True Love's Kiss - Isaac Heller (Kressel), Kressel (2025)

Chapter 1: The Test of Freedom

Chapter Text

In his entire dark, accursed life, Rumpelstiltskin never felt such happiness as the moment he was holding Belle in his arms. She was as light as a feather and as radiant as sunshine. But he was also astonished, if not flat-out mystified. Though Belle did not know it, she launched them into unchartered territory with her “Thank you.” Those sweet Words were replete with her unspoken passion.

“Touch me with your magic, Rumple,” her mind was saying. “I know you’ll never, ever hurt me.”

In concert with her thoughts, her bedroom was opening itself up to him. The barriers he’d built to lock himself out fell away like subjects bowing to their queen. He’d designed them to retract in the event of her distress call. He never dreamed that they might also yield to her desire.

It seemed the novice fairy had been right all along. The fair maid was willing to bestow True Love’s Kiss. And Isaac's tip was real, too. His second chance had arrived. But if they were going to do this, they had to do it properly. He was not going to botch it up again. He couldn’t push her away or say something mean and stupid. This page of his story had to be a work of art.

So, though every sinew in his body was crying out in protest, he found the strength to set her back on her feet. It was one thing for her to choose him when life in his castle was her only future. She had no public reputation to uphold, and with most of the servants gone, no hope of human contact other than himself – if he could be considered human. But given other options, would she still want him?

He stepped back from her so that they could recover themselves. She quickly reverted to her natural demureness and smoothed out her dress. “I’ll put the curtains back up,” she offered dutifully.

“No need,” he replied. “I’ll get used to it.”

The pale winter’s light bathed the room. He decided a little tea from her charmed cup might calm him down. He poured and served himself, allowing the blissful tumult within him to subside. The flash of their ardor simmered down into an intimate tete-a-tete.

“Why did you want me here?” she asked, jumping onto the table with disarming casualness.

A superfluous question, on its face. She knew her mission. Both he and Reul Ghorm had explained it clearly enough. But she was breaking new ground and taking it in her own direction. And like all humans, she thought in emotional terms.

“The place was filthy,” he answered, relying on metaphor. So far, she’d almost fully tamed a warrior goddess, undone dozens of his minor curses, and made a real dent in scouring his murky soul. It turned out she really could clean faster than she could read.

She was too savvy to let him hide behind allegory. “I think you were lonely,” she said. “Any man would be.”

Deft little creature! Just like a witch, she could reach into his insides and grab hold of his poor, weak heart. The difference was, she would not crush him into submission.

“I am not a man,” he said, sitting down beside her.

She had no ready answer for that, but she was not thrown off. She just continued to gently prod him about what she'd seen around the castle. "So, I’ve had a few months to look around, you know. And downstairs. . .there’s some clothing. . . small, as if for a child. . .Was it yours. . .or was there a son?”

Now his heart truly did lay bare in her hands. She had reached the place of his greatest vulnerability. Memories of Bae were his constant companion, but he hadn’t spoken of him to anyone in over a century. Giving voice to that sorrow and shame just rubbed salt in his wounds. But if he wanted the sublime magic of True Love’s Kiss, he had to pay its demanding price.

“There was,” he began hesitantly. “There was a son. . . I lost him. As I did his mother.”

A deliberately misleading description. He knew she’d assume that Bae died. She could never imagine the chaotic winds that tore them apart.

“I’m sorry.”

He let her consolation soothe him. She was the unsurpassed master of his Magic Words. Her sincerity gave him just enough comfort to lighten the mood. He sorely needed it. She was showing no sign of easing up.

“If I’m never to know another person in my whole life," she asked, "might I at least know you?”

“Perhaps,” he said, putting the teacup down and affecting severity. “Or perhaps you just want to learn the monster’s weaknesses. Eh?” He wagged a scolding finger at her. “Neh-neh-neh.”

Unruffled by his antics, she smiled. “You’re not a monster.”

She followed that with more uncomfortable questions, even touching on his ugliness. Then Fate interceded. A pounding at the door gave him an excuse to escape. He certainly couldn't allow her to answer it and greet whatever rogue had turned up in search of a deal. With Cogsworth gone, he was forced to screen his own callers. He went out to the foyer and opened the door.A strapping soldier in dress uniform stood at the threshold, poised for battle.

“I am Sir Gaston, and you, beast, have taken –”

“Not now,” thought Rumpelstiltskin, snapping his fingers and casting a careless transformation spell. Because he'd been interrupted in the midst of wooing Belle, his magic took a romantic twist. Gaston became a pretty, red rose. Rumpelstiltskin picked it up, hid it behind his back, and returned to the Great Hall.

“Who was that?” asked Belle.

“Just an old woman selling flowers.”

It wasn’t a fib when looked at with the right interpretation. That wise old woman was Fate, carried on the wings of Love and Justice. He always knew that Gaston would challenge him to a duel sometime. The stage was set back in Maurice’s palace when Gaston poked his pesky little sword at him. Now that he and Belle were on the brink of the Kiss, their fortunes fully converged. It would not be True Love if Belle’s heart was divided.

Bending slightly at the knee, Rumpelstiltskin gallantly yet humbly proffered the rose to Belle. “Here, if you’ll have it.”

“Why, thank you,” she said, taking it and curtsying graciously.

He returned the gesture by bowing in full. She giggled and gazed at him, her eyes shining. Could that glowing look really be meant for him? It gave him such joy, he had to tamp down his sudden whim to turn the Great Hall into a ballroom. Another mistake he dared not repeat. He was safer sticking to what he knew she liked. He asked her about herself.

“You had a life, Belle, before all of this.” He twirled his finger in a circle to indicate the castle. “Friends. Family. What made you choose to come here with me?”

Unlike himself, Belle had no secrets to protect. She could speak openly about anything. So, while going to his cabinets to take out pruning shears and a vase for her flower, she gave an answer that would have made her mother proud.

“Heroism. Sacrifice. There aren’t many opportunities for in women in this Land to show what they can do. . .to be heroes. So when you arrived, that was my chance.”

With her plant-care tools assembled, she came back to the table. “I always wanted to be brave. I figured, do the brave thing, and bravery would follow.”

At the precise moment that she spoke of finding her own untapped bravery, she trimmed off the flower’s long stem.

“Has she just severed herself from that pretentious peacock?” Rumpelstiltskin wondered. Gaston would surely feel the injury when he awakened. But what did he actually mean to her?

“And what of your . . . betrothed?” he asked delicately, tapping his fingers together in the shape of that portentous symbol: a love triangle.

She shrugged indifferently. “It was an arranged marriage. Honestly, I never really cared much for Gaston.”

Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t help himself. He broke into a wide grin. He knew he must look like a damned fool, but he didn’t care. Her heart was unattached!

“To me, love is layered,” she went on. “Love is like a mystery to be uncovered. I could never truly give my heart to someone as superficial as he.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s grin gave way to a nearly incredulous stare. Could he really trust in his own good fortune? The clear-eyed maiden before him was anything but superficial. Not only was she able to see past his Darkness, she was uncovering the mysteries of the man within.

The price of the Kiss was rising by the minute. Telling her about Bae was hard enough, but now she was wreaking havoc with his schedule. The Light path was swiftly outpacing the Dark, and the Cursebreaker was not even born yet! He had no worries about Snow White finding her Prince Charming. Those two were destined for each other and didn’t need his intervention. But holding Regina back was another matter. That wayward temper of hers was always screaming for his tight rein, and he didn’t know how True Love’s Kiss would affect his powers. He might lose everything and be forced to lay low with Belle, hiding his redeemed self from the rest of the world. His notoriety could end up the only weapon left to him. Would that be enough to prevent Regina from doing something rash and ruining his carefully laid plans?

“You were going to tell me about your son,” Belle reminded him.

This was it. They had reached the crossroads. He had to restore her freedom. Her return must be her choice entirely. Otherwise, it amounted to nothing more than bondage. And True Love’s Kiss required a full and unencumbered heart.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’ll make you a deal. Go to town and fetch me some straw. When you return, I’ll share my tale.”

Now it was her turn to stare at him in disbelief. “Town?”

He nodded.

“You trust me to come back?”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I expect I shall never see you again.”

The cynical remark fit for the Dark One, but really, his hopes were skyrocketing. She was actually reluctant to leave! Lest she think he was joking, he snapped duplicate copies of her contract out of storage and marked them both “PAID IN FULL.” Then, just as she’d seen him do with all his other terminated contracts, he handed her one copy and snapped the other back for his record.

“If you return,” he said, “we will negotiate a new contract. A prenup, it’s called.”

“Excuse me?”

He tittered, knowing she wouldn’t recognize the modern term. He had no intention of enlightening her, either. Instead, he blithely conjured a coinage bag, filled it with some newly-spun gold, and handed over a small fortune.

“That ought to cover the straw, don’t you think?” he teased. “It’s under the same enchantment as you saw with Mrs. Potts. For safety’s sake, the gold will be invisible once you leave my grounds, and I’ve made it weightless, too. But it will reappear in the precise amount you need for any purchase you choose.”

“I. . .um. . . thank you,” she stammered. Now, she had a pocketful of options. She was so dazed, she looked almost intoxicated. And, quite sensibly, a little scared.

“Freedom is not the power to do anything you like,” he said, quoting Simone de Beauvoir, an unmagical thinker he knew she had read. “It is the ability to surpass what is given toward an open future.”

With that, he snapped her cloak around her shoulders and conjured an empty basket into her hands. Though his own nerves were throbbing as though they might burst, he wriggled his fingers goodbye, and sent her on her way.

“This is a test,” thought Belle as the castle door shut behind her. Rumple had put her through them before. But whereas the others were about whether she could stand up to him, this was something brand new. It was about her future. What did she want to do with her life? She was pretty sure he meant to propose marriage when she returned. What else could he have meant by negotiating another contract? Or asking her about Gaston?

Belle was never naïve about what outsiders thought of her life with Rumple. Maleficent called her his “wench.” The Sherriff of Nottingham tried bartering for a night with her. And Father certainly believed Rumple’s intentions were impure. It was the reason he almost turned him out of the palace even when they desperately needed his help. Protecting her virtue mattered more to him than protecting Avonlea.

Belle agreed to go with Rumple because all he asked for was her labor, but nobody would guess what a gentleman he’d been ever since. She would have given herself over to him when she fell into his arms. She trusted him to make her first time not just painless, but special. She’d never admitted it to anybody, not even to Mother, but she secretly feared her wedding night when she was bound to Gaston. He was a selfish bully who only wanted her for her beauty and title. He never cared a whit about her feelings, and there was no reason to expect him to be different in the bedroom. Rumple would be just the opposite. She’d felt the warmth of his healing spells enough times to know how attuned he was to her needs. He made her heartbeat quicken and her insides quiver. And she was longing for more.

Yet he refused to press his advantage. He just let the thrilling moment pass and stood her upright again. He would not compromise her, even if the whole world believed he was doing just that. He intended for both of them to stay true to the principle she was raised with. Marriage must come first.

But marriage was not a decision to rush into. She’d consented to marry Gaston, but only because she was under pressure. She did not want to make that mistake again. Besides, it was different with Rumple. There was no pressure. She loved him – more than she could have dreamed possible. Every moment of that morning made her so giddy with happiness, she was barely able to concentrate on the path into town. But she could not let herself get carried off into daydreams, nor should she forget that he was the Dark One. Marrying him would be unprecedented in history, if not downright reckless. She had to think this through carefully.

“He can’t really mean for me decide right away,” she reasoned. The errand of fetching straw should take no more than an hour. Knowing him, he’d stretch out her absence long enough to give himself an adventure in another realm.

“And if he can travel, then I will, too,” she said to herself. The invisible gold clinking in her pocket had to part of his test. If she was reading the signs right, she could go back to Avonlea to visit Father, break off her engagement to Gaston, and still be back in the castle with a basketful of straw by sundown.

“Avonlea!” she thought exultantly. The prospect was as dazzling as Rumple’s love. As soon as she reached the outskirts of town, she hailed down the first carriage she passed to ask if the driver was available for hire. He was, but he named a steep price. Belle wasn’t surprised. Avonlea was a great distance away. But as she felt the coins magically take shape in her fingers, second thoughts crept in.

Marrying Gaston was Father’s idea. He might force her to go through with it. He tampered with her memory before. He would have no qualms about trying it again, especially if she told him she was in love with Rumple. He’d consider it his parental duty. Then he’d wipe out everything she knew to be true: that Gaston started the war by provoking the ogre, that she orchestrated the peace, and above all, that Rumple was a hidden hero. The idea terrified her.

“I’m sorry. That’s too much,” she told the driver, hurrying away.He began hollering lower prices at her, but she did not turn around.

No longer looking where she was going, Belle marched blindly into town and didn't take notice of her surroundings until the noise grew too loud to ignore. All around the village square, peddlers were hawking their wares to townsfolk bargaining with them for better prices.

“Market day,” thought Belle. It was an absolutely ordinary provincial scene, yet something about it lifted her spirits. She didn’t realize how much she missed seeing a crowd of people.

The critical voice in her head stopped casting doubt on Father and started in on Rumple. He might never let her have another outing again if she went back. His ideal would be to keep her completely to himself, hidden away like one of his enchanted treasures. Perhaps that was why he was settling his contracts with the other servants. One by one, they were disappearing from the castle so that only the two of them were left. Right now, it felt gloriously romantic, but no couple could sustain that forever, even if one of them was an immortal with the power to control time.

Belle knew she needed to face these uncomfortable truths, but she was determined not to brood over them. That could warp her judgment as badly as daydreaming. So, to keep herself on an even keel, she took a momentary break from her introspection and began exploring the peddlers’ stalls. She spied one at the end selling books.

“May I help you?” asked the peddler, looking up from the notebook he was scribbling in. He quickly tucked his pen into his cloak.

“He’s got good grammar for a peasant,” thought Belle. He looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t quite place his face. Supposing it wasn’t important, she began browsing through his eclectic display of items for sale. Not just books, but tools, cookware, fabric, and...

“Straw?” he offered, pulling out a sack from behind him. His eyes were twinkling in sly bemusement. It raised Belle’s suspicions, but she nodded and let him fill her basket anyway.

After paying the pittance he asked for, he said, “You look like you could do with a pick-me-up.” He gave a coin to the woman in the stall next to his. “A flower for the young lady, Mrs. Lewes.”

Mrs. Lewes, a plain but pleasant woman, smiled and handed Belle a red rose exactly like the one Rumple had given her.

“The old woman selling flowers,” thought Belle, sniffing the rose. It made her go giddy for Rumple all over again. Embarrassed to be thinking such private thoughts in so public a place, she lowered her eyes and felt her cheeks go warm. She was sure she must be blushing.

“Look! It worked!” laughed the peddler, making her feel even more self-conscious.

“Isaac, don’t tease the poor girl!” scolded Mrs. Lewes.

“You’re so right,” said Isaac, bowing apologetically to Belle. He picked up a book from his table and held it out to her. “Here. On the house. It has a happy ending.”

Belle could never resist a new book no matter what mood she was in. But when she saw the title, she let out a gasp. The book was Silas Marner: The Weaver of Raveloe, the very tale her library suggested to her after she and Rumple had their one and only dance. She’d grown to think of it as “their story” ever since. Like the title character, Rumple lived in isolation until she came along. And though she herself wasn’t quite like Eppie, the golden-haired foundling that the weaver adopted, she knew that she brought out the best in him.

Just then, Belle remembered where she’d seen the peddler before. He appeared as an image in Rumple’s Dreamcatcher. Jefferson said he was a regular at Speranza’s.

“He’s no ordinary bookseller,” she realized. “He deals in magic.”

She dropped the flower. Was there some kind of love potion on it? That’s what everyone, especially Father, would say: that the Dark One cast a spell on her to make her fall in love with him. Did she have any proof to the contrary? Impulsively, she emptied her basket of the straw she'd just paid for and dashed away.

“No need to run away from us, maidala,” the peddler called after her. “We’re on your side.”

Belle darted to the opposite corner of the square and sat down on a boulder to collect herself. The crystal on her necklace warmed up, calming her down.

“It can’t be a love potion,” she reassured herself, remembering what she had learned from fairy lore. Love potions were mere simulations. No spell was powerful enough to create genuine love. It was actually the other way around. Love was the power that created magic.

But she still didn’t trust Isaac the peddler, if that was his real name, or his partner, “Mrs. Lewes.” That was a fake name for sure. Now that Belle was thinking straight, she recalled with ease that Marian Evans Lewes was the name of the author of SiIas Marner. Isaac must have read it on the cover of the book and ascribed it to his partner as a disguise. But what disturbed Belle more was being called “maidala.” Obviously, this man knew that she was Rumple’s maid. And if these two "peddlers" were at the Dark Castle, they must have been selling more than just flowers.

Belle’s inner critic went into high gear. Why did Rumple have to collect those awful relics? Some of them gave her the shivers whenever she dusted them. She assumed he was hoarding them for the same reason he hung onto the Dark Power – to keep them out of more dangerous hands – but like the Dark Power, they had to be corrupting him. She brought out his best, but they brought out his worst. All magic came with a price.

She believed in the man beneath the monster. She’d seen his image in the Mirror of Souls, so she knew it was his essence. But the fact was, he had no end of tricks up his sleeve. Even if he kept his promise of never using Mind Magic on her, he could always freeze time, make a deal with some villain, and she’d be none the wiser.

She knew she could talk him down when he was in a temper. She’d done it successfully several times. But sneakiness was more embedded in his character than cruelty. And even though he treated her as his intellectual equal, she was not so smug as to believe she could outwit him. He was the cleverest sorcerer who ever lived.

“I wish he’d just go back to being a man again!” she lamented. Life would be so much simpler! Then they could live happily ever after, just like in the storybooks.

The crystal on her necklace changed to the color of a cloudless sky. It was a sign from Blue! Her wish would be granted! She leapt up from the boulder in anticipation. But when Blue did not manifest, Belle understood what it meant. Blue would send help step by step, and it would arrive in the form of allies. The first was a chip-toothed little boy who came racing across the market square, followed by his two older sisters.

“Chip! Slow down!” called one of the girls.

The boy ignored her and kept running. He sprinted right past Belle and headed into the forest.

“Angela. . . you get him. . . I can’t,” said the other sister. She stopped to catch her breath, right beside Belle.

Belle tapped her crystal as a sign of thanks to Blue. “You must be Emily Potts,” she said to the girl.

“Uh-huh,” replied Emily, still panting. When she revived a little, her eyes widened. “Are you Princess Belle?” She dropped a quick curtsy.

“Oh, please, there’s no need for that. Your mother was my mentor. Plain Belle will do.”

The lack of formality only made the girl more flustered. “Won’t you. . . come to our cottage?” she faltered awkwardly.

“Absolutely,” said Belle. “It would be my greatest pleasure.”

And so, within minutes, teenage Emily Potts led Belle away from the haggling peddlers, past a cluster of the neighbors’ homes, to the doorstep of the friend she could always count on for warmth, comfort, and a pot of tea.

Chapter 2: Return to the Edge

Chapter Text

“I’ve done it,” thought Rumpelstiltskin, standing at the tower window where he had a good view of Belle walking away from the castle. “She’s free.”

He gave himself a moment to watch her, but he soon turned away. There was so much to do! He’d taken the first step by releasing her. The second lay in her hands. And while he couldn’t be sure what she would choose, he had to be prepared. The lifting of his Curse was bound to take at least some of his powers, if not all of them. He must be ready for every contingency.

“No need to spin,” he told himself. As Belle had correctly pointed out, he had more gold than he could ever spend. “Enough to afford my princess the comforts she’s accustomed to,” he mused. “And to show her the world.”

But he was getting ahead of himself. That was for the long-term future. He had to plan for the immediate present.

First, he must set the Time. “Cogsworth!” he called, momentarily forgetting that he’d left his trusted butler behind in the Victorian realm. He was letting his excitement cloud his reason, and this was not a moment for careless mistakes.

“What a Catch-22,” he thought. Just when he needed Cogsworth’s precision most, he’d let him go for good.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed and sent an appeal Heavenward. “I set him free so he could live with his True Love. In that merit, please give me the same.” Then he set the Time on his own. “Night shall not fall here until Belle returns.”

The clock’s inanimate arms spun to his command.

Next, he snapped the horses to life. They’d need some alternative mode of travel in case he lost his power of transport. If everything went as planned, they could be in Sherwood Forest before midnight. He hoped Belle would find it as romantic as he did – a return to the spot in the woods where she first embraced him. No corner of the realms was more auspicious. Now they could truly bind themselves to one another, not by employment contract but as equal and loving partners. Friar Tuck would perform the ceremony.

“Steady,” he told himself. After all, he did not really know if Belle would come back to him. Or if she’d consent to become his wife. But he did know what she’d already told him: that she never cared for that ruffian she was expected to marry. It was time to wake him up and bring him to Justice.

“And if this is to be my last act as Dark One,” he chuckled, “then I am going to have fun with it.”

He snapped himself up to his brewing room and shapeshifted. As soon as his body began to morph, he burst into irrepressible giggles. Appearing to Gaston as Belle was going to be a terrific prank. And the sound of her delightful laughter replacing his was icing on the cake.

He looked down at himself to assess the effects. He had Belle’s dark silken hair, her flawless fair skin, and her lithe figure. He was tempted to look in a mirror to see if he’d done justice to her angelic face, but he didn’t dare risk it. Regina, or more likely her genie, could be lurking in there, and he couldn’t let either of them get even the briefest glimpse at Belle’s image, even if it was only a fake one.

At least he was sure the clothing was right. He was dressed in accurate copies of the very same items she was wearing when she left – her maid’s uniform and her burlap cloak. He knew that Gaston would construe the commoner’s garb as his beastly attempt to demean her, but that only showed how little he understood her. Belle’s heart belonged to her people. She preferred simple clothes, not the frou-frou of a princess. Only on special occasions – like hostessing a tea party for an author she admired – did she allow herself to indulge.

Special occasions! How could he forget? “Madame Wardrobe,” he called, snapping the dressmaker awake. Another snap transported her into the brewing room.

“Your chance at freedom has arrived,” he told her. “Complete this task, and I will call our deal settled.”

She was gaping at him, trying to figure out exactly who was addressing her. He looked and sounded like Belle, yet he was talking and acting like the master. Nobody else had the power to turn her human again or to make her pop here and there. More importantly, only he held the key to her future. Only he could send her home.

“Monsieur?”

“Yes, yes, of course it’s me,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. It was actually quite reassuring to know the shapeshift was so effective. Madame’s reaction was stronger confirmation than any mirror. He was grateful for the unplanned test run.

“Create your pièce de resistance. A bridal gown for Belle.”

Madame’s face registered her shock. She said nothing, but her scandalized stare was its own form of mirror. “You don’t honestly believe she’ll accept you?” he imagined her thinking. Unable to bear that look of doubt for a second longer, he snapped her back to Belle’s quarters.

“She’ll tend to her work, and I’ll tend to mine,” he said, doing his best to brush away his insecurities and focus on the task at hand. Important as it was to succeed with the shapeshift, the next step – the Lachrymosa Potion – was even more crucial.

Lachrymosa was a compound made from the teardrops of two different people. Ordinarily, it was used for tracking down missing persons. If you didn’t know where someone was, but you’d had the foresight to collect his or her teardrops in advance, mixing them with some of your own gave partial access to the missing person’s feelings and bodily sensations. No mind-reading, no vision-sharing, but you’d at least know whether the person was alive and well or in terror and pain.

Like with all other magic, Rumpelstiltskin innovated his own use for Lachrymosa. He combined it with a shapeshift. No other Dark witch or sorcerer in his acquaintance ever paired them together, but to him, it was plain logic. What good was it to look like someone else if your behavior gave you away? Hadn’t Madame Wardrobe just seen right through him? Admittedly, he hadn’t made much effort to disguise himself, but when he was ready to execute his deception, his mimicry would be as impeccable as his magic would allow. It all depended on seeing the world through Belle’s eyes.

He unlocked the cabinet where he stored his ingredients. He’d saved so many of his own pathetic tears, they were almost valueless, but precious few of Belle’s remained. Though he’d squeezed plenty out of her pillow when she first arrived, he somehow managed to go through almost the entire supply. Following the strict principle that the tears of her sacrifice must benefit Avonlea, he assigned two Valkyries as guardians of its farmland. If any area wasn’t producing up to par, the Valkyries would sprinkle it with Belle’s regenerative tears.

But Rumpelstiltskin would never let his store of anyone’s teardrops go completely empty, least of all Belle’s. What if some emergency arose? Perhaps the current circumstance didn’t quite qualify since Belle was in no danger, but he’d happily take whatever insight he could get. So when he blended their tears together and dribbled the solution into his eyes, he could have danced a jig. Belle hadn’t hopped on the first carriage home. She was ambling through the forest into town, weighing her options. Every second she vacillated was proof of her feelings for him. Yet gratifying as that was, he had another purpose now: confronting Gaston.

He tucked the vial of Belle’s tears into the yellow-green cloak, summoned his dagger and hid it there, too, and then snapped himself down to the Great Hall. Gaston, still in flower form, was standing in the vase where Belle had placed him. When Rumpelstiltskin revived him, his leg was bleeding from where Belle had cut his stem.

“Oh, Gaston!” he gasped, prompted by Belle’s merciful heart. He passed his hand over the wound and healed it.

“How did you do that?” said the astonished Gaston. “Don’t tell me you learned magic here!”

“No, of course not,” answered Rumpelstiltskin. “I stole his dagger.” He flapped the cloak open for a split second so that Gaston could see the gleam of the silver. “Now, c’mon! We’ve got to get out of here before he catches us!”

“No way! You’ve got his dagger! Let’s go kill him!”

Rumpelstiltskin did not bother to argue. He simply grabbed Gaston’s hand, snapped his fingers, and transported the two of them out of his castle and onto the panoramic clifftop overlooking the Edge of Realms.

“What the hell?” said Gaston. “What about the Dark One?”

“You’re no match for the Dark One,” said Rumpelstiltskin. The words came so naturally, he knew they must have crossed Belle’s mind before.

Gaston made an attempt to be a gentleman. “Look, Belle. I understand you’re scared. He had you locked up all this time. But you’re not thinking straight. Give me the dagger and let me make the decisions.”

“Absolutely not!” said Rumpelstiltskin, letting Belle’s independent streak bubble up. “Don’t you know the legend? If you kill the Dark One with his dagger, you become the next Dark One. That’s a fate worse than death. It’s much better to keep the dagger for yourself and control his magic.”

Of course, controlling the Dark One’s magic meant commanding how he used it, not wielding the Power on one’s own. It was the option he should have chosen when his predecessor offered it, but he was as frightened then as Gaston was ignorant now.

“Oh, you and your history books,” scoffed Gaston. “Fine. We won’t go back to kill him. But give me the dagger. I’ll get us back to Avonlea. You’ve got no sense of direction. You’ve landed us in the middle of nowhere.”

“Technically,” corrected Rumpelstiltskin, “it’s the middle of everywhere.”

“Huh?” said Gaston, the distinction too subtle for his pedestrian mind.

“This is where the First Ogres War ended,” explained Rumpelstiltskin. “Not by battle, but by peace negotiation.” He pointed to the massive tree on his right. Its trunk had grown so thick over the decades, five of his maids could hide behind it now. “That’s where the witness was standing. Her name was Morraine. She wrote her account of events many years later.”

“Seriously?” said Gaston. “I rescue you from the Dark One, and the first thing you do is take me somewhere to lecture me about ogres?”

“You did incite the war,” said Rumpelstiltskin, “but this is much more than a lecture. You see, this is the spot where the Dark Power was used completely in the service of Light.”

He pulled the dagger out of his cloak and held it up so that the sunlight beamed through it. From across the great valley, Shrek saw the signal and appeared at the edge of his realm, watching closely.

“It was a unique event in history,” Rumpelstiltskin continued, placing the dagger in his cloak again. “Nothing like it happened before or since. And that single act was enough to reset the order of the realms. We are standing at the fulcrum of all magic.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Gaston. “Fascinating! Now, give me the dagger.”

He took a step closer so he could reach into Belle’s cloak. Rumpelstiltskin cast a transport spell and jumped himself backward a yard.

“Damnit, Belle, enough playing coy. We’re engaged. You practically belong to me.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s blood boiled. “I belong to no one but myself!” he shouted. The urge to fire off another spell burned strong, but he suppressed it. He didn’t need to make a move. Gaston’s Destiny was coming for him. Shrek crossed over to the human side. Banging his gigantic hand onto the mountaintop, he encircled Gaston, effectively imprisoning him. Those gargantuan fingers were stronger and more daunting than any iron bars.

“Is this bum bothering you, Princess?”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded in answer, smothering a giggle. There was no point in speaking. Belle’s voice couldn’t possibly carry over Gaston’s terrified screams.

Rumpelstiltskin conjured the elephant statuette he and Belle fashioned for Shrek. Because the ogre was quicker on the uptake than Gaston, he eyed the elephant suspiciously and asked, “Did that thing cross me over?”

“Not exactly,” answered Rumpelstiltskin after Gaston screamed himself hoarse. “It appoints you as the princess’ special guard. You’ve just proven yourself worthy of it.”

The statuette was smaller than a child’s toy in Shrek’s hand, but he slipped it into his pack. “Anything for the Peacemakers,” he said, bowing to Belle’s form. Though he seemed to understand who he was talking to, he was shrewdly keeping up the masquerade.

Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t ready to undo the shapeshift, but there was no risk in speaking openly. Gaston wouldn’t catch on. “The force that crossed you over wasn’t the elephant. It was Justice. My end of our deal, as you’ll recall. I told you the instigators would face the consequences. I’ve reduced the King to a mere figurehead, but at Belle’s wish, no physical harm may come to him.”

“I understand.”

“Whereas this big, dumb thug is yours to take care of,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “Let Justice be done.”

He popped himself into prison with Gaston.

“Belle, what are you doing?”

“Lay one finger on her, and you’ll feel the crush of mine,” warned Shrek.

Gaston trembled as a few unmanly tears escaped his eyes. Before he could wipe them away, Rumpelstiltskin conjured an empty vial and caught them. Then he reached into his cloak for the vial of Belle’s tears and mixed them together in equal measure. The potion lit up instantly. “Tilt your head back,” Rumpelstiltskin instructed.

“Wha? Why?”

“Just do as Her Highness says,” said Shrek.

Gaston obeyed and leaned his head back.

“The trouble with you, Gaston,” said Rumpelstiltskin, trickling a drop of the potion into each of his eyes, “is that you never bother to try and see beyond your own limited viewpoint. So here, have a dose of perspective.”

Rumpelstiltskin stepped back to watch Gaston’s reaction. His own dose was still working, too, and judging by his sensations, Belle had reached the market square and was milling about, talking to the farmers. He could smell the fresh straw filling her basket, followed by the scent of a rose. Perhaps there really was an old woman going around selling flowers. The fragrance brought Belle right back to his little gift of the morning, and she re-experienced everything that went with it, including desire. He felt it ripple through her body, but if he’d been in his own, everyone would be able to see the signs.

Gaston was feeling it, too, but in his vanity, he assumed it was all about him. He thought Belle was succumbing to him at last. Overcome with lust, he didn’t even try to hold himself back, fear of the ogre be damned. Perhaps he thought Belle brought him to this secluded place for a private rendezvous under the concealment of the ogre’s fingers. Either that or he’d decided to lose his life in one last carnal conquest. Whatever the reason, he seized “Belle” by the shoulders and pulled her into a hard kiss.

It was too delicious a moment to pass up. Rumpelstiltskin shapeshifted into his regular form. “Hello there, dearie!” he tittered.

Gaston staggered back, gagging and spitting.

Shrek exploded into a roar of laughter. He was so loud, the mountain beneath them began to shake. But as he gave himself a gleeful slap on the knee, he precipitously removed his hand from around Gaston.

“YOU!” shouted Gaston, lunging toward Rumpelstiltskin and making a grab for the dagger.

In a snap, Rumpelstiltskin levitated himself, letting his feet dangle tauntingly close to Gaston’s head. He could have divebombed back down again and finished him off, but he did not have to. Fate dealt the final blow. A second ogre came charging across the barrier.

“Young Ibber,” thought Rumpelstiltskin. “The one Gaston trapped and tortured.”

Lucky for Gaston, it was all over mercifully quick. He didn’t even grasp what happened right away. But as soon as his soul perceived his body lying dead in front of him, he immediately began mourning. He was showing himself to be every bit as shallow as Belle said he was – so attached to his earthly existence, he was utterly unprepared for the Next Realm.

“Oho! One for me!” said Hades, poking his head up through the mist of the valley.

Gaston looked up from his corpse. “Who the hell are you?”

Hades laughed. “Isn’t that cute? He’s starting to get it!”

Gaston’s mouth dropped open. He looked down in dread at the bottomless valley Hades had just emerged from.

“Don’t be so hasty,” said Reul Ghorm, floating down from the clouds and manifesting on Gaston’s right side.

“No punishment without a trial,” agreed Rumpelstiltskin, flanking Gaston on the left.

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” said Hades. “I don’t get to sink my claws into him until you two have had your say.”

“It’s not about us,” said Reul Ghorm.

“Indeed,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “The Lord Judge shall rule.”

“Whatever,” said Hades. “Let’s just go.”

The three of them were so practiced at this, they moved together seamlessly. And so, in proper formation, Rumpelstiltskin and Reul Ghorm began the ascent upward, escorting Gaston to the Heavenly Tribunal. Hades brought up the rear.

Chapter 3: The Heavenly Tribunal

Chapter Text

Gaston understood he was dead, and he was fuming mad about the way the beast lured him into that trap, but mostly he was confused. For one thing, what was the Blue Fairy doing there? Naturally, he’d heard of her. She was as famous as the Dark One and supposedly more powerful. But he’d never called on her for help in his life. He was taught that fairy magic was for weaklings. His father worshipped the warrior gods, and though he wasn’t a big believer himself, he’d lived and died as a soldier. Shouldn’t the Valkyries be carrying him to Valhalla instead of these three?

“Valhalla is a myth,” said the Blue Fairy, apparently reading his mind.

“A false promise,” added the Dark One.

“C’mon, humans can’t make sense of the world without their myths,” said the red-haired man from the Underworld. He extended his hand to Gaston. “Call me Hades. It’s simpler than Ashmedai, King of the Demons.”

“If the Lord Judge wills it,” said the Blue Fairy, “he’ll never have to call you anything.”

“Fat chance,” said Hades.

The four of them continued floating through the clouds, and when they stopped, Gaston wondered if they'd gone to Valhalla after all. They seemed to be on a misty replica of the battlefield in Avonlea. The bodies of fallen soldiers lay everywhere, and Gaston noticed that they weren’t just from his army. Some of them were from the ragtag band of rebels that he was hired to quash for Queen Regina. Others were dressed in the steely armor of King George’s kingdom. Though meant to look like knights, they plodded around like clumsy tortoises, which was what made them so easy to defeat.

“It’s no myth,” he concluded. All the conquests of his lifetime were assembled to salute him. He almost started feeling he was in his element . . . until the soldiers began rising from the ground. The wounds that killed them were now healed, but they were all staring at him with haunted eyes.

“I’m not frightened,” he told himself. “So what if there are dead folks moving around? I’m dead, and I’m moving.”

His inner pep talk did little to ease his nerves. All these ghosts were making him go cold, and if that weren’t eerie enough, a crowd of drably dressed peasants showed up. Standing among them and sticking out like a sore thumb was Belle’s mother, Queen Colette. She frowned at him disapprovingly, so Gaston did not bow.

Everyone began whispering to one another. He’d gotten plenty of that when he was alive, but he enjoyed it then. All the girls wanted him. All the guys wanted to be him. But this stony-faced crowd looked even less welcoming than Belle.

A ruder insult soon followed. As though unanimously deciding he wasn’t worthy of their interest anymore, everyone turned their backs and focused on the mountain ahead. Like the battlefield, it mirrored Avonlea’s terrain. Gaston recognized the flowers at the peak. It was the spot where Belle signed the peace treaty with the ogre chief. An overgrowth of wildflowers had spread there since, so it was considered hallowed ground. The townsfolk weaved colorful wreaths from the blossoms and brambles, and Belle’s friends the booksellers put up a plaque so that future generations could read about her sacrifice.

But the people here weren’t looking up toward the floral monument. They were fixated on something at ground level. Gaston looked in the same direction, but all he could see was a tiny, little cricket. He might not even have noticed it, except that it was bathed in green light that was emanating from what looked like a small-scale, closed umbrella.

“What’s the big deal?” he wondered. It was just a bug. He could have stomped it into mush in a single step. But the crowd quieted down as soon as it began to chirp, as though the piddling creature held rank.

Stupid as it felt to pay all this attention to an insect, Gaston worried he’d look stupider if he missed its message, so he strained his ears and tried to listen as intently as everyone else. “It’s singing!” he blurted out.

“Shh!” said the people around him.

“I lift my eyes up unto the mountain,” sang the cricket. “From where will my aid come?”

“My aid comes from the Lord,” chorused the people, “Maker of Heaven and earth.”

The Blue Fairy tapped Gaston on the elbow. “Come,” she said softly.

He followed her lead to the front of the crowd. Annoyingly, the beast kept in step with them the whole way. When they were a few yards opposite the cricket, they stopped. Hades settled in among the soldiers.

The cricket gave one long final chirp and then turned into a man.

“What the — ”

“Shh!” hushed the Blue Fairy. “That’s Jiminy Cricket, the Herald of Conscience, and Agent of Healing. He’s not the Judge, but he directs proceedings. Show some respect.”

“Respect for that squirmy little worm?” thought Gaston. Balding and wearing glasses, the Cricket Man was such an unimpressive human, he might as well have stayed a bug. Gaston knew the type. Everyone would praise his intelligence, as though wearing glasses automatically made him smarter. He’d also be called “a kind and gentle soul,” but anyone with a brain knew that was just a polite way of saying the guy couldn’t hold his own in a fight.

“We are gathered for the trial of Gaston Le Gume,” announced Cricket Man, making Gaston’s stomach sink. “The Agent of Justice, known in his realm as Rumpelstiltskin the Dark One, shall act as prosecutor.”

“No way!” yelped Gaston. “Him, representing justice?”

Gaston was sure he’d get shushed again, but Cricket Man actually answered him. “That question gets raised at most trials," he said, leaning on his umbrella. "The Dark One is a faithful servant of the Lord. He assists in the restoration of Justice.”

“For I know Dark as no one does,” sing-songed the beast. “I fetch it for the Lord to judge.”

“B-but,” sputtered Gaston.

“It’s a paradox, dearie,” giggled Rumpelstiltskin. “Few mortals can grasp it. But you’re all soul now. The view should become clearer.”

The only thing clear to Gaston was that this was a pretty sketchy trial if the Dark One was a trusted officer of the court.

Cricket Man moved on to his next decree. “The Agent of Mercy, known in her realm as Reul Ghorm the Blue Fairy, shall provide the defense.”

Gaston’s attitude toward her did a quick about-face. Surrounded by a sky-blue aura, she gave off a soothing serenity. Perhaps she didn’t just help the weak. After all, he needed her, and he wasn’t weak. Besides, if she really was more powerful than the Dark One, then she was the best one for the job.

Cricket Man turned his gaze fully on Gaston. He had such pity in his eyes, it made Gaston want to cuff him. “Know where you came from, where you are going, and before Whom you will give reckoning.”

Everyone bowed, even Rumpelstiltskin. Gaston followed suit. He assumed the Judge was entering.

“What’s going on? I don’t see anybody,” he whispered to the Blue Fairy.

“Of course not,” she whispered back. “The Lord Judge has no physical form. Open your heart instead of your eyes.”

“Meaningless drivel,” thought Gaston. But for lack of any better ideas, he squeezed his eyes shut.

And then he felt it – the arrival of an awesome presence. Or was he hearing it? He couldn’t tell if something was really happening or he was having a fantastically vivid dream, but it seemed to be both at once. All the sounds of the world were blending together in a massive orchestra. Some were steady and sweet, like the cricket’s chirp, and some startled him with their ferocity, like the crash of ocean waves. There were human voices among them, too, singing every song imaginable. It ought to have made for a great tuneless clamor, but the Lord Judge acted as conductor. All that noise merged into one reverent pronouncement: “The universe is filled with G-d’s glory!”

Gaston quickly opened his eyes. Everything about the afterlife was rattling him, but he decided he’d rather take it in visually than have to confront it from the inside.

“At your own pace,” said the Blue Fairy.

Everyone straightened up, and once again, Gaston copied them.

“Know what is above you,” Cricket Man continued. “A watchful Eye and an attentive Ear. And all your deeds are recorded in a Book.”

Cricket Man stepped to the side, and three objects appeared in his place: a podium with a book on top of it, and a balance scale. The podium and book seemed ordinary enough. Gaston assumed someone was about to step up and begin reading. But the balance scale was completely out of proportion. It looked like the sort farmers and merchants used in the market square, but it stood as tall as the podium, and the two pans hanging from it were stretched twice as wide.

“Those are your Book of Deeds and the scale for measuring them,” explained the Blue Fairy. “One pan will hold your good deeds, and the other. . . the opposite.”

“I should do all right,” Gaston reassured himself, looking at the spotlessly empty pans.

Rumpelstiltskin stepped forward. “Gaston lived the merciless life of a soldier for hire. He stands accused of cruelty, selfishness, and inciting a war for vainglorious ends. But his worst offense by far is reckless endangerment. He set ogres upon the small Kingdom of Avonlea, causing dozens of deaths, including that of Queen Colette.”

The people standing behind him began buzzing amongst themselves again, but this time Gaston understood why. Not only were all of them as dead as he was, he was being held responsible.

“No fair!” he thought. He’d only ever killed his enemies. That was his duty. And the ogres killed the peasants, so they should stand trial. All he did was trap one monster. Belle was the one who set it free. If she had just let him slay it like a proper hero, it never would have had the chance to rouse up the others.

Gaston hoped the Blue Fairy was reading his thoughts as she prepared his defense. He was confident in his reasoning, but he still didn’t dare to turn and meet the accusing glares of the people behind him.

It turned out, he couldn’t ignore them anyway. One by one, each soul came forward and stepped onto his balance scale. First the soldiers, then the peasants, and last Queen Colette. With every additional soul, the others already on the pan shrank to make room, but the change in size did not seem to affect their weight. It was as though his pan of misdeeds was filling up with dense, human-shaped stones. It sunk lower and lower, and by the time Queen Colette joined, a hole had to open up in the earth to let the pan through. It disappeared from sight, and when Gaston peered down after it, all he could see was an endless blaze.

“Hot damn!” cheered Hades.

“Silence!” scolded Cricket Man.

The Blue Fairy stepped forward. “My Lord, Gaston did not act of his own accord. He was under the influence of Brunhilde the warrior goddess.”

“Oooh, that’s good,” thought Gaston. It wasn’t a defense he would have come up with on his own. It wasn’t even the truth. His father and Maurice were the loyal worshippers, not him. But as long as someone else would catch the blame, why should he care?

Four more objects appeared in this crazy courtroom: another book on another podium, another balance scale, and craziest of all, a broomstick that stood bolt upright beside him. Without warning, it turned into the Valkyrie whose image he knew from the icons in his father’s shrine. The buxom blonde didn’t look like a legendary heroine now. Her famous horned helmet was gone, she had a gash down the side of her face, and her wrists were in shackles.

“She’s gotta be guiltier than I am,” thought Gaston. “They didn’t have to haul me in here like a jailbird.”

The Blue Fairy flashed a surreptitious but triumphant smile at Rumpelstiltskin. “Prosecution obtained Brunhilde’s confession himself.”

“Oooh, she got him,” thought Gaston, reveling in her triumph. But he soon saw that Rumpelstiltskin didn’t take it as a blow. Incredibly, he returned the fairy’s smile. Gaston had always heard these two were archenemies, but it looked like they were having an unspoken conversation.

“It’s like a prisoner exchange,” he realized. “They’re working together to bring down Brunhilde. I may just get off scot-free.”

Gaston watched in fascination as the Blue Fairy snapped her fingers and opened Brunhilde’s Book of Deeds. He expected her to go up to the podium and start reading the confession, but the Book spoke for itself. In a throaty female voice that had to be Brunhilde’s, everyone heard all about his courtship of Belle.

“Gaston is not devout like his father or Maurice,” said the Book. “But he tried praying for my assistance. At first, I saw no way to help. My specialty is the battlefield, not love. But since Maurice was also praying for a union, I gave both of them an idea and the means to implement it. I released one ogre into their captivity. He was a young one. I thought they could manage him. If Gaston killed him, I reasoned, he would win over the princess.”

“If Belle was a normal girl, it would have worked,” thought Gaston.

“A bloody conflict was inevitable after that,” said the Blue Fairy, “as Brunhilde intended.” She snapped her fingers again, turning a single page of Brunhilde’s Book forward.

“I came up with the idea of a new ogre war because war is glorious,” the Book read aloud. “I used the opportunity to have Queen Colette killed because I wanted her out of the way. Then I could continue to harness Maurice’s militant side and make more war.”

The peasants weighting down Gaston’s scale suddenly appeared on Brunhilde’s, making her pan of misdeeds drop while his lifted back into view. When Queen Colette made the switch, his scale really sprung up. Gaston could have whooped with joy.

Rumpelstiltskin stepped forward. “Defense is partially correct. Gaston couldn’t have triggered the war without the help of the Valkyrie. But she couldn’t have exploited him without his desire. His heart gave her the opening. He, too, loves war and domination. He bears responsibility for that.”

Rumpelstiltskin swirled his hand in a wide, counterclockwise circle. The image of what was happening below on Brunhilde’s pan of misdeeds was displayed across the mountain. Every soul down there was dividing in two. They became a horde of identical twins, except they were all uneven in size. The miniature versions vaulted back up onto Gaston’s scale. The bigger ones remained on Brunhilde’s. His pan of misdeeds sank again, though not as low as before.

“The apportionment of guilt can never be one hundred to zero,” the Blue Fairy murmured to him. “Humans have a free and independent will, ultimately.”

She stepped forward and resumed her defense. “Gaston may have allowed bad influences to sway him, but he adopted good teachings as well. Princess Belle encouraged him to read the stories of Gideon in Her Handsome Hero. That’s why he attempted to rescue her without the backing of an army. He knew her distaste for brute force.”

She snapped, and Gaston’s own Book of Deeds opened. “I’ve got to rescue my bride, and I will do it single-handedly,” it said in his voice.

Gaston remembered making the declaration. One minute, he was sitting in the tavern and having a drink with Le Fou, and in the next, the urge to reclaim Belle stirred within him like a battle cry. He simply could not leave her with that beast another second.

“Brunhilde was working on you then, too,” the Blue Fairy informed Gaston in an undertone, “but we’ll gloss over that. My task is to represent your virtues.”

Her strategy worked. His pan of merits gained its first counterweight. But unlike the souls on the opposite side, it didn’t take a human shape. A volume of Her Handsome Hero appeared there instead. Gaston could tell by the tasseled bookmark that it was the very same copy that Belle had given him as an engagement gift. He’d resented it at the time. A children’s storybook for a general entering the royal family?! A gilded sword would have suited him better. But it was undeniable that the book was helping him now, tipping his scale a little closer to balance. When the tune to “The Call of Gideon” hummed through the court, Gaston’s hopes soared. It must be a good sign. Music seemed to be the coin of this realm.

Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t having it. He gave a short, derisive laugh, crooked a finger at the Book of Deeds, and flipped the page over. “I am Sir Gaston,” it read in a tone so cocky that Gaston himself was ashamed. “And you, beast, have taken. . .”

The Book’s recitation came to an abrupt stop. “That must be when he knocked me out,” deduced Gaston.

Rumpelstiltskin stifled a giggle, wriggled his fingers, and turned another page. “You’ve got his dagger! Let’s go kill him!” Gaston heard himself saying to the fake image of Belle. The reminder of how he’d stuck his tongue into that freak’s rotten-toothed mouth made him want to puke in front of the entire court.

Rumpelstiltskin smirked, still gloating over his own sick joke. “That hardly sounds like a peaceful, Gideon-like plan,” he said.

Gaston looked anxiously at his scale. It wasn’t moving one way or the other.

“Gaston cannot be blamed for wanting to destroy the beast,” said the Blue Fairy as he nodded along vigorously. “His instinct was correct. He simply made the common mortal mistake of looking outward instead of inward.”

“And he is lucky I protected myself,” said Rumpelstiltskin, his smirk vanishing into stern severity. He locked eyes with Gaston as he pulled the notorious dagger out of his cloak. Though he continued addressing the court, it was plain he was also delivering a deliberate and personal reprimand. “Gaston sealed his Fate the moment he reached for the dagger. I had to guard it at all costs. Imagine the Dark Power housed in a soul like his! The realms would regress to an era like that of my predecessors — when might made right!”

He pointed at Gaston’s wrists and shackled him like Brunhilde. Gaston feared he was about to be carted off to Hell, but instead, the dagger appeared in his hands. The engraved letters spelling out “Rumpelstiltskin” reshaped themselves to spell “Gaston.”

Gaston liked seeing his name sparkling on the dagger, but nastier changes came with it. To his utter horror, his body began to transform. He didn't become green and scaly like Rumpelstiltskin, but hair was sprouting out all over him, and not just on his chest and chin, but in places where hair didn’t belong, like his forehead and hands. He probably looked like a gorilla! He was rapidly becoming as huge as one, which was the only decent trade-off. The power surging through his bulging muscles thrilled him. “I WANT TO KILL!” he roared, raising the dagger over his head. “I WILL RULE THE WORLD!”

The battlefield exploded into chaos. Countless new soldiers charged straight into combat. Gaston couldn’t tell which army was fighting who, only that lots of men were dying, and their wives and children were shrieking for them on the sidelines. His scale plunged back down to the Netherworld. Even the glow around the Blue Fairy dimmed.

“Ooh, what a spectacular mess!” said the silky voice of the beast in his ear. “I’m going to enjoy working with you!”

“Huh?” said Gaston. How did the beast manage to slither over to him so fast? A scrawny peasant leaning on a walking stick was now in the prosecutor's spot. “Who’s the cripple?” he wondered.

“Never mind him,” said the beast, floating up to Gaston’s eye level. “Just listen to me and hang onto that dagger.”

“He’s lying to you,” said the peasant. “The dagger isn’t yours to keep.”

“Ignore that! He can’t hear a word I'm saying. He guessed right, but that’s only because he knows me so well. We were together a long time.”

Puzzled, Gaston scratched his hairy head. “Nobody else can hear you?”

“Correct, dearie, nor see me either. I’m in your head and yours alone. You’re the new Dark One, and I am the voice of your predecessors. Think of me as your guide. So flex those muscles, laddie, and bust out of those shackles. They’re blocking you from using the magic.”

Gaston threw all his new, superhuman strength into pulling his chained wrists apart, but the shackles would not loosen.

“That won’t work,” said the peasant, whom Gaston now understood to be Rumpelstiltskin in human form. “Nothing will. You’re in the court of the Lord of Justice and Mercy. The dagger has been consecrated in its service.”

The Blue Fairy nodded in agreement. “Even Darkness is an instrument in the harmony of the universe. That’s the paradox.”

She put her hand on Gaston’s enormous arm to calm him, but it only made him angry. He shook her off and yanked at his shackles once more.

“Atta boy!” shouted the beast inside him. “Don’t let that coward take back my Power! He seized it to fend off bullies, and he’s been using it to prop up the weak ever since. So, hurry! Break yourself free! It’ll be you, me, and your friend the Valkyrie! The realms will be ours!”

Between the Dark One’s badgering and the wailing from the battlefield, Gaston was whipped into a frenzy. He tugged at his shackles like a snared animal. “ARRRGH!” he howled.

Rumpelstiltskin hobbled closer. “Let go of the dagger, and the nightmare will end,” he said. “I’ve borne that burden for six of your lifetimes. I know how to cope with it. Hand it back.”

“NOOOOO!” bellowed Gaston, clinging to the dagger with all his might.

“YEAH! KEEP IT UP!” shouted the beast. “Kick the walking stick out from under him! Make him topple over! He’s pathetic!”

But despite the difference in their size and strength, Rumpelstiltskin retrieved his dagger effortlessly. When he reached for it, his sweat-soaked sleeve brushed against Gaston’s furry arm. Gaston was so disgusted, he recoiled instantly, releasing the dagger without a fight.

“NOOOOO!” shouted the Dark One, dissolving into nothingness.

The letters on the dagger rearranged themselves again, but Rumpelstiltskin didn’t turn into his old snakelike self right away. For a split second, a leather-clad knight wielded the dagger. Like the Blue Fairy and Cricket Man, he too was surrounded by a glowing aura.

“Parents, go home to your children!” he shouted to the soldiers on the battlefield. “The war is over!”

The bedlam blinked out as quickly as it started. Everything was restored as before. Gaston’s shackles sprung open. He ran his hand over his face to make sure that all the unsightly hair was gone. Breathing in relief, he stole a glimpse at Rumpelstiltskin, who looked like the Dark One again, though Gaston noticed that the golden aura hadn’t faded.

“It was there all along!” he gasped. It was just that under his sickly green skin, it was easy to overlook.

“We cannot convict Gaston on a mere hypothetical,” said the Blue Fairy.

“That was no hypothetical. It was a relevant demonstration of his inclinations,” retorted Rumpelstiltskin.

“Woohoo! He’s mine!” shouted Hades, pointing at the pan of misdeeds. “Not pure enough for the Heavenly realm, and he’s got unfinished business with the princess.”

“Ah, yes,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “But we all knew it would come down to that.”

He snapped, and another Book appeared between the others. “Honestly, I never really cared much for Gaston,” it read in Belle’s voice. “I could never give my heart to someone as superficial as he.”

“Hmmph!” grumbled Gaston, making his pan of misdeeds drop a notch. In the same moment, Queen Colette heaved a sigh.

“Something to add, your majesty?” asked Rumpelstiltskin, bowing to the small version of her on the scale.

“Belle could never have given her heart, yet she consented to give her hand and would have been required to give her body, all because Maurice persuaded her that it was her duty to Avonlea.”

That was more than Gaston could stand. “I was going to marry her!” he shouted. “Isn’t that better than what he’s done? You’re her mother! Don’t you know what’s going on. . .” He floundered for the right phrase. “. . . back there?”

“Indeed,” she answered coolly. “More clearly than you do.”

Now Rumpelstiltskin addressed him directly. “As you’ll recall, I promised Belle I was not looking for love,” he said. “And I am only too happy to furnish proof.”

He clapped his hands in two successive beats. The first returned Belle’s Book to the Realms of the Living. The second made a scroll hover before Gaston’s eyes.

“Contract of Employment,” it announced itself in Rumpelstiltskin’s voice. Each written word grew large and bright as it was read aloud. “Rumpelstiltskin may not use any magic on Belle that can thwart her natural will. Rumpelstiltskin may not touch Belle’s person without her permission.”

Rumpelstiltskin snapped, and the contract disappeared.

“Mortals don’t credit me for much,” he said, “but if there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s sticking to my deals. Belle agreed to be my maid. Nothing more, and nothing less. I certainly never demanded she perform some unfelt act of love to procure my expertise.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Gaston, “‘coz who could ever love you?”

“Precisely the point. Love isn’t a commodity to be traded, especially not in a time of desperate need. But that’s essentially what you and Maurice tried doing by leveraging your military aid in exchange for her hand. Then you put Avonlea in danger so she felt she couldn’t refuse.”

From her place on the scale, Queen Colette let out a sob. The pan sank lower.

“If you truly loved Belle,” Rumpelstiltskin went on, “you should have negotiated for her harder. Instead of just declaring your relationship as though you owned her, you might have offered yourself in her stead. Belle’s friend Mrs. Potts did that for her son. I might have agreed to some similar arrangement and taken you both. Then Belle wouldn’t have had to enter the monster’s lair all by herself.”

Slowly, gradually, Gaston’s scale was sinking further.

“The idea didn’t even cross your mind, did it? To you, chivalry is only about winning battles.”

“Belle is stubborn!” shouted Gaston. “She always dodged me, even after our engagement, so I figured –”

“Gaston, stop,” whispered the Blue Fairy, pointing at the scale. “It’s time we settled.”

Since he only seemed to be hurting his own case, Gaston obeyed.

The Blue Fairy stepped forward and bowed to the Queen. “You lived your life and ruled your kingdom with the teachings of Justice and Mercy. You see that Belle has carried on your legacy. But nothing on that scale weighs Gaston down as much as the pain and suffering he caused you. How can he make amends to you and turn his errors into merits?”

“Simple,” said Queen Colette, sliding off the scale and expanding to her regular size. “By learning his lessons.”

The moment she spoke, the scale disappeared. All the souls on it went back behind him, no longer witnesses against him. The only things that remained up front were his Book of Deeds and the copy of Her Handsome Hero. Both of them popped into his arms.

“This is my sentence?” he thought, looking down at the books with a clenched jaw. He felt like an overage schoolboy. He almost wished he’d been condemned to hellfire. Any soldier worth his salt could handle physical pain. This was sheer humiliation. For the rest of eternity, he’d have to lug around these reminders of how he’d failed to measure up to Belle’s idea of a hero.

As if to rub it in, all eyes turned toward Cricket Man again. Waving his umbrella like a baton, he led the crowd in a new chorus of “The Call of Gideon.” This time, it was a lot louder than a hum. The masculine voices of the soldiers booming the lyrics was almost too much for Gaston to take, considering how they’d all spent their lives.

Come heed the call of Gideon,

the hero of the realm.

And if his rules you’ll follow,

then you may take the helm.

You need not be a fighter,

who’s skilled with sword and shield.

For it takes something mightier

to scale this battlefield.

The inner world of conscience

is where the battle’s fought.

If you can conquer anger,

a triumph you’ll have wrought.

So fill your heart with kindness.

Then show it to your friends.

And strive to be your finest.

The whole world you will cleanse.

Chapter 4: Mortalized

Chapter Text

“Isaac, you’ve really outdone yourself,” said Marian Lewes, peering over the Author’s shoulder as he worked.

“Why, thank you, ma’am,” he answered, stuffing his Pen into his pocket to take a break. “That means a lot, coming from you.” He passed the Book to her so she could get a better look at it. “Do you think readers will understand the paradox?”

Marian cocked her head to the side as she considered it. “To be honest, it’s hard to know. The Jewish concept of the Accuser is so much more nuanced than the Christian devil. It’s hard for people to see Darkness as another tool of Light. Like Hades said, humans need their myths to make sense of the world.”

“Some myths deserve to be busted.”

“True,” she sighed. “But when I tried with Deronda, I certainly heard from the critics.”

“Haters,” grumbled Isaac.

Marian pursed her lips as though withholding comment. She quickly changed the subject. “It seems Rumpelstiltskin isn’t the only one getting closer to his original self. I’ve never seen you tap this deeply into your religious background.”

“Well, you know, they can kick the boy out of yeshiva. . .”

He let the unfinished thought die in silence. Marian always hit him where he lived. But was she right? Was he transforming himself along with the Character?

“Tell me about your sources,” she urged. “I recognized the symbol of the balance scale from the High Holy Days, and of course, blending Justice and Mercy is your overall theme, but why all the references to music?”

Isaac knew how to parry back to that one. He referenced Marian’s own work. “I’m surprised you need to ask, given Daniel’s attraction to Mirah when she sang the old Hebrew hymns.”

“Any observer of humanity knows that music is the language of the soul,” she said. “This was grander. You portrayed it on the cosmic level.”

Isaac grinned. He couldn’t dodge Marian’s keen insight any better than Rumple could dodge Belle’s.

“Okay, you got me. I took inspiration from Perek Shira, the Song of the Universe. It’s a beautifully poetic concept. You’ll love it. The teaching is that all of Creation is constantly singing the praise of G-d. The music can be heard in the ordinary sounds of nature – the howl of the wolf, the trumpet of the elephant – but there are lyrics, too, even though humans can’t make them out. Every species is assigned its own verse of Torah or Talmud to sing. Some of them are just what you’d expect, like the ant. It can lift thousands of times its weight, so its verse is about industriousness. ‘Go to the ant, you sluggard; see its ways and grow wise.’ That’s from Proverbs 6:6, and the reason I can cite it with such precision is that my yeshiva rabbi used to scold me with it.”

Marian grimaced. “No wonder you hated school.”

“You don’t know the half of it. But some of the verses really build you up. My favorite belongs to the large non-kosher animals. ‘When you eat of the labor of your hands, you are praiseworthy.’”

“You’re right. I love this.”

“The rooster gets seven whole paragraphs,” Isaac continued, “probably because the job of waking us sleepy humans is so important. But it’s not only animals. The inanimate forces of nature are singing, too – the sun, the moon, the fields, the seas.”

“And now that he’s all soul, Gaston is beginning to hear it, too.”

“Exactly,” said Isaac. “But I wanted to highlight the cricket. I’ve always been kinda partial to those bugs. See, when I was a little boy, my family took a summer vacation in the Catskill Mountains. That’s sort of like the English countryside to you Londoners, except everyone was Jewish, nobody was rich, and we all stayed in rented bungalows, not sprawling estates. Anyway, when this little city kid heard crickets for the first time, I whispered, ‘Hashem, Hashem.’ Translated literally, that means ‘the Name,’ but really it’s –”

“The word that substitutes for the ineffable Name of G-d,” Marian finished for him. “I know, Isaac.”

He chuckled. “How could I forget who I’m talking to? Well, after that, Papa said something that’s stuck with me my whole life. He said, ‘Itzik’l is a pure little soul. He can hear what the crickets are saying to the Creator.’”

Isaac had to pause. He was starting to get emotional. “He was proud of me then, back before I became a little hellion. But after getting kicked out of yeshiva, there was no point in staying in the old neighborhood, following the old rules, especially with a whole world of opportunity beckoning from uptown. I was gonna be a cracker-jack writer, but naturally, that meant working on the Sabbath, so. . . by the time I was eighteen, Papa and I stopped speaking to each other. And then one day, I got the news that he was gone. Just like that. No chance to say goodbye. That’s why I do what I do. I may have abandoned religious practice, but I remember my yeshiva education. I refuse to let anyone malign my people. Old-fashioned and insular they may be, and yeah, there are some bad apples, but mostly they’re good and honest. Like Papa.”

Marian squeezed his hand sympathetically. She was one of the few people who could truly understand him, and it went beyond the upright Jews she penned to populate Daniel Deronda. It was personal. She was estranged from her family, too. Her idolized older brother cut her off over her out-of-wedlock relationship with George.

Nevertheless, Isaac turned his head to the side, ashamed of his outburst. He was a man of his times, and men were meant to hold it together. Marian gave him a discreet moment to collect himself while she tactfully steered the conversation back to the story. “That Jiminy Cricket is a lovely Character. I hope we’ll have occasion to use him again.”

“Outside the Heavenly Realm, you mean?” said Isaac. “I hope not. Whenever he shows up in Fairy Land, it’s usually because a Character is in moral crisis. Belle met him after a moral triumph, but that’s rare. And anyway, things should go smoothly for her. We left her en route to Mrs. Potts’ cottage, and we know Gabrielle destined her for True Love’s Kiss. After the Kiss, you can take over with the Weaver. But I still have to tie up my loose ends with Brunhilde. Damn those Grimms, throwing in their Viking myth and glorifying war every chance they get!”

Marian put her hand on Isaac’s arm, the calming gesture he’d given to the Agent of Mercy. “It’ll be marvelous if you can reclaim the pagan narrative and subsume it under a message of peace.”

She did not have to say the rest out loud. They both knew it well. The Grimms were watching, ready to grab their story back at the slightest opening.

There was no time to waste. Isaac picked up his Pen and began writing again.

Jiminy Cricket morphed back into human form. “The court remains in session!” he proclaimed, while Gaston, carrying his lesson books, joined the crowd of soldiers. “We are continuing with the trial of Brunhilde, Queen of the Valkyries.”

“YEAH!” the soldiers shouted. After watching her get assigned the blame for the bulk of Gaston’s sins, they wanted their sentences reduced, too. “Throw the Book at her!”

The Agent of Justice was fully prepared and began his argument. “In addition to the crimes already confessed, Brunhilde is responsible for seducing millions of young men into war.”

“YEAH!” roared those millions, summoned to court on the prosecutor’s word. The swarm of souls was so massive, the metaphoric battlefield expanded to the size of several empires.

“They were promised booty and honor while alive, and Valhalla after death,” Rumpelstiltskin continued, “but not only did that insidious inspiration result in the premature loss of life –”

“Our lives!”

“– it created widows, orphans, and suffering beyond measure.”

The wailing of children and the weeping of women pierced the air.

“And the damage is not just to individuals, but to human society as a whole!”

The prosecutor’s finale riled up the crowd like a call to arms. They began running and yelling like a gigantic brigade heading for attack. The newly-sentenced Gaston was swept right along with the charge. There were soldiers from all times and places, Vikings in horned helmets like Brunhilde’s and clean-shaven men in brown uniforms from the future. Many had fought against each other, but they were allied toward one cause now. No matter who they were or where they came from, every last one of them piled onto Brunhilde’s pan of misdeeds.

“This is the biggest trial I’ve ever seen,” said one of Gaston’s former enemies, as the pan sank down to the depths of the Netherworld.

“Of course, it is,” said Queen Colette. “False divinity is being returned to the True Source.”

The Agent of Mercy stepped forward. Nobody dared speak the question on all of their minds. With all those broken and embittered souls filling Brunhilde’s scale, what could the Agent of Mercy possibly say?

“There is no defense for Brunhilde’s actions,” she began. “War is inhumane, not glorious. But Brunhilde deserves credit for her merits, however few they may be. She showed improvement after the Dark One contracted her into service. She helped in the rescue of a kidnapped child.”

“Heia-taha ha!” sang Brunhilde’s Book of Deeds. “Our legion shall fly tonight! Like Valkyries!”

The merits added themselves to Brunhilde’s pan.

“That was an epic accomplishment,” conceded Rumpelstiltskin. “Brunhilde used her fighting prowess on a mission of mercy. She allowed Light to command her Darkness. But she did not sustain it, as is evident from the cursed state she was in when brought to this courtroom.”

Lest anyone forget it, Rumpelstiltskin snapped his fingers and turned Brunhilde back into a broomstick, though he restored her a second later. Powerless to do anything about it, Brunhilde remained quiet, her eyes staring blankly ahead.

“I trust you have nothing to add,” the Agent of Justice said to the Agent of Mercy.

She shook her head. She was as eager to see Brunhilde’s power curtailed as he. In sync with one another, they both stepped back and let Jiminy Cricket, the Herald of Conscience, take center stage. When a scroll appeared in his hands, the same crowd that had produced such a raucous din went silent. Everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the reading of Brunhilde’s sentence.

“The Lord Judge decrees that Brunhilde shall not rejoin what remains of her pantheon, nor shall her powers be restored to her. Instead, they shall come entirely under Heavenly control.”

“NOOOO!” shrieked Brunhilde, as her shackled wrists jerked involuntarily upward. Her screams grew even more shrill when her horned helmet popped onto her head and crumbled to dust. The shackles, meanwhile, siphoned away the rest of her powers. A silvery aura flooded the unending courtroom, so bright that her dupes and victims had to shade their eyes.

“Blessed is the merciful G-d, the Lord Judge, King of the Universe, Who removes duplicitous worship from our Land,” said the Agents of Mercy and Justice in unison.

“Amen,” answered the millions of souls misled by the spirit of warmongering.

Brunhilde’s shackles burst open and disappeared. In an earthly trial, that would have been a sign of her release. In the Heavenly Tribunal, it meant the demigoddess’ power was fully expropriated.

“Redemption is possible for everyone,” said Jiminy Cricket, continuing to read from the scroll. “In light of Brunhilde’s unfinished service to Belle, she shall not spend eternity with the King of Demons. She shall instead return to the Realms of the Living as a flesh and blood human mortal.”

“No!” cried Brunhilde, who seemed to prefer the torments of hell.

“WHAT?” cried Isaac, as the Pen pulled itself out of his grasp and raced ahead of him. “STOP!” he yelled at it uselessly. “My G-d, they’re keeping her alive!”

“Shhh, Isaac, give the story a chance,” said Marian. “Let’s see what happens.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve gotta do something!” He ran his fingers through his hair. He was so keyed up, he couldn’t think. And then. . .

“I have it!” he exclaimed. “Good thing you got me talking about Perek Shira and all those animals.”

He seized back the Pen.

A flock of white swans flew over the mountaintop and landed beside Jiminy.

“Brunhilde flew with swans on her last mission for Belle,” he recounted, “so now the swan shall become the symbol of the righteous use of Valkyrie power.”

The glowing aura around the courtroom shifted onto the flock, brightening their feathers until they were whiter than Arendelle snow. Everyone in the crowd unshaded their eyes.

“That power will be held here in reserve,” said Jiminy, waving his hand to signal the swans to fly away. “And bestowed on a worthier successor yet to be born.”

“Emma Swan,” murmured Isaac. He’d been dithering about what to name the Cursebreaker. “Nailed it.”

He was proud of himself. It was the consummate happy ending. It would tie up all the loose ends the Grimms left hanging when they veered off into the Arendelle subplot. They must have thought they were so clever, pairing their prized Norse goddess with Andersen’s Snow Queen. Well, now Andersen’s Ugly Duckling would get the better of them both. . . because she was actually a sacred swan. Isaac couldn’t remember whether swans had a verse in Perek Shira, but he knew that geese did, and he’d already pulled off a similar switch of species with the cricket. Technically, that verse belonged to the grasshopper.

The Pen twitched in Isaac’s hand. He was resting on his laurels way too early. Emma was a Character of the future, and the Grimms were still fiddling with the present.

“As for your human form,” Jiminy went on, “the Lord Judge has decreed a few minor changes.”

He pointed at the pink scar on Brunhilde’s cheek, the vestige of her fall and fracture while still in broomstick form. The scar peeled right off her face, and though her skin healed without a blemish, the scar became a cloud of pink dust that hovered over her head. She did not look up as it rained down onto her and colored her blonde hair reddish. Everything else about her appearance, from her steely grey eyes to her tall, athletic build, remained the same.

“Court is adjourned,” said Jiminy Cricket.

“But your contract with me is still binding,” said Rumpelstiltskin.

“Damnit!” yelled Isaac, pacing up and down.

Marian tried to calm him. “What are you so upset about? This sounds like an excellent result. Brunhilde will serve Belle until she learns to behave with mercy.”

“Well, I don’t trust it. I wanted her out of the plot.” He stopped mid-step and clamped his hand over his mouth. “My G-d, those Grimms have been doing their research! They’ve revamped the story of the Nephilim!”

“The who?”

“Fallen angels. That’s the common translation anyway, and as usual, it’s not quite accurate, but here’s the gist. A bunch of angels boasted that they were better than humans, so G-d said, ‘Oh yeah? We’ll see about that.’ He stripped them of their power and sent them back to earth. And of course, they messed up as shamefully as we do.”

“That’s from a legitimate Jewish source?”

“Straight out of the Torah. The story appears right before Noah’s Ark. But like I said, the standard Christian translation of ‘fallen angels’ is an oversimplification, just like the so-called devil. Well, that’s my attempt at clarification down the drain. And we’re still stuck with Brunhilde.”

The moment he said it, the Character materialized in Fairy Land. With her powers gone, the realm jump threw her off balance, but when she recouped, her jaw was set in a severe frown. She didn’t look interested in acts of mercy. She was out for revenge.

“Shoot! Belle’s less than a mile ahead,” said Isaac. “C’mon! Let’s follow!”

When Brunhilde landed in Fairy Land, she ranted like a warrior in a flyting contest.

“You defective little good-for-nothing!” she shouted into the air. “I’ll make a better mortal than you ever did! I saw what you looked like. You couldn’t even hold up your own carcass without the help of a cane! It’s a wonder you could hold your head up, you foul-smelling bag of bones! If Belle could see the real you, she’d. . .oww!”

A sharp pinch cramped up Brunhilde’s cheek. Clutching the side of her face, she expected the Dark One to pop out and return her taunts, but he didn’t bother, and that was the ultimate indignity. He didn’t need to appear. His Curse was speaking for itself. Just like his contract, it was still binding. She could insult him to her heart’s delight, but a single word or deed against Belle would trigger her punishment all over again, a literal thorn in her flesh.

“Anyway,” she thought, kicking the dirt bitterly, “if Belle could see what he used to be, she’d probably embrace him all the closer for his infirmity.”

She had to get herself out of this mess, and that meant going back to Arendelle to finish Belle’s mission whether she liked it or not. Why did the court have to land her back in the Dark One’s turf instead of at the site of her death? How was she supposed to get home if she couldn’t even fly? Would she have to pay for travel like a mortal? She had nothing but the stupid peasant clothes on her back. Surely she wasn’t expected to work for wages, lowering herself to the drudgery of a maid like Belle or...

“Mama Bea,” she said aloud.

She had to hand it to herself. It was a brilliant solution. The old housekeeper was the closest thing she had to a friend. That soft-hearted fool could probably be persuaded to give her the money, especially since it was to fulfill Belle’s wishes.

So Brunhilde reversed course, turning her back on the Dark Castle and heading toward Mama Bea’s cottage on the outskirts of the village. She didn’t get far when the sound of a horse-drawn carriage came up from behind her.

“Make way for the Queen, wench,” yelled the driver in front.

“Wench?” thought Brunhilde, swerving around and putting her hands on her hips. She knew she was blocking the road, but she didn’t care.

“Oho! A rebel!” said one of the side riders as the whole team halted. The horsemen flanking the carriage surrounded her within seconds. The one who called her “rebel” jumped to the ground and grabbed her arm.

“What’s the hold up?” demanded a voice from inside the carriage. The door opened, and there sat the dark and beautiful queen, as regal in her bearing as Ingrid the Snow Queen, though her magical aura smoldered with heat, not cold.

“Let’s see some allegiance!” commanded the rider at Brunhilde’s elbow. “Curtsy!”

“I am Brunhilde, mighty Queen of the Valkyries!” she declared. “I curtsy to no one but the rightful heirs of Arendelle.”

“Oh yeah? Well, in the name of Queen Regina of Misthaven, you’re under arrest!” said the rider. He looked smugly pleased with himself until the Queen began to berate him.

“You’re not authorized to speak on my behalf when I’m right here!” she snarled.

The rider hemmed and hawed with excuses, but amid all his mumbling, he did not unhand Brunhilde.

The Queen snapped her fingers, and another guard rushed to the carriage door to help her descend. Balancing on impossibly high shoes, she still managed long and graceful strides.

“Queen of the Valkyries, eh?” she said, her eyes lingering on Brunhilde’s newly reddened hair. No doubt she knew that Valkyries usually manifested as blonde. “Can you furnish some proof for that claim? A fireball? A lightning bolt? Or would a snowstorm be more up your alley? I understand Ice Magic is your specialty up north. Go ahead. Any spell will do.”

Now it was Brunhilde’s turn to hem and haw. “My powers were stolen from me.”

“A likely story,” said the rider at her arm, eager to recover from his loss of face.

“Shut up!” said the Queen. She narrowed her eyes at Brunhilde. “By the Dark One?”

Brunhilde nodded. “I was imprisoned in his castle.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to verify.”

With a wave of her hand, the Queen conjured a small, round mirror in a compact case, the sort that mortal women used for their rouge powder. Brunhilde watched her with great curiosity. If this fiery witch queen was as well-versed in Mirror Magic as Ingrid, they were similar in more ways than one. But unlike Ingrid, she didn’t just stare at the mirror to bring out its charms. She spoke to it.

“Mirror, mirror, in my hand, does this wench’s story stand?”

The Queen turned the compact around so that the glass faced Brunhilde. Looking back at her was a genie she recognized immediately. The last time Brunhilde saw that wizened face, he was in the mirror near the Dark One’s vault. Back then, she’d assumed he was a prisoner like she was, posted as lookout over whatever horrors were hidden down there, but when he replied with a rhyme of his own, Brunhilde realized he served the Queen, not the Dark One.

“I’ve seen her once, but it was brief. In broomstick form, she took her leave.”

“The Dark One cursed me into that shape,” explained Brunhilde, deciding on impulse that this was a team worth aiding. “And if it’s information on him you want, I know plenty.”

“Do you know about his progress on the Dark Curse?”

“Aren’t all his curses Dark?”

The Queen rolled her eyes. “How about the twenty-first century?”

“The what?” said Brunhilde.

“Useless,” carped the Queen.

“She knows about the maid,” said the genie in the mirror. “That’s why she turned into a broom. To fly her away from me.”

“It’s true,” said Brunhilde. “I was the princess’ personal guard.”

“Oh, she’s a princess, is she?”

“Princess Belle of Avonlea,” said Brunhilde, her lips tingling with invisible pinpricks.

The Queen sniffed disdainfully. “Avonlea is a backwater, but the girl’s Name is valuable. Belle.” She rolled her tongue as she said it, then smiled as though she’d just devoured a delicious morsel. Brunhilde’s whole body shuddered in pain.

The Queen turned her mirror back toward herself. “Looks like my new informant is outperforming you already,” she said to the genie, snapping the compact shut. She tossed it aside as though it were garbage, and it vanished into thin air. Meanwhile, the guard at Brunhilde’s arm let go of her. He wasn’t going to risk angering the Queen by manhandling her “new informant,” lest she do to him what she just did to the genie.

The Queen held out her hand, signaling her desire to be helped back into the carriage. When she settled in, she gave her next command. “Brunhilde may ride with me,” she announced, savoring the astonished faces of her horsemen. “Let this be a lesson to you. There’s special favor to be had for serving me well.”

“Don’t expect it to last,” muttered the humiliated guard under his breath.

The Queen smiled saucily. She overheard him, and she didn’t chastise his insubordination. She was glad for Brunhilde to get that message. It showed who was boss.

Brunhilde scrambled onto the carriage without help, and the Queen rapped on the roof when she was ready to go. Once the carriage was rolling along, she got straight down to business. “So what’s he keeping her around for, aside from the obvious.”

“Actually,” said Brunhilde, careful not to set off her curse again, “I doubt he’s compromised her. He wants to, of course, but he respects her too much for that.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” said the Queen. “The old bastard doesn’t respect anything. He’s the very incarnation of irreverence.”

“He’s a bundle of contradictions,” agreed Brunhilde, “but he’s genuinely in love.”

“Love?” repeated the Queen, her tone of disbelief instantly replaced with wicked anticipation. Brunhilde realized she’d just handed over a valuable weapon.

“That’s not even the craziest part. The little ninny loves him in return.”

“Ahhh. A case of Stockholm syndrome.”

“We natives call our seaside city by its proper mythic name,” Brunhilde corrected the Queen proudly. “Agnefit.”

“Oh, spare me your outdated myths. If you want to play on my team, you’ve got to upgrade to modern times.”

Brunhilde’s warrior spirit rallied within her. Who did this arrogant witch think she was, holding herself above the noble Norse? Her “modern” majesty needed to be cut down to size! If Brunhilde were still divine, she would have inspired her worshippers into a full-scale attack on Misthaven. She’d let them colonize it for Arendelle. But she was a mortal now, and all she had to rely on were her wits. She’d side with the Queen in order to beat the Dark One, but eventually, she’d make her pay for that inexcusable insult.

“So tell me,” said the Queen. “Where’s he got her locked up?”

Brunhilde was about to explain that Belle wasn’t under lock and key at all. She was trusted within the Dark Castle because her loyalty to Avonlea kept her from attempting escape. But her mouth clenched up. She couldn’t get a single word out. The Queen studied her with interest.

“The Curse of the Wood Flesh,” she marveled. “I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never seen it in operation.”

She removed a small tube from her bag and twisted it so that a slim red stick emerged. “Run it over your mouth like this,” she advised, demonstrating the motion and deepening the color on her own lips. When she was done, she pressed them together and passed the stick to Brunhilde. “It contains age-reversing potion. I use it as a beauty enhancer, but it’ll work as a stop-gap for your curse. The one thing it can’t do, though, is break it.”

Brunhilde applied the lip stick as shown. “Thank you,” she said when she could speak again. When the Queen’s eyes flashed, she remembered to add, “Your majesty.”

The Queen grinned and sat back in her seat. “Soooo, either you were about to lie to me, or - if I know Rumple - your curse is tied to some more complicated offense.”

“I cannot defy Belle’s wishes,” admitted Brunhilde, knowing this constraint severely shrunk her value to the Queen. Figuring she was about to be unceremoniously pushed out of the carriage, she braced herself. At least she’d gotten conveniently close to Mama Bea’s place. Looking outside, she saw one of the Potts girls on the porch. But as they rounded the corner, Brunhilde noticed that the girl wasn’t alone. She’d brought a friend home. A young woman in a green and yellow cloak.

Brunhilde jumped. It was Belle herself, walking around as free as the wind and looking prettier than the early spring blossoms. “My gods, he let her go!” she exclaimed.

The Queen’s wicked grin grew wider. But before Brunhilde could give her over any more information, she was seized with an all-too-familiar spasm of pain. Moaning loudly, she blacked right out.

Chapter 5: True Love's Kiss

Chapter Text

The familiar scent of Mama Bea’s cooking wafted out of the cozy little cottage. Belle could have picked out the right house even if she’d been blindfolded. But the real sense of welcome came when Mama Bea greeted her on the doorstep. Her whole face lit up in delighted surprise.

“You’re free!” she cried, pulling Belle inside and kissing her. Leaning in close, she whispered, “Safe, too, I hope. You haven’t run away, have you?”

Belle shook her head and clinked the coins in her pocket to show Mama Bea that like herself, she was not only free but well compensated.

“Cogsworth’s free, too,” Belle told her. “He’s gone back to the Land he came from. And Brunhilde. . .” Belle paused until she could think of a discreet way to share Brunhilde’s news while leaving out the embarrassing parts. “She’s on a mission. She’ll be granted her freedom when she completes it.”

“Good news all around then!” said Mama Bea, removing Belle’s cloak and basket and handing them to Emily to hang on a hook. “Heat some tea up for us, love. Peppermint. Belle’s favorite.”

Belle smiled. It was just like Mama Bea to remember the little things. Emily went to the kitchen, and Mama Bea gestured for Belle to sit down.

The room was warm and snug. There was a fire crackling in the hearth and colorful patchwork quilts covering the chairs and sofas. The décor was simple and unpretentious, but the signs of prosperity were evident. Mama Bea was spending her fortune, but modestly, just as Rumple advised her.

“Your home is lovely,” said Belle, “And Emily is so well-mannered.”

At that precise moment, the door burst open. Chip stood behind the threshold, waving a huge goose carcass over his head. “Mama! Look what I got with my slingshot!”

“Atta boy!” said Mama Bea, unfazed by the blood trickling onto her porch. “Bring it out back for Papa to clean. We’ll have a feast fit for royalty tonight.”

She beamed meaningfully at Belle, who was glad to stay for dinner, but wished everyone would just forget that she was a princess. Being included in the family circle was a more precious honor. But before she could accept the invitation, Angela walked in. One wordless look at her mother conveyed her utter exhaustion.

“I know he’s a handful, love. Go rest up in your room. You’re off duty now.”

“Thank you, Mama,” said Angela. On her way out, she crossed paths with her sister, who was carrying in the tea tray.

As Emily served, Belle couldn’t help noticing the pattern of the tea set: white with blue flowers. The very same as Rumple’s

“Yes, he turned me into my own family heirloom,” said Mama Bea, answering Belle’s unvoiced question. “Another of his jokes, I suppose. But I didn’t mind that part so much. If I was stuck being a teapot anyway, I might as well sport my favorite pattern.” Mama Bea sipped a little tea, thanked Emily, and sent her out to check on the progress with the goose.

“You’ll probably need to serve dinner before sundown,” said Belle. “I think Rumple’s stretching out the afternoon for me.”

Mama Bea wrinkled her brow. She’d lived through Rumple’s Time Shifts. “What for? You said you were free. What happens at sundown?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” said Belle with a sigh. “And really, the timing’s just a guess on my part. The main thing is, he’s given me the option to go back. If I do, he says we’ll negotiate a new agreement.”

“Does that mean marriage?” asked Mama Bea.

“I think so,” said Belle solemnly.

“And you’re seriously considering it.”

“I know it sounds crazy - ”

“No, not really,” said Mama Bea. “He does love you. Everyone in the castle saw that plain enough.”

“I knew you’d understand,” said Belle. Now she could ask what was uppermost on her mind, a question only Mama Bea could answer. “Do you remember the night I was kidnapped?”

“How could I forget it? That was the night I earned my release.”

“Right,” said Belle. “Well, I know you were half-teapot then, but the Mirror of Souls was sitting right in front of us on the vanity table. Brunhilde told me she didn’t see anything, but I don’t think I can trust her. So please, tell me the truth. What did you see?”

“A brave knight doing everything in his power for his fair maid,” answered Mama Bea. “But you know that’s not all there is to him.”

Belle instinctively rushed to Rumple’s defense. “He’s had a difficult life. Abandoned by his mother, apprenticed in childhood. Then when he grew up, he lost his wife and son. I don’t know the details, but it must have been terribly tragic.”

Mama Bea grew reflective. “There always was something in the way he treated my Chip,” she said. “Not fond, exactly, but. . . pining.”

The two women sipped their tea in silence. Belle had never seen Rumple interact with Chip, but she could imagine how having a child around would bring out his old wounds. She was sure that his wife and son were the key to why he became the Dark One. Only a desperate soul whose life had been torn asunder could sacrifice himself so irrevocably.

“But is it irrevocable?” asked a voice inside her.

The door burst open again. “Mama!” called Chip. “Papa said to –”

He stopped short and stared at Belle. Whatever he was sent home for was completely forgotten. “You’re the one who got me out of the teacup!” he exclaimed. He ran to her and threw his arms around her waist.

“Chip!” scolded his mother. “A gentleman asks permission first!”

“It’s all right,” said Belle, tousling his hair. Chip’s hug was filling her with tenderness, and she knew it was from something more than her usual love for children and babies. Just like the teacup, Chip still carried the remnants of her Magic Words. Her “I’m sorry” softened Rumple even then, and that was before she learned how to use their power.

“That’s what this test is about,” Belle realized. “It’s all up to me.”

Rumple always said she had great potential. So did Blue. She was being called on to fulfill it. Rumple had become the Dark One by some kind of advanced Dark Magic. She needed an equally weighty Light spell to countermand it. As his research assistant, it fell to her to find it.

She knew she was onto something because her crystal warmed up. “I’m sorry, Mama Bea,” she said suddenly. “I can’t stay for dinner. It’s been wonderful seeing you, but I just had an idea. I have to go.”

“Back to him?”

“NO!” yelled Chip, squeezing her tighter.

Belle stroked his cheek. “Oh, Chip, what a noble hero you’ll grow up to be! But please don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

The “please” worked. Chip released his grip on her and let his Mama have a turn saying goodbye, too.

“Whatever happens, love, the door to my home is always open. You’re welcome here anytime, day or night.”

“Thank you,” said Belle, giving her friend a peck on the cheek. “It’s so reassuring to know I have at least one safe harbor in the world.”

But as she put on her cloak and took back her basket, she wasn’t thinking much about safe harbors. Her mind was awhirl, concocting an adventure.

“I must find Jefferson,” she told herself as she walked back to the forest path. She would buy a feather portal, jump to the Victorian realm, and go see Speranza’s for herself. The bookshop that served as conduit between the realms, the supplier of her very own library, would surely contain the answer she needed.

Then she stopped short, just as Chip had. When Rumple returned from the Victorian realm, he was more frightened than she’d ever seen him, and it was all because of the Chamberlen brothers. He as good as said that they were still after her memory.

If the Victorian realm wasn’t safe, she needed an alternate plan. “Perhaps I should try Elphame Academy,” she thought. They didn’t accept women as scholars, but she could offer to join the library cleaning staff. She had plenty of experience dusting and preserving books!

With her new destination in mind, Belle kept her eye open for carriages to hire. Soon the rumble of horse hooves was coming up from behind her. She hurried to the side of the road. A grand procession followed – a sleek carriage drawn by four horses, plus four independent riders flanking the front and back. It was far more than she’d need to get herself to Elphame.

“Whoever is in there must be fabulously rich to travel in all that state,” she thought. But there was no recognizable insignia on the livery. Everything, from the riders’ uniforms to the horses to the carriage itself, was solid, unadorned black.

Belle stood waiting for the carriage and riders to pass, but the whole entourage inexplicably halted. The owner opened the carriage door. It was a woman, very glamorous and, like her drivers, also dressed completely in black, save for one red ribbon brightening her hair. “Did my carriage splash you?” she asked.

The ground was perfectly dry, but Belle looked down at her shoes and up again. “Oh, no. I’m fine.”

“You know, I’m tired of riding. Let me stretch my legs and walk with you for a spell.”

“A spell?” thought Belle, understanding immediately that the woman must be a witch. A Dark one, too – she seemed like a younger version of Maleficent. It made Belle nervous, but she couldn’t just scoot away like she had with the peddler in the village square. Besides, she had been sent Dark allies before. Brunhilde was doing her bidding in Arendelle at that very moment. As Rumple said, sometimes Darkness was the only way to conquer Darkness. Ultimately, though, Darkness was meant to serve Light.

Belle wished her crystal would give her a definitive sign, but it hung inert on her neck. She decided that since this woman was playing with words the way Rumple did, she was worth listening to, but carefully. It took forethought to be able to glean Light magic from a Dark messenger.

One of the drivers handed the grande dame down from her carriage and opened a lacy black parasol for her. Holding it over herself and standing in her tall shoes, she towered over Belle. Without saying a word, her charcoal eyes commanded that they begin their walk. “You carry very little,” she said, noting Belle’s empty basket.

“I don’t want to be slowed down,” Belle answered.

“Running from someone,” concluded the woman. “The question is: master or lover?”

Belle looked at her. Was she a Seer? More likely, she was a sophisticated practitioner of heartcraft. That explained her wealth. People would always pay a premium price for a love spell.

“Ohhh,” said the witch. “Master and lover.”

This was getting way too personal, way too fast. “I think I might take a rest,” said Belle. “You go on ahead.”

The witch was undaunted. Without invitation, she put her arm around Belle as though they were bosom friends. “So if I’m right, you love your employer, but you’re leaving him.”

Belle stiffened at the forced intimacy, but she kept walking. She supposed this was the price she had to pay for the spell. She had asked Rumple to tell the full truth, so now justice was demanding that she do the same.

“I might love him,” she admitted. “I mean, I could. It’s just that. . .” She searched her mind for a succinct way to express it. “Something evil has taken root in him.”

The witch nodded knowingly. “Sounds like a curse to me. And all curses can be broken.”

Whatever remained of Belle’s caution vanished that instant. Was the magical remedy about to be handed to her?

“A kiss born of true love would do it,” the witch continued. But in the next moment, she was chuckling at the idea. “Oh, child, no. I would never suggest a young woman kiss a man who held her captive. What kind of message is that?”

“Right,” Belle quickly agreed, understanding that the witch knew it was Rumple they were talking about. It stood to reason. He was famous all over the realm, and here in his own locality, rumors of his roguery abounded. Like everyone else, the witch believed Rumple was a villain. “Captive” wasn’t as crass a description as “wench,” but it wasn't much better.

“Besides, if he loves you, he would let you go. And if he doesn’t love you, then the kiss won’t even work.”

“But he did let me go,” said Belle, now certain that Rumple was anticipating precisely this outcome.

“Yes, but no kiss happened, and a kiss –”

“A kiss is enough?” Belle asked eagerly. “He’d be a man again?”

“An ordinary man. True Love’s Kiss will break any curse.”

Belle’s heart was soaring. “Thank you so much,” she said, curtsying to her newfound advisor. “I. . . um. . .think I’ll be going in the other direction now.”

“Yes, of course,” purred the woman. “I think I’ll be on my way, too.” She snapped her fingers, and one of the horsemen stepped forward to help her back onto the carriage. “Good luck!” she called as she was driven away.

As the rear riders disappeared from view, Belle wasted no time. “I must get back to Rumple,” she told herself. She purchased straw from the nearest farmhouse and headed home. The sun lowered in the sky as she walked, and by the time she reached the castle, it was fully dark.

When she entered the Great Hall, Rumple was sitting at his wheel, pretending to be nonchalant. “You’re back already. Good. I’m nearly out of straw.”

“Hmmf!” she sniffed. Did he really think she was going to let him get away with that? She put the basket of straw down in front of him. “Come on. You’re happy I’m back.”

He smiled. “I’m not unhappy.”

“Oh, we can do a lot better than that,” she thought to herself. She circled around to his chair and put her hands on his shoulders. “You promised me a story,” she reminded him.

“Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.” She unthreaded the wheel and sat down opposite him. “Tell me about your son.”

“Uh. . .I lost him. There’s nothing more to tell, really.”

Belle knew that couldn’t possibly be true, but she understood it was hard for him. “And since then, you’ve loved no one, and no one has loved you?”

He did not answer. Instead, he leaned in close and whispered, “Why did you come back?”

“I wasn’t going to,” she confessed. Not without the knowledge she possessed now anyway. “Something changed my mind.”

She inched closer to him and angled her face upward, inviting his kiss. He responded, lightly pressing his lips to hers. For the first few seconds, she kept her eyes closed, just surrendering to the pleasure of it. She’d only ever been kissed on the hand before, and never by anyone she cared about. Her lips tingled with excitement. She wondered if the castle would burst into song to match her mood, but when all she heard was Rumple’s husky moaning, she realized that the enchantment was unfolding entirely within him. As soon as he pulled away, her eyes fluttered open. She could hardly wait to see what the spell would do!

And then it happened – the most beautiful, magical moment of her entire life. Rumple’s green scales faded into healthy, human skin. The milky film that usually clouded his eyes cleared, revealing the deepest, most expressive brown eyes she had ever seen. He was a handsome man! He didn’t look quite like the golden hero she saw in the Mirror of Souls, but that was only because the intensity of the transformation was rendering him so adorably vulnerable.

“What’s happening?” he murmured.

She smoothed out his long, curly hair. “Kiss me again!” she urged. “It’s working!”

“What is?”

Why was he playing dumb like this? Wasn’t this what he wanted of her? “Any curse can be broken!” she declared joyfully.

He did not react as she expected him to. It was as though he did not want to be a man again.

“Who told you that?” he demanded, pulling back from her and jumping up. “Who knows that?”

“I don’t know. She. . .she. . .”

Belle was so flustered, she couldn’t formulate even the simplest explanation. But Rumple wasn’t waiting around for one. He checked his hands to see if the curse was still on him. As his fingernails turned back into claws, he abruptly turned his back, rushed to the mirror in the corner, and pulled off its heavy covering.

“YOU EVIL SOUL!” he shouted at it. “This was you! You turned her against me! Do you think you can make me weak?”

“Who are you talking to?” cried Belle, though she had a sinking feeling she already knew.

“The Queen!” he answered in a mockingly high voice. “Your friend, the Queen.”

“The Queen?” Belle repeated, sensing she’d made a colossal error. She would never have spoken to the infamous Evil Queen had she realized who it was, but how could she have known? Though she’d read all about King Leopold, she’d only seen his widow drawn as an ugly hag. She recalled those defaced posters she saw in the tavern with Stealthy all those months ago. In her wildest imaginings, she wouldn’t have linked that distorted image with the stunning enchantress in the black carriage. Nor would she have dreamed that the Queen herself would bother with something as trivial as counseling a country maid on matters of the heart.

“I knew this was a trick,” seethed Rumple, stalking back toward her. “I knew you could never care for me. You’re working for her. Or is this you – being the hero and killing the beast?”

He bared his rotten teeth at her as he spat out his accusations. The curse was settling on him stronger and more deeply than before. He was becoming irrational. She needed to calm him down. She understood she never should have trusted a strange witch, but the fact was: the spell worked. Whatever power struggle she’d inadvertently stepped into could be mended later.

She seized his hands in hers, hoping it would placate him. “It was working!” she pointed out.

He pulled out of her grasp. “Shut up!”

“This means it’s true love!”

“SHUT THE HELL UP!”

The burn of his Curse Word jolted her, but she kept going. “Why won’t you believe me?”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “BECAUSE NO ONE, NO ONE COULD EVER LOVE ME!”

She shut her eyes and cowered as he let loose with his rage. Her heart pounded in fear. The handsome man she loved was completely overtaken by the raging monster. What would he do to her next? He gave her another rough shake. She straightened up, found the courage to reopen her eyes, and saw he was still glowering at her. “Move!” he commanded as he marched her across the Great Hall.

He forced her to a place she thought she’d never see again – her dank old dungeon cell. Shoving her inside, he said nothing as she fell to her knees. She heard the door lock behind her. All this punishment, just for taking advice from the wrong witch?

Belle did not cry as she sat alone in the cold dungeon cell. She could be rational, even when he was not. At bottom, she knew he loved her. The Kiss just proved it. He could not keep her in here forever. She even began to see some of his hidden kindness in placing her here. It was his way of protecting her from his savagery.

“I’m sorry,” she said aloud, hoping the charm in the Words would cast their magic even when he was out of earshot. “I made a bad mistake, that’s all. I thought I was doing what you wanted.”

She waited a moment to see if he accepted her apology. He did not come back, so she tried again, this time sampling from a broader variety of Magic Words. “Please, Rumple, calm yourself,” she begged. “I promise I wasn’t trying to undermine you. I just thought I’d found a way to make both of us happy.”

She paused again. Still no sign from Rumple. Whatever he was doing out there, he was not letting her be part of it.

Now a tear did roll down her cheek. Once again, her own poor judgment landed her in a giant mess. She decided to try one more magical phrase. Rumple hadn’t taught it to her, but it came from her heart, and like True Love’s Kiss, that should make it work.

Summoning her highest hopes, and without a quaver in her voice, she said it loudly. “I love you, Rumpelstiltskin.”