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kelyon · 3 years

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Golden Rings 19: A Friend

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumpelstiltskin receives a visitor

Read on AO3

A family stands before him, more terrified than they want to show. The man holds a top hat in both hands. The woman keeps her arms over their daughter.

“Is it true?” the man asks. “What Regina is threatening, can she do it?”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin steps toward the huddled family. It is unlike Jefferson to be so serious, unlike Leona to show anything less than brazen self-confidence. The girl may be too young to know what is happening, but she knows that her parents are afraid and that is enough to make her terrified.

Belle comes up behind him, her hand extended to the child. “Grace,” she says gently, “would you like to visit my horse? Perhaps we could go for a ride.”

The girl looks to her parents. “May I, Mama? Papa?”

“Of course, luv.” Leona releases her grip on her daughter. “Make sure you mind Belle, and don’t get yourself into any trouble you can’t get out of.”

Nodding obediently, the child takes his wife’s hand. Belle gives him an encouraging smile before they go out to the stables. She trusts him to handle the situation on his own. She knows he can assuage their fears.

Once his daughter is gone, Jefferson leaves his wife and comes up to Rumpelstiltskin. He puts his hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eyes. “I’m serious,” he says.

“I know you are, my boy.” Delicately, he extracts himself from the other man’s grip. “This is a serious matter.”

“This queen lady told everyone she’s going to destroy the world.” Leona says what they all know but cannot utter. “Does she really have that much power?”

He cannot face them. He turns away, takes long, slow steps around his dining room before he answers.

“Yes.”

Jefferson crushes the brim of his hat in one hand. After a moment, he gathers himself. “We’ve seen worlds destroyed before, Dark One. It is a terrible thing.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, you were with me when proud Atlantis sank beneath the waves. A million lives lost in fire and water and lightning. But Regina’s curse is… different. Her purpose is not to destroy the world, but to destroy happiness.”

Leona’s mouth drops open. “And how is killing everyone not the same as all that? Who would be left to be happy, when it’s all over?”

Rumpelstiltskin shakes his head. “No, she wants us alive. Everyone in this world, everyone she considers her enemy. She wants us alive and miserable and trapped in our misery for the rest of time.”

“Gods.” Jefferson collapses into a chair and hangs his head. Leona stands by him and takes his hand into her own.

“Regina will end this world, and take us all to a new one--a land without happy endings. We will all be severed from the people we love, or even if we are near them, we won’t be able to love them.”

“But why everyone?” Leona asks. “Why us? I never did anything to this woman! What’s she got against me?”

Walking over to the couple, he places his hand over where theirs are joined. “You are happy,” he says simply. “The two of you have a love that she will never know--and the love of your child besides that. Regina believes that she will never have happiness as long as anyone else does.”

Leona nods, understanding. “So she’s mad, is she?”

“Yes,” Jefferson answers. His blue eyes look out at nothing as he speaks. “I’ve worked with Regina, before I met you, Leo. Once, she commissioned me to take her and a servant girl to Wonderland. Didn’t tell me that this was going to be a rescue mission to save some old man. You know the rules of the hat, only the number of people that go in can come out again. That was why Regina brought the servant girl. She killed her. Ripped her heart out of her chest and crushed it. As easily as blowing her nose. We left the girl’s body there, in the forest of giant mushrooms. So yeah. As they say in Wonderland, Regina is mad as the March Hare.”

Leona holds her husband in both hands, standing over him as she had stood over her daughter earlier. Wincing at the memory, he rests against her bosom

“What do we do?” For all her comforting posture, Leona looks at Rumpelstiltskin with steely determination. “Can you stop her?”

He raises his hands in a show of helplessness. “Regina is a powerful magic-user and she is on a war-path.”

Hands balled into fists, Leona breaks away from Jefferson and begins to pace. “If my mother were here, she’d hit that woman upside the head with a cauldron, queen or no!”

“Yeah, well Nanny Ogg is from a different world than this one.” Jefferson stays seated in the chair. His hat hangs loosely in his grip.

“It is not hopeless,” Rumpelstiltskin says. “All curses can be broken.”

“Broken after they’ve been cast!” Leona marches up to him, wielding an accusatory finger. “I want to know if you can stop her, stop this curse from ever happening!”

“Leo,” Jefferson stands behind his wife. Gently, he puts his hands on her ample hips and pulls her close to him. “The Dark One is our friend. I’m sure he’s doing everything he can.”

He says nothing. He lets Jefferson’s faith do the talking for him. Jefferson is a clever man, but less shrewd than his wife. The poor boy wants to believe in him, but Leona Ogg has no such sentimentality. She is wise enough to know that if he wanted to stop this curse, it would never have been able to start.

“You should leave,” he tells them quietly. “The three of you should go in the hat, find some world far from here where you can live out the rest of your days together.”

“If Regina can destroy one world, she’ll find a way to destroy others,” Jefferson points out.

He shakes his head. “After the curse is cast, Regina will be stopped. A Savior will come, a force of goodness who will destroy her evil forever.”

“But only after we’ve been cursed?” Leona crosses her arms.

He nods. “Yes. The only way to avoid it is to flee. Leave this world before it leaves you.”

Slowly, Jefferson turns his hat over in his hands. “That makes sense.” He looks to Leona. “Where do you want to go?”

“Lancre, of course. If we can’t live in the home we made for ourselves, we might as well go to Mum’s.”

Jefferson nods. “What do you say, Dark One? Can I offer you and Belle a trip to Discworld?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t know what form my magic will take on a world like that. There is a risk I’ll transform into something horrible and the good people of the Disk World will have to try to slay me.”

Leona snorts. “And it’ll take a few weeks at least to find any ‘good people’ around. We’re not as black and white with the ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’ as this place.”

“All the more reason for me to stay here and face this curse as it comes.”

“And Belle will stay with you?”

He gives his friend a rueful grin. “I couldn’t make her leave me if I tried.”

Jefferson looks down at his hat and then looks up again. “Do you really think if we go to Discworld the curse will pass us by?”

He puts his hands over Jefferson’s around the brim. “The best I can promise is that you will be safer.”

Leona’s dark eyes narrow. “‘Safer’ isn’t ‘safe,’ Mister Dark One.”

“No.” Jefferson steps back, away from Rumpelstiltskin and toward his wife. In a motion born from years of practice, he twirls the hat to put it on his head. “But sometimes safer is the best you can hope for.”

“I hope you do get away from the curse,” he tells them honestly. “For it will be a very long time before any good can come out of all this. ”

****

It was strange, to wake up in a bed without Belle. Without even Mrs. Gold’s body, warm and soft beside him. In the month since they had started sleeping in separate bedrooms, Rumpelstiltskin still hadn’t gotten used to waking up alone. It had been a bittersweet torture to spend that much time in bed with a woman who wasn’t Belle. Being without was a milder ache, but an ache nonetheless.

That morning, he met her going up the stairs as he was coming down. Mrs. Gold was still in her pajamas--a new pair he hadn’t seen before. She had a plate of toast in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. So she would eat in her room before she got dressed. That was the opposite of his routine. Ever since their new arrangement, Mrs. Gold had been going out of her way to avoid him.

He wanted to speak to her. He wanted to say something innocuous, even just “Good morning.” Something to make her turn and look at him, say anything in response. He just wanted to see Belle’s face, hear Belle’s voice.

But Mrs. Gold turned away, pressed herself against the banister, and brushed past him as quickly as she could.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed. How strange that he would miss that woman, that he would feel their estrangement so keenly. Before, he had taken for granted that Mrs. Gold wanted to please him, that she sought him out and tried to talk with him. But now she would only speak when he asked her a question. Now she kept to her room when he was in the house. She stayed away from the shop during the day. Wherever he was, his wife made a point to be somewhere else.

Considering how he had treated her, it was no less than he deserved.

After making his breakfast, he sat alone at the far end of a long table. In silence, Rumpelstiltskin read the newspaper and tried to push from his mind how familiar a situation this was. Not with Belle. Once he had her in his castle, she had never avoided him, even when it would have been in her best interest. But before Belle. During those long centuries of isolation, when he had been an enemy of love. When his life was nothing but magic and deals and endless searching for a way to find Bae. When people were nothing but tools to be used, locks to be picked, pieces to be arranged upon a chessboard that stretched out for decades.

Then, he had spent many mealtimes at the head of a table set for one.

When it was time to leave for the day, Mrs. Gold came down to join him. Every morning he gave her a ride into town. She usually kept her face to the window and didn’t make a sound for the whole trip.

She wore charcoal today, a sweater-dress that wrapped snugly around her body. Gold would have sent her out in that with nothing underneath, but she had put on layers of camisoles and blouses. Most of her clothes were flimsy and skimpy, so she wore the pieces on top of each other in a haphazard effort to cover herself.

At least she looked warm.

The clashing dark colors washed out her face, made her look even paler and sadder. She wasn’t wearing cosmetics, or any jewelry besides her wedding ring. Her thick, curly hair hung limply over her shoulders, like a shroud.

Again, Rumpelstiltskin wanted to speak to her. But what could he say? Any comment on her appearance would seem like an attack, any inquiry to her wellbeing would be an invasion. What do you say to someone you’re no longer even pretending to love?

“What do you think you’ll do today?” he tried once they were in the car.

She shrugged and sank further back into the seat, her arms folded over her chest.

“Do you need money?” It seemed a heartless, mercenary solution, but it was all he could safely offer her.

And it worked. Straightening up, Mrs. Gold spoke: “Sure.”

At Storybrooke’s only stoplight, he pulled out his wallet and handed her a wad of bills.

She put them in her purse. “Since you’re paying me, I guess that means you’re satisfied with what you’re getting out of this new deal.”

Rumpelstiltskin gripped the steering wheel. No, he wasn’t satisfied at all. But he wouldn’t be satisfied until Belle was sitting next to him, talking to him. Lonely as he was, he couldn’t ask for Mrs. Gold’s time or attention. It would be too cruel to demand any devotion, when he knew he had no intention of doing the same. He couldn’t love Mrs. Gold. It would be too unfair to ask her to love him again.

He parked the car next to the shop.“You’re doing everything I expected you would, Mrs. Gold.”

“Great.” She zipped up her purse. “That must be why we’re both so fucking happy.”

By the time he turned to look at her, she had already unbuckled her safety belt and slammed the door.

Rumpelstiltskin watched Mrs. Gold walk away. He could go after her, even on his cane. He could shout to get her attention. He could drive up to her and insist she get back in the car. He could make an effort to talk to her, to get her to talk to him. He could try to understand this woman, this curse-creature who occupied Belle’s body, but who seemed to have a mind of her own. He could try to get inside that mind. He could try to see who she was, now that she wasn’t pretending to be what she thought her husband wanted.

But he did nothing. Rumpelstiltskin was a coward down to his bones. No good would come of getting to know Mrs. Gold. He couldn’t risk finding out what she thought of him, what she wanted out of this relationship. They didn’t have a relationship, they didn’t relate to each other.

He had made sure of that.

So Rumpelstiltskin did what he had been doing every day since he’d been let out of the jail cell: He opened the pawn shop, and conducted his business, and waited for the Savior to break the curse.

****

It was dark outside, when the bell rang over the shop door. A spring storm was picking up. Wind sent leaves and debris skittering over the road and sidewalks. Thunder rumbled and heavy clouds pressed down upon the town.

Rumpelstiltskin was polishing the collection of silver on the side counter. At the sound of the bell, he looked up.

And froze.

Jefferson.

It was Jefferson. The tall, broad-shouldered young man who had transported him from world to world for a handsome fee, who had accompanied him on dozens of adventures, who had reminded him that physical pleasure could come with personal affection. The boy who had paved the way for Belle to enter his heart.

How was he here? Hadn’t he taken his family and escaped to the Disk World? Wouldn’t they have been safe there? Gold had no memories of the man who stood before him. He had no idea what Jefferson’s life had been like under the curse. Where was Leona? Where was Grace?

The longer Rumpelstiltskin looked at Jefferson, the more he saw the changes in him. He wasn’t smiling. The boyish good humor was gone. There was no dancing light in his slate blue eyes. He used to stand with his head jauntily cocked to one side, but now he looked straight ahead, level and deadly serious. The man before him looked burdened, weathered and hollowed out.

He was dressed like himself, as much as Storybrooke fashions would allow. He wore a scarf at his throat, as he used to wear a cravat over the leather collar that matched his wife’s. The clothes were well-tailored, expensive. His gray, rain-soaked overcoat had gunmetal leather lapels, very much like a coat Rumpelstiltskin had given him as a gift back in the old world. Jefferson’s scarf, shirt, and waistcoat were all different patterns, all in gray and black.

He wasn’t wearing a hat.

The first time Rumpelstiltskin had met Jefferson, he had entrusted him with a magical hat. The boy had been running away from a woman he didn’t want to marry, a life he didn’t want to live. In his hopelessness, he had sliced a line across his throat with a knife. His dying wish had been to find a world where he could be happy.

That was when the Dark One had made himself known. He had healed the boy’s wounds and given him a hat that would take him to every world with magic. Surely somewhere there would be happiness for a young man who had never fit the mold he had been made for.

And ever since then, Jefferson had been at his service.

Brow lowered, gait heavy, the man approached the counter. He set both hands upon the glass top. A few of his fingers wore wide, silver rings. But no wedding ring. Was he not married in this world? What had happened to Leona Ogg?

“Are you Mr. Gold?”

Quickly recovering from the shock of seeing Jefferson--and seeing him so changed--Rumpelstiltskin returned to his work. “That is the name on the front of the building.”

“But is it who you are?” Jefferson’s voice was different too. His tone was pointed, accusatory.

If he was Mr. Gold, he wouldn’t put up with being spoken to that way. Rumpelstiltskin braced against his side of the counter, arming himself in businesslike courtesy. “And who might you be?”

Jefferson’s face changed as though someone had flipped a switch. He put on the mask of a wide, toothy smile that didn’t meet his eyes. Pushing back from the glass case, Jefferson took exaggerated steps around the shop.

“They call me Dodgson around here.” His voice was too bright. “Chaz Dodgson. I’m a pilot. Normally I fly out of Boston, and I go all over the world. But lately--almost for as long as I can remember--I haven’t been able to leave this tiny town in Maine. Do you think that’s strange, Mr. Gold?”

He made his introduction with rapid-fire delivery. A machine gun, that was what they had in this world. That was the image that came to mind. Wild shooting that blasted forth in short bursts of dazzling, horrible, light.

Then you waited for the smoke to clear, to see what would happen next.

Rumpelstiltskin kept his composure. He made a show of looking down at the silver platter he had been polishing. He saw Jefferson’s reflection in it, warped and distorted.

“I suppose you could say that Storybrooke is rather a strange place, Mr. Dodgson.”

A laugh then. No, a cackle. Rumpelstiltskin had done enough cackling in his time to know the difference. Jefferson let out an agitated, throaty sound that had nothing to do with humor.

“You’re very right, Mr. Gold!” He pointed at him with a manic grin. “Maybe righter than you know!” Then his expression darkened and he turned serious. “Or maybe you’re exactly as right as you know.”

Putting down the polishing rag, Rumpelstiltskin looked up at Jefferson. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Dodgson? Is there something you’re looking for?”

“I’m looking for a lot of things,” he whispered. “And if you can’t help me, I don’t know who can.”

What kind of game was being played here? What did “Dodgson” want with Gold? Obviously, Jefferson was speaking in a cipher. But was it his code? Or was it the curse’s? How should he respond?

He held the man’s gaze and didn’t look away. “What are you looking for?” he said softly.

Jefferson took a step closer. He didn’t look away either. “I hope to every god it’s here, but I just don’t know.”

Finally breaking the gaze, Rumpelstiltskin began to put the polished silver away. “Do you need a gift for someone? Your wife perhaps?”

With a smirk, Jefferson shook his head. “No, this is something I need for myself. What made you think I was married?”

“Oh, aren’t you? I apologize for the assumption.”

“No, I am.” He brought his hand to his throat. “But my wife is, uh, out of town, for now.”

“Traveling?”

“Living with her mother,” Jefferson said. “At least, I hope she’s still there. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

Leona Ogg hadn’t been born in the old world. Jefferson had met her on an absurd flat planet called the Disk World, where her mother was a powerful hedge witch. Rumpelstiltskin had told them to go to that world, he had thought they would be safe there. If he could believe what Dodgson was telling him, he had only been half-right.

Or maybe two-thirds. One of Gold’s memories flashed into his mind: A little girl, plump and blonde, with merry dark eyes. The very image of her mother. Grace. But in this world she was Paige Lewis, the adopted and cherished daughter of Tim and Mia Lewis.

Why did he have no memories of Dodgson? Where had Jefferson been all this time, while his daughter was being raised by someone else?

“So is this an item for your children, perhaps?” He asked carefully.

Jefferson looked at him, his blue eyes steel and stone. “No,” he said. “I told you before, this is something I need for myself, Mr. Gold.”

Shrugging, Rumpelstiltskin locked the silver behind the case and limped to the other end of the store by the cash register. “Tell me again what it was?”

With a heavy tread, Jefferson moved to the middle of the store. “Tell me what you have.”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his hands and grinned like Gold would. “The shop’s inventory is rather extensive,” he said. “If I were to go through an itemized list, we’d be here for quite some time.”

“Alright then,” Jefferson said grimly. “Tell me what you think I need.”

He looked him over again, more than willing to play this game. “An umbrella, perhaps? The rain looks quite nasty.”

“Oh, it’s mad as a March hare, as they say. But I don’t need an umbrella.” He took a step forward. “I need something quite personal. Long-lasting, durable.”

“Maybe a set of luggage then. Didn’t you say you were a traveler?”

“I haven’t gone traveling in a long time.” Jaw clenched, Jefferson took another step closer to Rumpelstiltskin. “For a long time, I wasn’t even able to leave my house.”

Not able? For how long?

“Were you ill, Mr. Dodgson?”

“Yeah.” He grinned without humor. “I was sick in the head. An absolute nutter. I suffered from delusions. Memories that weren’t mine, a life that I had never lived. Can you imagine that, Mr. Gold? Can you imagine?”

“No,” Rumpelstiltskin lied. “Though it looks like you’re doing well now.”

“You trust your eyes?” Jefferson let out a short, stuttering laugh that sounded like he did actually find something funny. “I thought you were smarter than that!”

He straightened up. “What are you looking for, sir?” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest.”

The last few steps to the counter were a stagger. Jefferson almost fell against the display case and stayed bent over. “Don’t you want to know how long I was trapped in my house?” He looked up at him. His eyes were soft now, teary. “How long I was trapped in my own double-mind?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s mouth opened. It couldn’t be. Surely Jefferson couldn’t have suffered like that. Surely even this curse was not that cruel.

He set his hand next to Jefferson’s, not quite close enough to touch. “My boy,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need.”

“Not a spouse, I have one of those.” He seemed exhausted, breathless. “Not a child either. Not a lover or an employer or a benefactor.” Desperate eyes poured into him. “I don’t need a loan shark or a pawnbroker or a landlord.” Still staring, Jefferson took Rumpelstiltskin’s hand and gripped it with all his strength. “I don’t need a genius or a wizard or the fucking Dark One!” That last phrase was said in a gritted whisper. It seemed to take everything out of him. “So you tell me,” he panted. “What do I need?”

For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin said nothing. For the second time in just a few minutes, he felt the shock of seeing Jefferson again. And this man was Jefferson, inside and out. He was awake. He was suffering. He needed…

“A friend,” he answered the question at last. “Is that what you came in here to find?”

Slowly straightening up, Jefferson nodded. “Is there one here?”

“Yes.” If it weren’t for his cane and the glass case between them, he would have embraced the boy like he used to. “Yes, Jefferson. I’m here.”

He covered his face with his hands and broke down sobbing. For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t move. How should he respond to this? What could he do?

He could do what he couldn’t do with Mrs. Gold. He could comfort this man. His friend.

Ankle throbbing, he walked to the other side of the counter. Jefferson looked up, his blue eyes brimming with tears. This was the Jefferson that Rumpelstiltskin had known. The boy he had rescued on that fateful day in the forest. One of the rare souls whose desperation filled his dark heart with pity, and not contempt.

“My boy,” he whispered. He opened his arms and Jefferson embraced him.

Though Jefferson was taller than Rumpelstiltskin, the Dark One had always wielded the power in their relationship. It was the only way he had felt safe. Their physical dimensions hadn’t changed, but marrying Belle had rearranged Rumpelstiltskin’s perspective on safety and power. He let the bigger man hug him, envelop him in his need. He drew strength from Jefferson’s strength. Even though Jefferson was younger and bigger and fitter than Gold, he had come to him for help.

And Rumpelstiltskin would do everything he could to help him.

When they parted, he held Jefferson’s face in his hands. Coarse stubble prickled against his palms. Full lips parted slightly. Rumpelstiltskin wiped away his tears with his thumbs.

“How did this happen?” he asked softly. “Why didn’t you go to the Disk World?”

“We did.” Jefferson sniffed. Rumpelstiltskin took the silk pocket square out of his suit coat to give him. “We left as soon as we could. We lived there for months. But one night, I went to sleep next to Leo in Nanny Ogg’s cottage, and the next morning I woke up alone in a massive house I couldn’t leave.”

“You said that before. You couldn’t leave?”

He shook his head. “For twenty-eight years!” His face twisted and he pulled away. Rumpelstiltskin didn’t lower his hands. “You were locked in the curse, but I was locked in that house. I knew who I was, I remembered everything, I remembered too much!”

He rested his hand on his damp coat. “So that’s where Dodgson came from?”

Jefferson nodded, took a breath. “I had two lives in my head,” he whispered. “They both seemed impossible to the other. There were… months where I didn’t know what was real. In Discworld there was a poet who dreamed that he was a butterfly, and when he woke up, he didn’t know if he was a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly who was dreaming he was a man. That was my life. For a very long time.”

“Jefferson.” He squeezed his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

He looked at him, his expression drained. “No one else in this town was like that. Believe me, I had a lot of time to look around. Any theories as to why I was so lucky?”

He shook his head. “It’s Regina’s curse, maybe she--”

“It’s your curse,” he interrupted. “I’ve had some time to think about that. Regina is powerful, but she couldn’t have made something like this. That had to be you.”

He took a step back, resting both hands on his cane. Twenty-eight years of isolation, of knowing that time wasn’t moving, but being aware of every moment. Twenty-eight years in a world he didn’t understand, separated from the people who mattered most to him.

Utterly alone.

No wonder Jefferson had changed.

He couldn’t fool him anymore. He didn’t want to. The poor boy deserved better than that. He deserved the truth.

“It was my curse,” he admitted. “Regina cast it, but I created it. That doesn’t mean I have any control over it.”

“How is that possible?” Jefferson growled. “How can you, of all people, not have control over everything?”

“Because, my boy, all magic comes at a price. The curse that destroyed our world and created this town is the most powerful piece of spellmaking I’ve ever touched. Part of casting it was sacrificing the heart of the thing you love most--and there are more prices yet to pay. I’m not willing to lose everything, but Regina was. So it is her curse. She rules this land until it breaks.”

Jefferson’s jaw clenched. “You said something like that before, back home. You said something about a Savior. It’s that Sheriff, isn’t it? The woman with the yellow bug?”

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. “How did you know that?”

“She came to town in October. That’s when things started changing around here. The clock on the library started moving, people started doing things they haven’t done before--not in twenty-eight years of living the same lives. Now there are people in town now I’ve never seen before.”

“Who?” Rumpelstiltskin asked. “The only new person I’ve seen is Emma.”

Jefferson shrugged. “There’s the guy carrying on with the schoolteacher, I don’t know who he is.”

“That’s Prince Charming,” he explained. “He was in the hospital until just after Emma came to town, in a coma.”

“Weren’t you all?” Jefferson said dryly. “Okay, I’ve got another one for you. Around New Year’s, a guy rode in on a motorcycle, definitely an out-of-towner. He stuck around too. Do you know who he is?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s lips parted, but he said nothing. A stranger came into Storybrooke? That shouldn’t have happened. This place was supposed to be isolated from the rest of the Land Without Magic. The only people who could enter were people who were already connected to the old world, people who were born there.

But if there was a young man who could enter the town freely, who had willingly stayed in this cursed place...

Before he could ask Jefferson more questions, the bell over the shop door rang again.

“My God, it is cats and dogs out there!” Mrs. Gold stood on the front carpet. Water dripped off the plastic shopping bags in her hands. The rain had plastered all her thin layers against her skin. She looked bedraggled and cold, and Rumpelstiltskin’s first desire was to get her out of those wet things and into a bath, to give her hot chocolate and wrap her in a blanket.

It was only when Jefferson took a step back that Rumpelstiltskin realized how close they had been. Too close for any two men to be standing together in this world, and far too close for Gold to allow anyone who wasn’t wearing handcuffs.

Mrs. Gold’s crystalline eyes took in the sight of them. Jefferson clutched Gold’s pocket square in his fist. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands still held out in mid-air, reaching for the younger man’s body. In an endless instant, he saw the shock on her face, the realization, the anger.

Then he saw her close herself off. It was like the turn of a lock, or the extinguishing of a flame. She went dead behind the eyes. When she spoke, her voice was thin.

“Sorry to interrupt your business, Mr. Gold. I just needed to come in out of the rain.”

“Of course,” he said automatically. He was too stunned to move. “But you weren’t interrupting anything, Mrs. Gold.”

Her lips pressed together at that. She said nothing, but looked up and down the length of Jefferson’s body. Then she moved past them both to get to the back of the shop.

Once she was behind the curtain, Rumpelstiltskin allowed himself to sigh. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. Though that was not the worst way this situation could have gone, it was still far from optimal.

Jefferson let out a low whistle. With a meaningful glance to the back office, he said: “So can I expect your call about the merchandise I requested?”

Limping back to the cash register, Rumpelstiltskin pulled out a notepad and a pen. He passed them over the counter to Jefferson. “Certainly, Mr. Dodgson. If you’ll give me your address, I can have it delivered to your house.”

He wrote down a series of numbers and an address: 316 Angus Drive. “Just let me know when it’s ready.” His voice lowered. “I’ll be waiting.”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded. “As soon as I can, my boy.”

#golden rings #rumbelle #mad gold #rumbelle fic

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almostunadulteratedmiracle · 4 years

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Good Omens Celebration, Week of Sharing

I have slithered into this fandom in an acute, unusual angle, rediscovering the book after finding some amazing fanfiction - a couple of stories that resonated with something in my heart or my situation in a way I can still barely grasp. The main thing that drew me in was a spin-off of a reverse AU. The story’s wonderful author, Sister-to-the-Queen, was very kind, and she encouraged every shaky first attempt I made at fanart and fanfic in here (and I’m still eternally grateful to her for that and so much more). So it started out with some wildly depressing, heavily angsty fanart of a fanfic of an AU... and it turned into every random thing my imagination could conjure. I dived into the darkness of Sunday nights every week, waiting for the update and immediately starting to draw something (Monday morning lessons be damned). I lived vicariously through meandering discussions in the comments, and I found a great friend in an unlikely way.

I made up for the lack of experience in drawing by making strange, in-between things, combinations of art forms that I had learned about years ago and filed away as things I would never use. I wrote/drew what I like to think of as an “inverse picture poem”, filling up the page, creating the missing parts of a drawing from winding, rhythmic words:

(Above: The words that guide)

I delved into possibly convoluted symbolism, and looking back on it now, I can’t help but smile a little at the progress I made over the years (because yes, that first story I found still haunted me - it does to this day).

(Triumph)

Blatantly ignoring the fact that I knew exactly nothing about composing music, I kept returning to a keyboard like a bloody-minded comet, and I refused to stop until some of the (still only rarely sweet) feelings the stories left me with turned into music. Possibly not very good music, but music I still like to hear.

Then different, lighter stories came along, and they gave my inner angst-demanding Langolier a start: peppered with softness, silliness and sweetness, my usual brand of “stuck in a dark and serious land” tasted better, too. (You know, finally returning to the spirit of the book.) I made clay figurines - and I still slightly regret I never got to finish that project, but anyway, here’s a Crowley from back when I fell for his cool facade:

At the next story, BAM! I could suddenly ignore my ancient belief that I could not and would never be able to paint something I wouldn’t flinch at in a couple of years’ time. And oh, Somebody, I am so thankful for this fandom teaching me that. Still not a great painting, but it makes me feel so warm - look at these soft, beloved idiots:

(December Dilemmas)

And look, colours! An angel and a demon plotting, and a duck who swam into the picture but has much better things to do:

(Frosty autumn plans)

In the meantime, the fandom and the book taught me to appreciate Death, the character (and sent me tumbling into the Discworld-novels). And the online friends made, and the lessons learned also helped me deal with death in the real world - I’m one of those people who would quite possible be much more lost and clueless if not for Good Omens and everything it brought me.

(You know it now)

Putting even more fun in fandom (and getting me hooked on bad puns), these stories motivated me to attempt the impossible: animation! (Gasp!) And you know what else? Making an actual, fake-old-looking book of some of my favourite stories to send to their author (with tiny surprises included, like the letter one of the characters sent the other in-story):

Additionally, I have to love that Good Omens has been a constant in my life for a long while now. It’s brought all the necessary outlets I needed when I got into it, there is a high chance that it made me a more cheerful person, and there is an absolute certainty that it introduced me to wonderful people and stories.

Lately, I haven’t really had the chance to continute my adventures in hand-made / traditional art, but thanks to not-a-space-alien, memes happened instead:

(Your Own Side meme collection 1 2 3)

And also, an attempt at a comic book format ensued. (Look at it at your own peril, it’s weirdly drawn, but it shows injuries that would be pretty gruesome IRL.)

I might have lied a bit above (hey, if Aziraphale could lie to the Lord, I can fudge the timeline a bit for narrative purposes). One more hand-made thing did see the light of day:

(Inspired by ask-agnes-nutter’s brilliant answer to someone’s ask, also, the most motivational thing I think I’ve ever made.)

I promise I’m coming to the end of this ramble now, but it’s been a decade, and I owe so much to this book and the lovely people who love it just like I do. I’ve intermittently written a bit of fanfic, too, which is what I seem to be shifting towards nowadays - and I can’t wait to discover what else Good Omens will make me do. Dear fans and creators, thank you for being awesome!

#goc2020 #good omens celebration #happy birthday good omens #even if we messed up the dates

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awilliamswrites · 5 years

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11/11/11 Tag 2

Tagged by @corisanna. Sorry it took me longer than I thought to get around to this! ㅠㅠ Also some my answers are super long as I can’t seem to confine myself.

1. What is your favorite relationship type to write/read? Romantic, platonic, familial, and any subtypes.

Favorite to read is either family or friends, or a family that are actually friends with each other. I love warm and fuzzy relationships where people are loyal to each other and love each other and care for one another.

I’m not actually certain what my favorite relationship to write is though. I’d say I haven’t written enough types of relationships enough times to choose a favorite yet. So far I both like writing friendships and antagonistic relationships.

2. How much or what kind of research do you do for your fiction? If you don’t write, has a fic ever made you curious enough to research something?

The amount of research I do all depends on a combination of how much energy I have, how difficult it is to find information on the topic, and how interested I am. For some things I settle with what Wikipedia has to say about it, and for other things if I am feeling energetic/determined/interested enough I try to find original or primary sources.

I do tend to rely solely on the internet. Not counting going to my college library, I think it’s been about seven years since I’ve been to a public library. Man, I knew it had been awhile but I hadn’t realized just how long until I did the math in order to type that out. I have been wanting to go to the library for a while and that makes me want to go again even more. I know that some of the best research you can do is through books, and that’s an avenue I want to re-use soon.

3. What was the first work of fiction you remember becoming completely engrossed in?

The Redwall books. I loved those books so much.

4. What work(s) had a lasting influence on you or your writing style?

Hmmm, on my style? I’m not sure. I don’t consciously emulate anybody even though there are some authors who I would love to write like. Brandon Sanderson (Mistborn and The Way of Kings), Terry Pratchett (Discworld), and Megan Whalen Turner (The Queen’s Thief)

On me? See the three just-now mentioned authors, and add in Brian Jacques (Redwall). All of those have influenced my worldview and how I think about myself and others. They’ve also influenced the stories I want to read and what type of stories and characters I want to write.

I’d also be remiss in not adding in The Book of Mormon and The Bible. I could say a lot about them both but I don’t like talking about my religion much and how it’s influenced my life because I know how obnoxious/pushy it can sound.

I’ll just say: there are some really encouraging, hope-giving verses in the scriptures and they have had a lasting influence on me and how I think.

5. What kind of sound environment do you prefer for writing/reading? Silent, white noise, music with/without words, sitting in a public place with the ambient noise of humanity, etc.

Silence. I like to picture the events in my head and write out what I’m “seeing” and music or people talking distracts me from that. Some noises like the A/C or cars in the distance is fine though.

6. Are you or do you like authors who are teases, in story or out?

Like who do cliffhangers and stuff? I love authors who do that even though it’s also agony. I don’t do a ton of cliffhangers myself.

7. Have you ever experienced a “the characters write themselves” or “character rebellion” mental state?

Sadly no, I have not gotten to that point of knowing my characters well enough yet.

8. Do you have a favorite franchise crossover? Like Bleach/Harry Potter, Madoka Magica/Card Captor Sakura, etc.

Nope! I am fond of different “magic” (I’m including the Force from Star Wars under that umbrella) systems interacting and characters being weirded out or in awe of what characters from the other universe can do.

My two favorite franchises by themselves are probably Star Wars and Naruto, but funnily enough I haven’t read any crossovers of the two universes that I’ve cared for. Maybe I should write one. Hmmm.

9. Do you remember anything about the first fanfic you ever read?

I sure do! The first fanfic I ever read and continue to read was Dreaming of Sunshine by Silver Queen. Probably the best intro to fanfic anyone could ever ask for. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a Naruto fanfic that at this point can probably be safely considered the Naruto fanfic.

I started reading it in 2011 I think. I found it because I was on TV Tropes and I was clicking the “Random Media” button.

10. Is there a work of fiction that you are annoyed doesn’t have much if any fic?

I mostly read on fanfiction dot net, so I don’t know about other platforms but at least on there there are not nearly enough Mistborn Trilogy fanfic.

11. What fictional character do you strongly identify with?

Instead of choosing one I’ll talk about the type of character. I tend to identify with stoic and angsty characters, even though those characters are generally also great fighters and/or have supremely tragic backstories and I am not and do not.

Part of it is that these characters are really cool, and I like them because of that. I know that liking is different from identifying with, but I think there’s some overlap in that liking can include elements of recognizing, aspiring to, and resonating with. There are a few stoic and angsty characters who I do not like, and given that I am just now recognizing that overlap I’m now wondering and wanting to rethink about those characters and see what it is about them that makes me not like/identify with them as opposed to others.

Back to stoic and angsty characters I do like: I have clinical depression, so the constant quiet suffering those characters exude (bonus points if they point on a cheerful façade some of the time) is both relatable and makes me want to hug them. Relating this to the first question, I especially love it when these characters either have or are taken in to a family relationship where people worry about them and love them and help them heal.

And, on top of that, as I said they are generally awesome and competent fighters, meaning that part of the core of those characters is that they are good at protecting and serving others. This is something I don’t identify so much with as very much aspire to/wish I was better at. (I think it would be awesome to have superpowers or be great at fighting, but at the heart of those desires is the desire to help others.)

@corisanna as a side note, your fanfic is one of my favorites right now because it is pushing all the right buttons for me to LOVE all the characters and character interactions. I’m so glad I found it. I’ve watched PMMM but not Bleach, and As N Approaches Infinity has made me curious enough to start. I’ve watched five episodes and am liking it so far. Can’t wait to meet Toshiro Hitsugaya in the show.

Those were really awesome questions, here are mine! p.s. I’m totally reusing the ones I came up with last time. :P

1 What is your favorite book or series and why?

2 What piece of writing are you most proud of and why? This could be anything, not just fiction writing; if you wrote a paper for school that thinking about still makes you feel good, I’d be curious to learn what it was!

3 Are you a planner or a pantser?

4 If you could live in the world any book series, which would it be? If your choice is different than your favorite from question 1, why is that?

5 Do you have a book that you love that most people you talk to tend not to have heard of? What is it?

6 Do you read/write fanfiction? What’s your favorite fandom to read/write in?

7 What time of day do you write best during? Morning? Midnight? Any time?

8 Have you ever done Nanowrimo? What was your project?

9 What is your opinion on poetry? Do you like it? Do you like modern poetry?

10 Choose your favorite question out of the 11 questions I answered and answer that one! (Indicate which one you’re answering too).

11 What was the last book you read?

I don’t know 11 more new writers to tag, but here are as many as I can. Tagging @pens-swords-stuff @theswordofpens @thenessiej @mdotldotwang @hewwoanna @byrdwriter

#11/11/11 tag #writing #characters

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bakechochin · 7 years

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Book Reviews - The Malice

The Malice - Peter Newman - It’s rather telling of me that on my month off from uni, I opt to spend my free time reading grizzly shit like this, but god damn is it fucking worth spending my free time on - As a sequel to ‘The Vagrant’, I was expecting good shit (please don’t expect me to read a sequel without comparing it to the original), and the two things that really stood out to me about that book, the amazing world and the beautiful writing (in lovely juxtaposition with how fucked up everything that goes on in the world is), are still here in abundance -> The world especially was something that I really liked, because in this book Newman not only shows us new unexplored elements of the world (I especially liked how this book follows the Empire of the Winged Eye a lot more than the last one, which only properly delved into the Empire at the very end), but looks at how elements of the first book had changed in the time-lapse (and it’s always the return of stuff that I didn’t expect to see returning, which was fucking sweet) -> I also liked how, unlike the previous book which only really delved into the main cities, this book shows us the wider wild world in all its glory, meaning that we are able to definitively say that the wilderness of this world is just as fucking horrifying as everything else - The characters were a bit hit-or-miss but generally likeable enough, especially Vesper -> Newman has a skill of taking characters that should at best be uninteresting and at worst actively annoying in how little they can do, such as silent protagonists, babies, goats and in this book children, and actually managing to make me like them; as a rule I’m not fond of children and find their presence in books irritating because of how helpless they often are, but Vesper proves herself to not only be independent but very likeable in her optimism and legitimate care about those who surround her -> Duet made for a great counterbalance to Vesper and provided some pretty sweet scenes; I was a wee bit concerned at first that the duo in this book would just be a recreation of the duo in the previous book (i.e. Duet as a grim put-about honour-bound killer like the Vagrant, Vesper as the more human and genial of the two like Harm), but the circumstances surrounding Duet, especially all the stuff with the Harmonised, was enough to make Duet a stand-alone character separate from the Vagrant character mould -> I do kind of wish that the adventurers weren’t weighed down by the burden of that fucking baby goat; yes the goat in the previous book was an arsehole who got the Vagrant into shit, but that was because the animal was actively being an arsehole, whereas in this book shit often goes awry because the goat is just a gormless idiot, which is far more frustrating to read -> I wonder about the purpose of Samael besides beings a means to reveal more about the wider world and the infernals; he was an alright character in that low-effort way of being in the ‘inoffensive put-about warrior with a sense of justice’ character mould, but he didn’t really add anything or do anything noteworthy, and really only seems to be there to a) retain a link to the Knights of Jade and Ash from the last book, b) remind the reader that the supposedly horrifying threat of the Yearning and the infernals is still relevant (because although defeating the Yearning supposed to be the whole goal of Vesper’s adventure, it’s rarely ever brought up), and c) pad out of the length of the book -> The side characters were all pretty alright, my favourites being the returning revolutionaries from the first book, and of course Ezze/Little Ez, the greatest of geezers - Whilst we’re on the subject of characters, I need to rant for a bit about how much I fucking love the First, and how glad I am that it had a bigger role in this book than it did in the last one -> Okay so in my reading experience, there’s a lot of ways of making a villain, and it all depends on the book (and now I’m gonna bring up The Gentleman Bastard sequence as evidence for my point because that’s what I always do and fuck you for trying to make me do otherwise); in ‘The Gentleman Bastard Sequence’ the villains have to be bigger dickheads than the dickheads we’re rooting for, in ‘The Kingkiller Chronicle’ the main overarching villains are supernatural murdering dickheads with no redeeming qualities but such a villain is necessary in a book that’s intended to be like an archetypal tavern-told story, etc. -> I’d liken the First to Shrake in ‘The Gates of the World’, as it is an effective villain due to both its persuasiveness and how fucking overpowered it is, but whilst Shrake exists as this sort of aloof and cantankerous character who no one in the cast can really relate to, the First finds a way to get through to humans and make them side with him -> That, and the multifaceted and fucking awesome ‘innumerable collected bodies controlled by one hive mind’ thing, makes the First one of my favourite fucking villains in a long while - The whole ending was really really nice, with a contemplative and pleasant journey back the way they came to right all their wrongs that equally warmed my heart and made me very excited for the final book in the trilogy, whenever that’s coming out - I do have a few concerns regarding how the world has changed; not wanting to spoil, but a lot of the main overpowered antagonists of the previous book aren’t really around in this one, and there isn’t a whole lot to fill the void they leave behind -> Like the world seems a lot emptier in this book; there are limited trips to major cities and the cities that we do go to don’t have the same enigma and threat to them now that the infernal deities that once presided over them aren’t around any more, meaning that the adventure seems less like the risky dangerous trip through city after city that we got in the previous book, and more like just a journey through fucked-up wilderness interspersed with run-ins with characters who progress the plot - Come to think of it, a lot of the issues that I have with the adventure as a whole is the stuff that is different from the previous book, which sounds petty but let me elaborate -> Yes obviously I love the idea of Vesper picking up the sword that her father once held and going off on her own quest in her father’s footsteps, and obviously Newman wanted this as well, which is why I can’t help thinking that the setup to put Vesper in her father’s position is kind of contrived -> The adventure itself, the exploration of the world and the interactions between Vesper and Duet, is all fucking great and I loved reading it, but in order for this to happen Vesper had to be completely shanghaied into the midst of this shit with little to no warning and no time to recover, and this only happened because Vesper made a poorly-justified impulse decision -> And this therefore results in a completely jarring tonal shift between Vesper’s quaint life on the farm, raising goats and wistfully dreaming of something more, to crashing in a military compound prison and being marched through a battlefield whilst all the people who took her there get gruesomely fucking obliterated around her; compare this with the first book, which starts off mid-adventure to establish the dark tone of the story, which is then retained throughout -> Also I guess a minor thing I was uneasy about is how the Vagrant was a fully grown man and therefore could take a bit of a beating in the harsh world, but Vesper is only like twelve or something and may very well have gotten the shit kicked out of her by everything throughout the course of the story, but as it turns out a) Vesper was strong-willed and quick-thinking enough to not be too up against the odds, and b) had Duet with her, who could fuck shit up to a radical degree, so feel free to disregard this point -> However, what the child protagonist thing does negatively alter is that children don’t know shit about sword fighting, so there’s way less radical sword fight scenes in this book than there were in the previous book; the Malice just kind of functions like the Luggage in Discworld, coming along from time to time to dramatically deus ex machina Vesper and Duet out of whatever shitty situation they’ve stumbled into - 8/10

I have a load of other book reviews on my blog, check that shit out.

#book reviews #the malice #the vagrant #peter newman #damn mate I'm back with the book reviews #after a few aeons of inactivity i have returned #if you're not listening to shylmagognar/haken whilst reading this book you're not getting the full experience #it's books like this and the gates of the world series that really irritate me by how much time has to elapse before i can read the next one #not only because they're good books but because i forget all the little minor details and references #so i need to go back and skim through the first book looking for little links between that book and this one #still dont know who jem is to be honest

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readbookywooks · 8 years

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Carding knelt down awkwardly and felt the floor gingerly. He signalled to Spelter to do the same.

Spelter touched a surface that was smoother than stone. It felt like ice would feel if ice was slightly warm, and looked like ivory. While it wasn’t exactly transparent, it gave the impression that it would like to be.

He got the distinct feeling that, if he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to feel it at all.

He met Carding’s gaze.

‘Don’t look at, um, me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what it is either.’

They looked up at Coin, who said: ‘It’s magic.’

‘Yes, lord, but what is it made of?’ said Carding.

‘It is made of magic. Raw magic. Solidified. Curdled. Renewed from second to second. Could you imagine a better substance to build the new home of sourcery?’

The staff flared for a moment, melting the clouds. The Discworld appeared below them, and from up here you could see that it was indeed a disc, pinned to the sky by the central mountain of Cori Celesti, where the gods lived. There was the Circle Sea, so close that it might even be possible to dive into it from here; there was the vast continent of Klatch, squashed by perspective. The Rimfall around the edge of the world was a sparkling curve.

‘It’s too big,’ said Spelter under his breath. The world he had lived in hadn’t stretched much further than the gates of the University, and he’d preferred it that way. A man could be comfortable in a world that size. He certainly couldn’t be comfortable about being half a mile in the air standing on something that wasn’t, in some fundamental way, there.

The thought shocked him. He was a wizard, and he was worrying about magic.

He sidled cautiously back towards Carding, who said: ‘It isn’t exactly what I expected.’

‘Um?’

‘It looks a lot smaller up here, doesn’t it.’

‘Well, I don’t know. Listen, I must tell you-’

‘Look at the Ramtops, now. You could almost reach out and touch them.’

They stared out across two hundred leagues towards the towering mountain range, glittering and white and cold. It was said that if you travelled hubwards through the secret valleys of the Ramtops, you would find, in the frozen lands under Cori Celesti itself, the secret realm of the Ice Giants, imprisoned after their last great battle with the Gods. In those days the mountains had been mere islands in a great sea of ice, and ice lived on them still.

Coin smiled his golden smile.

‘What did you say, Carding?’ he said.

‘It’s the clear air, lord. And they look so close and small. I only said I could almost touch them-’

Coin waved him into silence. He extended one thin arm, rolling back his sleeve in the traditional sign that magic was about to be performed without trickery. He reached out, and then turned back with his fingers closed around what was, without any shadow of a doubt, a handful of snow.

The two wizards observed it in stunned silence as it melted and dripped on to the floor.

Coin laughed.

‘You find it so hard to believe?’ he said. ‘Shall I pick pearls from rim-most Krull, or sand from the Great Nef? Could your old wizardry do half as much?’

It seemed to Spelter that his voice took on a metallic edge. He stared intently at their faces.

Finally Carding sighed and said rather quietly, ‘No. All my life I have sought magic, and all I found was coloured lights and little tricks and old, dry books. Wizardry has done nothing for the world.’

‘And if I tell you that I intend to dissolve the Orders and close the University? Although, of course, my senior advisors will be accorded all due status.’

Carding’s knuckles whitened, but he shrugged.

‘There is little to say,’ he said. ‘What good is a candle at noonday?’

Coin turned to Spelter. So did the staff. The filigree carvings were regarding him coldly. One of them, near the top of the staff, looked unpleasantly like an eyebrow.

‘You’re very quiet, Spelter. Do you not agree?’

No. The world had sourcery once, and gave it up for wizardry. Wizardry is magic for men, not gods. It’s not for us. There was something wrong with it, and we have forgotten what it was. I liked wizardry. It didn’t upset the world. It fitted. It was right. A wizard was all I wanted to be.

He looked down at his feet.

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘Good,’ said Coin, in a satisfied tone of voice. He strolled to the edge of the tower and looked down at the street map of Ankh-Morpork far below. The Tower of Art came barely a tenth of the way towards them.

‘I believe,’ he said, ‘I believe that we will hold the ceremony next week, at full moon.’

‘Er. It won’t be full moon for three weeks,’ said Carding.

‘Next week,’ Coin repeated. ‘If I say the moon will be full, there will be no argument.’ He continued to stare down at the model buildings of the University, and then pointed.

‘What’s that?’

Carding craned.

‘Er. The Library. Yes. It’s the Library. Er.’

The silence was so oppressive that Carding felt something more was expected of him. Anything would be better than that silence.

‘It’s where we keep the books, you know. Ninety thousand volumes, isn’t it, Spelter?’

‘Um? Oh. Yes. About ninety thousand, I suppose.’

Coin leaned on the staff and stared.

‘Burn them,’ he said. ‘All of them.’

Midnight strutted its black stuff along the corridors of Unseen University as Spelter, with rather less confidence, crept cautiously towards the impassive doors of the Library. He knocked, and the sound echoed so loudly in the empty building that he had to lean against the wall and wait for his heart to slow down a bit.

After a while he heard a sound like heavy furniture being moved about.

‘Oook?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Oook?’

‘Spelter.’

‘Oook.’

‘Look, you’ve got to get out! He’s going to burn the Library!’

There was no reply.

Spelter let himself sag to his knees.

‘He’ll do it, too,’ he whispered. ‘He’ll probably make me do it, it’s that staff, um, it knows everything that’s going on, it knows that I know about it … please help me …’

‘Oook?’

‘The other night, I looked into his room … the staff, the staff was glowing, it was standing there in the middle of the room like a beacon and the boy was on the bed sobbing, I could feel it reaching out, teaching him, whispering terrible things, and then it noticed me, you’ve got to help me, you’re the only one who isn’t under the-’

Spelter stopped. His face froze. He turned around very slowly, without willing it, because something was gently spinning him.

He knew the University was empty. The wizards had all moved into the New Tower, where the lowliest student had a suite more splendid than any senior mage had before.

The staff hung in the air a few feet away. It was surrounded by a faint octarine glow.

He stood up very carefully and, keeping his back to the stonework and his eyes firmly fixed on the thing, slithered gingerly along the wall until he reached the end of the corridor. At the corner he noted that the staff, while not moving had revolved on its axis to follow him.

He gave a little cry, grasped the skirts of his robe, and ran.

The staff was in front of him. He slid to a halt and stood there, catching his breath.

‘You don’t frighten me,’ he lied, and turned on his heel and marched off in a different direction, snapping his fingers to produce a torch that burned with a fine white flame (only its penumbra of octarine proclaimed it to be of magical origin).

Once again, the staff was in front of him. The light of his torch was sucked into a thin, singing steam of white fire that flared and vanished with a ‘pop’.

He waited, his eyes watering with blue after-images, but if the staff was still there it didn’t seem to be inclined to take advantage of him. When vision returned he felt he could make out an even darker shadow on his left. The stairway down to the kitchens.

He darted for it, leaping down the unseen steps and landing heavily and unexpectedly on uneven flags. A little moonlight filtered through a grating in the distance and somewhere up there, he knew, was a doorway into the outside world.

Staggering a little, his ankles aching, the noise of his own breath booming in his ears as though he’d stuck his entire head in a seashell, Spelter set off across the endless dark desert of the floor.

Things clanked underfoot. There were no rats here now, of course, but the kitchen had fallen into disuse lately - the University’s cooks had been the best in the world, but now any wizard could conjure up meals beyond mere culinary skill. The big copper pans hung neglected on the wall, their sheen already tarnishing, and the kitchen ranges under the giant chimney arch were filled with nothing but chilly ash …

The staff lay across the back door like a bar. It spun up as Spelter tottered towards it and hung, radiating quiet malevolence, a few feet away. Then, quite smoothly, it began to glide towards him.

He backed away, his feet slipping on the greasy stones. A thump across the back of his thighs made him yelp, but as he reached behind him he found it was only one of the chopping blocks.

His hand groped desperately across its scarred surface and, against all hope, found a cleaver buried in the wood. In an instinctive gesture as ancient as mankind, Spelter’s fingers closed around its handle.

He was out of breath and out of patience and out of space and time and also scared, very nearly, out of his mind.

So when the staff hovered in front of him he wrenched the chopper up and around with all the strength he could muster …

And hesitated. All that was wizardly in him cried out against the destruction of so much power, power that perhaps even now could be used, used by him…

And the staff swung around so that its axis was pointing directly at him.

And several corridors away, the Librarian stood braced with his back against the Library door, watching the blue and white flashes that flickered across the floor. He heard the distant snap of raw energy, and a sound that started low and ended up in zones of pitch that even Wuffles, lying with his paws over his head, could not hear.

And then there was a faint, ordinary tinkling noise, such as might be made by a fused and twisted metal cleaver dropping on to flagstones.

It was the sort of noise that makes the silence that comes after it roll forward like a warm avalanche.

The Librarian wrapped the silence around him like a cloak and stood staring up at the rank on rank of books, each one pulsing faintly in the glow of its own magic. Shelf after shelf looked down[14] at him. They had heard. He could feel the fear.

The orang-utan stood statue-still for several minutes, and then appeared to reach a decision. He knuckled his way across to his desk and, after much rummaging, produced a heavy key-ring bristling with keys. Then he went back and stood in the middle of the floor and said, very deliberately, ‘Oook.’

The books craned forward on their shelves. Now he had their full attention.

#Sourcery

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