Robert Carlyle is, to my view, one of the greatest actors in the world today. For seven seasons he appeared as Rumpelstiltskin in ABC's
Once Upon a Time, a series Kye and I love, but one that was beset by massive plot holes and poor writing, especially during seasons five, six, and seven. The show, quite frankly, should have ended at the conclusion of season six, but limped on into a seventh before finally and mercifully being cancelled.
Rumpelstiltskin, like Rebecca Mader's
Wicked Witch, was given short shrift over the final two seasons. That, and his story was utterly mangled to boot. The writers worked tirelessly to de-fang and suburbanize him in order to appeal to suburban audiences. They also mangled in the process any adult discussion about morality and good versus evil. It outraged me to the point that at the end of season six, I stomped around the TARDIS for an hour afterward raging about poor Rumpel's plight.
I don't just let things like that go, of course. I'm a writer! And so I decided to write my own happy endings for the Wicked Witch, and now for arguably my favorite character on any television series I've ever watched, Rumpelstiltskin.
To date, six chapters have been posted. Many thanks to all of you who have dropped by to read it!
Enjoy!
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Belle has been changing. After an outburst at Granny's, Rumpelstiltskin, her devoted husband, decides to investigate. What he discovers will change his life forever. Read on!
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The Freedom of a Lily
~~*~~
1.
Cursed Complacency
~~*~~
He lifted his head and looked around. Tears and blood—his
own—made the effort difficult. He wiped his forehead and stared at the red
smear across the back of his hand.
Little had been
untouched by his rage. After a time, and with painful effort, he uncurled and pushed
himself to a sitting position. He leaned heavily against the part of the glass
cabinet that hadn’t shattered and worked at getting a hold of himself.
How long had he
lived? Time couldn’t touch him. He could die, but killing him was, to put it
mildly, a difficult proposition.
More accurately,
somebody else killing him was a
difficult proposition.
He let that notion
settle over the destruction like a cold, wet blanket, and closed his eyes. Blood
ran from his gashed forehead next to his ear and under his collar without care.
Sometime later he woke. His butt and lower back were asleep.
The gash on his head had clotted over, making any movement of his face sting
fiercely.
It was early
morning—past three o’ clock. No one had come to check up on him. Not a single
person in this backwoods village ostensibly full of history’s most shining fairy-tale
heroes. They were probably too busy enjoying their happy endings. He let the
bitterness of that settle into his colon like hot coal. He chuckled, and the pain
of it responded by urging him to stand. He did.
His legs were
asleep. It made moving around the counter problematic. He stumbled like a
zombie, and tripped just before making it to his destination—the painting which
provided cover to his enchanted wall safe.
He got back to his
feet and waved his hand.
The painting
dissolved, revealing the safe. He waved his hand again and the heavy door
clicked slightly open. Grabbing the handle and pulling it open all the way, he
reached deep inside and withdrew a long mahogany box with ornate black and gold
etchings. Another wave of his hand and the safe closed, the paintings rematerializing.
He hadn’t looked at
this box in almost five years—the longest in his entire centuries-long life. He
hadn’t looked at it for her. She had
insisted that he put it up, and he had acceded. He had actually kept his word.
But it didn’t
matter. None of it had mattered.
“If you love me,
Rumpel, you’ll do this. For me.” She
had said that countless times during their courtship, and then countless more
during their marriage. Like some sort of enchantment, he had caved each time,
and had, at least for a little while each time, done what she asked.
Of course, the
enchantment always wore off, and he went back to his “wicked ways,” as she
called them. The only two times he hadn’t failed her, in fact, were, in order,
his wedding vows to be faithful, and not long after that his fervent vow to
stop handling the Dark One Dagger.
Which lay in the
mahogany box he held right now.
It wasn’t that she changed overnight. That would have been
infinitely preferable. She had changed slowly, almost unnoticeably, over the
course of the previous two years.
Of the changes he
did notice, he thought them good—at least at first. She stopped nagging him.
With that came the end of the specific nagging to have a child. She had always
wanted one, but now was wavering. She had even picked out the name—Gideon. When
asked what she wanted to name a daughter, she replied, “Oh, I don’t think I’ll
have a daughter. I’m convinced it’ll be a son. That is, if I have kids at all.
I’m not sure now.”
They even spoke of
leaving Storybrooke and moving to the Edge of Realms, where, it was rumored,
the Dark One—he—would finally be able to end the dagger’s hold over him (according
to just one of many prophecies, most of which were total rubbish) and he,
ostensibly, could be free of the darkness for good and forever. They were
happy.
At least, he
thought they were.
There was nothing to
be alarmed about until Friday night at Granny’s, the night before last, when
she polished off a bottle of chardonnay like it was strawberry Kool-Aid. Near
the end of it she glanced up at Granny herself, who was busy collecting their
dishes, and said, “You know, Granny, that lasagna tasted like a pack of dogs
gang-fucked it, devoured it, then puked it up on the front porch.”
“Excuse me?”
demanded Granny, justifiably outraged.
“Belle?” he’d asked
in stunned disbelief.
“Oh, come on,
Rumpel, you thought it tasted like shit too. You told me!”
He glanced up at
Granny, who looked ready to bash Belle’s head in with a plate. “Please forgive
her. She’s had a little too much to drink tonight.”
“Don’t make excuses
for me! I’m not sorry!” snapped Belle. She threw her napkin at him and scooted
out of the booth. She stood and glared at Granny, who glared right back. “I’ve
always hated this horrible place!” With that she stumbled for the back exit.
“I’m going to the bar! You two can go to hell!”
“Forgive her,” he
offered, standing quickly. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a
hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “Keep it,” he said. The tab for the meals
and the wine ran only fifty-five bucks, but he didn’t care.
Granny snatched the
money without comment.
He hurried off after
his wife.
She was
walking—stumbling, actually—down the street. He hurried to catch up to her,
then decided against it. With a flick of his wrist she disappeared in a cloud
of crimson smoke. He’d sent her home, to bed. With another flick he put her
out. One more and he was instantly home, too.
Changes. Yes.
He glanced down at
her as she lay sprawled across the mattress. He peered at her dress, which was
even shorter than usual. And her heels, which were probably another half-inch longer.
And her makeup, which was applied a skosh more assiduously, thickly, and
garishly than before. But the changes until then hadn’t concerned him, which
seemed utterly unlikely, because he never
missed details or what they might signify. It was what had made him so
formidable through the years: always having a grasp of the loopholes; always
having a handle on what people were actually
doing rather than what they said they
were doing. Most of all, never, ever
taking anything for granted. Like he had been for far too long now with her.
He opened her closet
and took out her clothes and examined them. He could actually put them along a
time spectrum, and did. The latest fashions were increasingly slutty and
revealing, black or red or hot pink, and low-cut. Why hadn’t he noticed until now?
He went through her
underwear drawer. Once full of pretty, flowery whites, pinks, and blues, her
lingerie had steadily morphed into red, hot pink, and black, and, like her
outerwear, increasingly skimpy. A black G-string actually said FUCK ME on the
front.
Why hadn’t he noticed?
He put her undies
back, closed the drawer, and went downstairs. He opened the liquor cabinet and
took everything out.
One thing became immediately
clear: there was a lot more booze
than he had ever realized or enjoyed himself! Many of the bottles were close to
empty. He didn’t remember ever drinking Jack Daniels or Ezra Brooks,
or buying a bottle of Everclear or Night Train, or six-packs of cheap beer!
He angrily flicked
his wrist and the booze, all of it, dissolved into nothingness.
He glanced at the
stairs. What was going on?
He slept on the couch. He knew what was
coming in the morning. It wasn’t going to be pleasant. But at least he knew
where he needed to start.
He made a full
breakfast for her and waited patiently. She typically rose at 6 so that she
could exercise, eat breakfast, shower, dress, and get to the library by opening
time, which was 9. But by 10 she was still asleep, and her breakfast was getting
cold. He put her portion in Tupperware (he’d long since eaten his) and then the
fridge. He waited in the living room and read the local rag. He thought of
opening the shop, but decided against it.
At 11 he heard
movement coming from the bathroom upstairs, then the shower turning on. At
11:45 she walked down the stairs. She was wearing black jeans, a Van Halen T-shirt
(one he’d never seen before, and which exposed a large portion of her belly),
and boots, and had a backpack slung over her shoulder. He glanced up from the
book he was reading (Hegel’s Phenomenology
of Spirit).
“Going somewhere?”
She glowered. “I
want a divorce.”
He put the book
down. “Because you didn’t like the lasagna last night?”
“Because you
magicked me from where I was going after I left that shit-hole, and because you
knocked me out! I wasn’t even tired!”
He stood. “Belle ...
I’m sorry. But you’re not yourself. You’re ...”
She went to answer,
but he waved a hand at her, and she froze. Her face had gathered into a furious
retort of 100-decibel profanity, her eyes like blue spears.
He shook his head
as though it were full of obscuring smoke. “Why ... why am I only seeing this now?”
He gazed at her.
The anger building in him threatened to eclipse anything her frozen face
displayed. “Of course,” he spat under his breath. “Of course!”
He stalked into the
kitchen and began casting around. “Of course! Who this time? Come on, dearie,
come on now. I’ll find you. You know I will!”
But he didn’t find anything
until two more hours had passed. By then he had torn through not just the
kitchen, but the study, the library, the cellar, and the attic. He ended up in
the master bathroom. There he came across his daily supplement container. He
opened up every day and poured the pills and tablets out on the countertop next
to the sink and began examining them one by one. When he got to his daily
multivitamin, he gazed at it with suspicion, then hurried downstairs with it in
his grip. Once in the library, he retrieved a magnifying glass and flicked on
the desk lamp. He brought the vitamin beneath the bright yellow circle of
light, and bent to examine it.
Close-up, he could
see tiny blue flecks that didn’t belong there. When he removed the glass, the
flecks disappeared.
His lip curled with
rage. His picked up the vitamin with his thumb and index finger; with his other
hand he waved at it. Everything that was the vitamin disintegrated.
At that point, he
should’ve been staring at nothing but air.
Instead ...
Instead the blue
flecks remained floating like ...
“... like
bloodsucking fleas,” he growled, thinking of another group of the same, much
larger, that he should have disposed of ages ago.
This was their
handiwork, he suspected. He opened his palm, and the blue flecks obediently
floated over it. “And what are you little beauties exactly?”
He would need to
break out some of his equipment to find out.
Belle was waiting
just as he’d left her. She’d not remember anything, and wouldn’t tire while
being frozen. He thought of giving her dummy memories when he released her, but
decided against it. He promised her he would never do that to her. Then again,
he had promised never again to use magic against her. For years now he had been
true to his word. Before he could stop himself, he muttered, “And look where
that got me.”
But—was she at fault? Perhaps she was a victim.
Perhaps she was clueless as to what was happening to her, and therefore to him.
That was possible. He’d have to determine that as well, and that required she
stayed where she was. But first ...
He gazed at the magical
blue particles hovering almost invisibly over his left palm.
“First,” he
snarled, “let’s find out what exactly you are, and exactly who wanted me to
ingest you.”
He flourished his
free hand and a moment later reappeared in his shop.
The spell that created them turned out to be incredibly
complex. There were spells nested within spells nested within more still. Many
were dummy spells—spells designed to lead the investigator down endless paths
that ended inevitably in failure or a morass of even more potential dummy
spells. Other spells came with “firewalls” that he was certain were designed
specifically for him, for they were far more powerful than necessary, even for
the “Savior,” Emma Swan. Several tried invading his mind and prompting great
guilt or revulsion in him. Another nearly succeeded in getting him to destroy
both his investigative efforts and the dust itself. He had to start over when
he realized what was going on.
Several tried to
put him to sleep. And one was an astonishingly powerful memory charm. He barely
liquidated it before it got to him.
The longer he worked,
the madder he got. Whoever created this curse put in tremendous effort, time,
and magical energy. This magic was as sophisticated as he’d ever seen, even
compared to his own.
He glanced at the
clock. It was past 1:30 in the morning. He had been at this now for half a day.
Thankfully he was making inroads, however grudging and slow they were. He
believed he had found the spell’s authentic bits. Dutifully and painstakingly,
he followed them to their source. All spells had a source, a kernel, a seed.
Find that, and he would likely find the means to eliminate it.
He put his work
down, then flourished his hand and disappeared back home. He was hungry and
needed a bite to eat. Hungry, yes—but not tired. Outrage had energized him in a
way he hadn’t felt in many moons. When he finally discovered what the spell was
designed to do, he’d—
He had reappeared
in the living room. He glanced around.
Belle was gone.
That was impossible! Someone had actually come into their home and had released her from the
freezing spell! From his freezing
spell!
Who was that
powerful? The fleas? Swan? Regina?
Hook? Who?
The fleas? Maybe. But
this wasn’t the same as just cursing vitamins. This was next-level magic, and
he was certain they didn’t have it in them.
Swan? Maybe.
Hook? Not without serious
aid—a talisman or an accomplice very (very)
skilled in sorcery.
Regina?
He growled
self-reproachfully. He was asking the wrong question. The right one was:
Who would have the
idiot courage necessary to break into his and Belle’s home?
A better one: Who
could have possibly known that he had
frozen her?
It was difficult to
think past his skyrocketing anger.
No one—NO ONE—pulls a fast one on ME! NO ONE!
It was possible to
put a magical trace on a person. But in his trust and desire to be the kind of
man Belle insisted that he could be if he
just tried, he had desisted in
putting one on her. He wanted her to know that he had changed.
Clearly, someone
had put a trace on her, one that had informed the perpetrator that she had been
frozen. They then came and released her or possibly just magicked her frozen
self somewhere else.
Something occurred
to him then.
He bent his head
and closed his eyes. Very slowly and deliberately, he raised his hands to shoulder
level, palms facing each other, and focused.
The magic didn’t
respond at first. It couldn’t get past his rage, which at this point was
directionless and so behaved as a block to anything intentional. On the fifth
try he achieved success. A glowing yellow light formed between his hands and
quickly expanded.
It resolved. Standing
before him was a translucent, slightly glowing figure—him.
It wasn’t a
reflection. It nodded even though he didn’t. It was the nod he was looking for.
Or a shake of the head. Either would’ve sufficed.
The nod angered him
even more.
He stepped into the
ghostly image, and it disappeared.
To keep a lid on
his anger, he began pacing the room and talking to himself.
“Let’s review,
shall we? My wife begins changing back to Lacey, through the likely effort of
the fleas. Oh, it’s slow at first, that change, but then becomes more rapid and
obvious—clothes, attitude, habits, booze, the works.” He got to the hearth,
lifted a finger and ran it along the top of it, examining the light streak of
dust. He turned on his heel and began marching back. “Change is good ... change
is evolution ... change means life and growth—or death and decay.” He lifted
that same finger. “But no matter, because I have learned through the centuries
to spot change and to use it to my advantage. It didn’t matter if it was good
change or bad, I could make it work to my
advantage. Yes, indeed.”
He felt proud of
himself. He was doing something right now that he had never in his life done before.
In the past, had someone as important to him as Belle disappeared or been
snatched from him, or put under the influence of a nefarious spell that
regressed her to her cursed self, as she clearly was at this point, he would
have instantly gone on a relentless hunt both for that person and their abductor,
and would not stop until he had found both. But here he was instead, fighting
every instinct to do just that. Here he was, forcing himself to think instead
of going straight to the fleas and squashing every last one of them whether
they were involved or not. He got to the opposite wall and the end table and
wheeled about, his finger still in the air.
“They were
thorough. I noticed Belle’s changes back to Lacey but somehow didn’t care about
them. I noticed them but didn’t care
about them. Today I find out why. Because the fleas, in all likelihood, have
been dosing my daily multivitamin with a spell designed to keep me from caring about them.
“Just a minute ago
I discover that I too have a trace on me, which means they know precisely where
I am at all times.” He got to the
hearth and spun around. “The problem is, trace magic is very difficult, even
for me. The fleas couldn’t have put
one on me. They don’t have the skill or the power. I barely do! No one in this Happily Ever After Plothole of a town
has that kind of ability.”
He turned at the
wall. “So who, dearie? Who?”
He stopped
mid-step. “I’m still missing something. Indeed.”
He flourished his
hand and reappeared in his shop.
This time his
quarry didn’t take long to find. Forty minutes after starting, he held up a half-empty
vial of what should have been turquoise-blue sleeping potion that was now,
against all reason, purple. It had been poorly hidden under a loose corner floorboard
he knew Belle knew about. He picked the vial up and, while still kneeling, took
a long look at it. “Now this is quite
interesting ...”
He stood and went
to the back office and flipped on the desk lamp to get a better look.
In a day and a half
of outrages, one after the other after the other, one more at this point did
little to affect his temper, mere snowflakes settling on Mt. Everest.
He found himself feeling the still relatively new sense of gratitude that no
one had interrupted him or walked into the shop, because then the “Old Rumpel,”
as his wayward wife called him numerous times, would be ready to strike, and he
hadn’t murdered anyone with gleeful capriciousness in a long time.
As he very much
wanted to right now.
He forced himself
to focus on what should be sleeping potion, now almost certainly not. Should he
investigate further? What magical properties did this fraud of a potion contain, and how were they created to aid in
manipulating him to be utterly ignorant and at ease with his wife’s slow
changes back to Lacey that culminated in her leaving him yesterday morning? The
fleas and someone else—someone immensely
powerful—had successfully pulled the magical wool over his eyes for a very long
time. Their planning had to have been painstaking, meticulous, and most
skillfully and patiently executed. It was, he had to admit, a masterful job, a
thing of beauty.
He threw the vial
into the wall, where it shattered and the potion spattered over the cabinet.
It didn’t matter now
what he discovered. He’d been royally had. He’d been conned. Belle was gone;
and it was a sure bet that she was going to be very difficult to find. Anyone with the skills to put this curse
together wouldn’t have forgotten such an important detail.
What was most
painful, however, wasn’t that the curse had defeated him, the Dark One, but
this: Belle hadn’t had the courage to come to him, to be honest with him, to
share with him that she was dissatisfied and longing for something else in her
life.
His old cane was in
the corner next to the loose floorboard, which was still up. He looked around,
only now becoming cognizant of the fact that he had come back into the store
proper. He went to the floorboard and kicked it down, then grabbed the cane.
His temper, which had been safely contained to
that point, boiled over.
He opened the mahogany box and stared down at the blade
which had stayed nestled here in darkness and safety for half a decade:
RUMPELSTILTSKIN
