of going where I will without your dainty summons. Am I unwelcome?"
There's a note of warning in his final words, feeling her out, testing her. She shakes her head.
"All are welcome here," she says. "But few care to visit."
He is taken aback by the sadness in her soft voice. He wonders how long she has sat here alone between visitors, where the other librarians are, how she came to be here all alone.
But he has not bartered for the answers, and so he does not trouble her with his questions.
"What brings you here?" she asks, when he does not reply. He almost reassures her.
"Just seeking reading material," he lies. "Passing the time."
"Oh," she bites her full lower lip. "Well, you've come to the right place for books. Anything in particular?"
She stands up, straightening her skirts. He presses a finger to his lips in a parody of thought.
"Curses," he grins, eyes glittering. "Ancient ones."
She swallows, hard, and he can taste her fear in the air. "Oh."
"Come now, Mistress Belle, you said this library had a copy of every book ever written!" He spreads is arms wide, to indicate the whole cacophonous hall. "Surely you have a tome or two discussing ancient curses."
"What do you need it for?" she asks, eyes narrowing.
"I'm an avid reader," he replies, without a hint of irony. Her lips purse, disbelieving and disapproving. "Won't you help a lowly library patron, Mistress Belle?"
He's toying with her, teasing her, and he gives a low bow to cap it off. She's still eyeing him with suspicion, but he can see something else behind her eyes, excitement at the pursuit of knowledge. And, perhaps, excitement at the company of another reader, however strange and menacing: twice he has surprised her, and twice she has not cried out for help, nor mentioned or warned of another nearby, nor has he seen another soul about.
"Will you… hurt someone, with this curse?" she asks, haltingly. He has not fooled her for a moment, he sees.
"I promise that nobody will be hurt by my hand as a result," he stipulates, grinning a monster's grin. She does not seem reassured.
"And by any other hand?" she asks. He presses a hand to his chest in a pantomime of offense.
"You wound me, Mistress Belle!" he cries. Then he softens, slithers, "I cannot be held responsible for the acts of another, can I?" he asks, slyly. "I can only speak for myself."
"Hmm," she narrows her eyes, clearly aware there is more to his request than curiosity, but unable to form her suspicions into clear questions. Without the ability to ask, she cannot accuse, and he has her there.
"You make deals," she says, at last. He realises then, belatedly, that of course the little librarian has researched him in his absence. "You always offer something in exchange."
"I have been known to negotiate," he allows, lightly. "Have you finally thought of something to wish for?"
She considers the question, hesitation creeping over her confidence like ivy. "Perhaps," she allows, at last. "Do you promise to provide it, if I help you find your ancient curse?"
"Perhaps," he mimics her, intrigued beyond measure. She's a clever one, and canny too. "Depends what you ask for."
A smile slips over her lips, sly but excited, too innocent and genuine to be threatening, but clever too. "Something small," she says, echoing his request from months ago in her soft, low voice, "Something you could give every day, and never run out. Something you will not miss."
"You already have my name," he says, warming to her game.
"I do," she agrees. "Do we have a deal?"
Rumpelstiltksin knows better than most, better than any, the perils of striking a bargain without knowing the terms. But he is enraptured by this tiny, beautiful woman with her bright, brave mind and clever tongue, standing in her pool of lamplight in the aching, empty library, with only her books for company. If he probes her further he doubts she will concede, and he may lose his best chance at finding the elusive sleeping curse. If he pushes her, she may falter back, and he is enjoying this game far too much to end it yet.
She holds out her dainty, pale hand, without fear or hesitation. He clasps it in his own, and realises only then does he realise how long it has been since someone touched him, willingly. The sensation is like water in the desert, soothing a burning, dry throat. He swallows hard to mask the tremor down his spine. Her skin is warm and soft, but her grip is firm.
"The deal is struck," he says, withdrawing his hand with a lavish gesture, covering his tracks.
Belle does not smile, but nor does she shrink back as she lowers her hand. "Come," she says, lifting her lamp and leading him through the vast reading hall, around one corner and then another, and up a tall, perilous flight of spiral stairs to the second floor. The lamplight provides the only illumination as they stray from the candles of the main hall, and Rumpelstiltskin finds himself following the librarian like a moth to a flame. After a few more minutes of silent walking, he finds his vision blurred a little, and wonders if the light truly emanates from the lamp or from the woman herself.
They finally arrive in a circular room, with high windows looking out over the forest. The moonlight breaks through the glass in shafts, and Rumpelstiltskin only now wonders what the librarian is doing awake so late. The door closes heavily behind them.
With a wave of his hand, Rumpelstiltskin illuminates the candelabras surrounding the room. Belle smiles, gratefully.
"Thank you," she says. "I wasn't looking forward to peering at the shelves by lamplight."
His lips twist into a smile.
"The shelves are in chronological order, as most of the ancient texts' authors are unknown," she explains. "I imagine you will have more luck in the earlier sections, so I'll take the later ones."
Rumpelstiltskin agrees with a flippant wave of his hand. The next fifteen minutes are spent in silence, poring over likely-looking books.
Belle breaks the silence first. "It, ah, would help if you told me what curse you're actually looking for."
"A sleeping curse," he replies, absent-mindedly.
"Oh," Belle frowns, "Why would you curse someone just to sleep?"
"So says a woman who sleeps soundly, untroubled by nightmares and regrets."
“So says a woman untroubled by sleep,” Belle murmurs, just loud enough for him to hear. Rumpelstiltskin pauses.
“You do not sleep well, dearie?” he asks, masking any slight concern he may feel behind his trilling tone.
“Sleep is for those without centuries of reading to keep them occupied,” she replies, lightly. Not for the first time, Rumpelstiltskin senses a hint of a secret behind her guileless words.
“You are human, are you not?” he queries. “I see no trace of wings or horns about you.”
“Perfectly human, yes,” she says, mild tone belying a hint of irritation. “Why? Are you?”
“Do I look human?” he asks. She does not turn from the shelves and neither does he, so he is reliant upon her pause, and a soft gust of a sigh, to judge her mood before she responds.
“You must have been, once,” she says, at last. “The books about the Dark One all indicate that it is a curse passed from one host to the next. You appear human, aside from a few skin-deep features. You don’t look like a cursed, fire-breathing warthog, at least.”
He pauses, his hand on a promising book, caught off-guard by her perceptiveness. “You’ve done your reading,” he says, approvingly. “Clever girl.”
He permits himself the chance to turn and watch her, covering his actions by walking his stack of books over to the lone desk in the centre of the room. She is smothering a smile, her face half-hidden in the shelves.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she notes, a moment later. He summons a second chair to sit opposite his own, as he settles himself in to read. “Why would you curse someone to sleep?”
He considers the question. “That depends on what you mean by ‘you’,” he says, at last. It feels good to talk, to find an ear worthy of just a taste of his plans. How long has it been since he has spoken freely with anyone? This lonely librarian surrounded by dusty tomes in the far reaches of the world couldn’t tell anyone his schemes if she wanted to.
“What do you mean?” That thinking face, the line between the eyebrows that does not appear in irritation, only deep in thought, is present as Belle crosses the room to meet him, placing the books on the desk without comment. Her lips twitch in a small smile when she sees the second chair, but she does not comment.
“I mean, are you asking why I would curse someone to sleep, or why one would curse someone to sleep?”
“Both,” she shrugs. She opens one of the books to the index, and searches for the page. Rumpelstiltskin does the same, speaking even as he reads.
“Well, the sort of person who would choose this curse would have one of two motives,” he says. “Hypothetically, of course.”
“Of course,” she mutters, a smirk playing around her lips. Perhaps he is not the only one enjoying a rare conversation. “What would those motives be?”
“The former would be to serve the victim with a fate worse than death,” he says, lightly. He enjoys the shock on her face, how she fights to cover it as she keeps her eyes assiduously on the book. “Imagine it: eternity, locked within a dreamscape of one’s own nightmares, allowing the victim’s mind to create a torment far worse than any the curse-caster could have invented… that appeals to some people.”
“I’m sure it does,” Belle murmurs. “What is the second reason?”
“The second reason is far more pragmatic,” he waves a hand, dismissively. “Do you play chess, Belle?”
“Sometimes,” she agrees, lifting her head. “I’ve read an awful lot about it. Playing alone isn’t ideal, but it passes the time.”
A thousand questions surge to the fore of Rumpelstiltskin’s mind. He stays his tongue, instead, and continues.
“Imagine if you could take a rook from the board, out of play, and allow your opponent to believe themselves victorious. Then, at a crucial moment, a knight could rescue the rook, and bring it back into play in time to take the queen, before the opponent could counteract.”
“That sounds like cheating,” Belle notes, with a glare. “Not very sportsmanlike.”
“What if the queen was the first kind of person?” he counters. “And in presenting that option, one saved the rook from the hangman’s noose?”
She considers that: he watches as several emotions play over her beautiful, expressive face. “I think you would have to have a lot of faith in your ability to predict your opponent,” she says, at last. “And that it’s a dirty way to win.”
“That it is,” he spreads his hands. “Alas, there are few clean ways.”
She doesn’t respond to that. For the next few minutes, they read their books in silence. Five of Rumpelstiltskin’s ten chosen volumes are discarded, before he speaks again.
“How did you come to find yourself here, then?” he asks, casually, as if he hasn’t been insatiably curious since the moment he met her. “Bright young women don’t tend to spend their lives alone in libraries.”
She looks at him square in the eye, and Rumpelstiltskin had not noticed before but her eyes are a startling bright blue. He is caught, for just a second, unable to conceive of how such beauty could end up surrounded by such dusty, ancient darkness.
“The librarians took me in when I was just a child,” she says, at last. “They let me sleep here, fed me, clothed me, and taught me how to care for the books. They’re all elderly now, and few in number. They needed someone to maintain the place.”
“You’re alone here, then?” he presses. She shakes her head with a fond smile.
“Oh, no, Old Ezekiel is still around, and Genevieve. There are a few others, but they keep to themselves. Bookish people are like that, you know? We like the quiet, and our solitude.”
She said it as if it were rehearsed, and Rumpelstiltskin wondered how often she had said it to herself, over and over, to keep from wanting more than what she had. “You don’t long for adventure?” he asks. “To see the world?”
“Oh, sometimes,” she waves a hand, brushing the idea aside like a mayfly. “Childish dreams, you know? I’ll read about Agrabah or Arendelle and imagine going there someday, but it’s just a fantasy. My place is here. This place would crumble with no one to tend it.”
She said it so lightly, so easily, that Rumpelstiltskin could almost overlook the sadness beneath. She wanted to leave; he could see that, oh so clearly. He thought of her as a child, smaller-boned even than she was now, dark curls and bright blue eyes, and never leaving this dark and dusty place. Confined here, first by fear, then by her caregivers, and then by duty. She would die alone, entombed by her books.
It was such a waste of a bright mind and a good heart, he thought. Such beauty should not be locked away in the dark.
He left the thought where it lay. No good could come of it. No young woman, no matter how isolated and alone, would want a monster to look at her that way.
“Why did you come here?” he asked, to distract himself.
“The ogres came to my village,” she replied. “My mother was killed in the first attack, my father road out with the local battalion and… I don’t know what became of him. I ran from the village, and I kept running, until I was here.”
Rumpelstiltskin nodded. “I fought in the ogre war,” he said, and in so doing said more about himself than he had spoken in the past century. “The first one. They’re monstrous creatures.”
“You’re older than you look, then,” she said. He inclined his head. “You probably have more knowledge from experience than every book in this library.”
“Is that what you would ask me for?” Rumpelstiltskin asks. “A story?”
“If I did would you tell me one?” she replies, just a little coyly. He considers the question.
“Perhaps.”
She smiles, a caught smile, secretive. He doesn’t think he’s had so much fun in decades.
“You know, you’re the first patron I’ve had in over a year,” she says. “Most people have forgotten this place.”
Rumpelstiltskin feels an unwelcome pang: for this beautiful, forgotten place, and for its beautiful, forgotten caretaker. No wonder she is so desperate for conversation, he thinks: she must spend weeks at a time in near total silence.
“And how do I measure up?” he asks, with a flourish. She grins.
“I have no complaints about the company,” she says. “It’s better than silence, anyway.”
“Better than silence,” he muses. “I’ll take that.”
“You must be surrounded by people all the time,” she says. “Never a quiet moment.”
“Why do you think that?” he asks, curiously. He thinks of his silent castle, the wind whistling through the towers at night. He thinks of how he has a library there that needs tending, and that a travelling companion may not be without merit.
“The books mention the Dark Castle, seat of the Dark One,” she says.
“They name things imaginatively, do sorcerers,” he winks, and she laughs, and he feels he could fly.
“A castle needs servants,” she says, “A town to feed it, groomsmen and maids.”
“I couldn’t live with so much fuss,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Magic provides for any need I may have. In truth, this library is not too far a cry from home.”
“Oh,” she bites her lower lip. “Then… how do I measure up to silence?”
He smiles, a slow thing. “I’m not unhappy with the company,” he says. She blushes. For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin is not lonely. It’s a remarkable feeling, alien, but wonderful all the same.
He is about to make her an offer, wild and impulsive and reckless, even brave, when: “Ah-ha!”
She claps her hands together. “I’ve found it!”
Rumpelstiltskin is on his feet and around behind her in moments. She runs her finger down the page, over the illustration of a lush red apple faded with time, the words only just legible in an ancient tongue. It is the correct spell; he knows that at a glance.
He feels almost a pang of regret that their task is complete. He would give her what she’d asked for, and then be on his way.
“Well done,” he says, and only when she shivers and stiffens does he realise how close to her he actually is, with his head just over her shoulder, mouth at her ear. She smells like old leather and dust, like books, but beneath it there was the scent of roses.
“I’ll copy it for you,” she says. He snorts, moving her hair slightly with his breath.
“No need,” he says. He waves a hand, and a perfect copy in his own, neater hand appears beside the book. “All done.”
“I’ve never seen real magic before,” she tells him, a little breathlessly. “Except with the teacup, but that was you too.”
“I could teach you,” he offers, an offer he has never before extended quite so freely. He waves a hand in front of them, and watches his breath raise gooseflesh on her neck. “A few tricks, at least.”
She shakes her head. “Power corrupts,” she says, a little shakily. “I wouldn’t trust myself with it.”
“My dear, I’ve known you an evening I wouldn’t worry about that.”
She takes a deep breath, and swallows down whatever she was about to say. “What use would I have for magic, anyway?” she asks. “To fetch books quicker? To light candles? I would sit in a chair and never get up again, waste away for want of exercise.”
“How virtuous you are,” he chuckles, and steps back. “If laziness is the worst of your vices, you’re a better woman than any sorceress I know. Think of it: you could go anywhere, do anything, and still ensure your books were protected. You could be free.”
He does not mention the price. Perhaps her magic would be light, good, and priceless. Her soul is bright and kind enough to warrant it.
Belle stands, clearing her throat and gathering her books. “I don’t want to cast spells,” she says.
“Then what do you want?”
“I told you before,” she replies, finally facing him again. “I’m perfectly content with my books.”
“You said you cannot sleep,” he reminds her. She rolls her eyes.
“Plenty of people cannot sleep,” she says. “I made a promise, Rumpelstiltskin,” she says. “Please stop asking me to break it.”
He nods. He cannot argue with that. They all have promises to keep.
“Then allow me to keep mine,” he says. “What price would you ask of me?”
Her eyes meet his. “You haven’t worked it out by now?” she asks, a little breathlessly. “I’ve been here alone for a very long time,” she says. “I have no friends, no family, no suitors. All day I read novels about adventures and magic and… and love. I cannot leave the library without breaking my word, and I have no desire to learn magic.”
“I cannot make someone love you.” The words are out of his mouth before he has time to stop them. All Belle would have to do would be go out into the world for five minutes, and fifty men would pledge their undying devotion. Rumpelstiltskin isn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t be somewhere in that crowd.
“I’m not asking for that,” she shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be real. And I didn’t ask for a love spell, or a potion. I asked for something small, infinite, and unmissable.”
She has stepped closer, and now Rumpelstiltskin feels cornered, pinned to the spot by those bright blue eyes.
“And what would that be, dearie?” he asks, his voice lower than usual, a little strained. She is so close he can count her eyelashes.
“A kiss,” she says.
His breath stops in his chest.
“A… kiss?” he asks. “You want to kiss me?”
“I may never meet another person in my whole life,” she shrugs. “I live at the edge of the world. It’s been one year since the last patron, perhaps ten until the next. I will live in this library, and die in this library. Just once, I would like to read a romance, and know how it felt to be kissed.”
“Well,” Rumpelstiltskin swallows around a dry throat. He wants to press her, to ask why she would choose him, how kissing him could possibly be preferable to no kiss at all. He bites his tongue; he knows better than to question good fortune. “A promise is a promise.”
She nods. “Mm-hmm.”
She takes his hand, and draws him closer, until he can feel the warmth of her through his leathers. She is unspeakably beautiful with her face this close, her sweet breath on his face. He had been right, earlier: the light in her emanates out.
His lips meet hers in the softest kiss he’s ever felt. Her mouth is so warm, lips sweet and pliant, and he slants his mouth over hers, taking her bottom lip between his and sucking just a little, just to hear her moan.
It’s over before it begins, and when he pulls back he sees her dazed, neck still arched, mouth still inches from his. Her eyes flutter open, and he feels something tug in his chest.
It only takes a moment, a fluttering of wings in the back of his mind, the slenderest of cracks in his curse, like the broken line of a fixed teacup. That bright heart and sharp mind could be the death of him, and he cannot die yet. Oh, but what a sweet death it would be.
One day, maybe things will be different. Maybe he will pull that shimmering thread of possibility. Maybe he won’t push away any chance at happiness, because of a promise he has yet to keep.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. But not tonight.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. He nods.
“Goodbye, Belle.”
He is gone in a rush of smoke.
---
The door to Storybrooke’s library creaks open.
Rumpelstiltskin remembers the quiet, mousy librarian from his time as Mr Gold. He never had much time for her, never deigned to speak to her. Now he is awake, and hopefully so is she.
The curse broke hours ago. The mob is on its way to Regina’s palatial home. But he has a different journey to make, and he needs help finding a way out of town with his mind in tact, and a companion on the road.
Rumpelstiltskin knows where to find a librarian: in her library.
“Open for business?” he asks, softly. A noise comes from the back, and then the woman herself appears.
The light in the library is brighter than the one before it. The ceiling is low, the stacks finite and limited. Somehow, it is still as if Belle holds a lantern in a dark room.
“Rumpelstiltskin,” she says. There is a small smile on her lips. She almost looks happy to see him, running her eyes over him, taking in the differences. Her clothes have changed, but that is all. She is still the woman he remembers. “I knew you had been human once.”
“In a manner of speaking,” he says. “You look well.”
“I am myself again, for the first time in twenty-eight years,” she says. “They all say the queen did it, but I remember a conversation about chess.”
He inclines his head. He remembers too.
“And then you left,” she continues. “And didn’t come back.”
“I had a promise to keep,” he explains, apologises. “As did you.”
“I kept mine,” she says. “I stayed in the library until the end of the world, at least in a manner of speaking. Did you keep yours?”
“Almost,” he says. “That’s why I’m here. I have to leave town, as soon as I am able. How would you like to see the world?”