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sirdindjarin · 1 year

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The Savior - Din Djarin x f!Reader

The Mandalorian, side-quest extraordinaire, accidentally frees a slave, kills a Senator's son, ends a criminal conspiracy, and falls in love. Just a month in the life of the galaxy's favorite chaotic space cowboy and his son.

The Savior / The Concession / The Choice (END)

A/N: i fucking love this man. here's the spotify playlist i made while hallucinating being wrecked by him. I accidentally based this fic on Euphoria by Angels & Airwaves.

AO3 Link🤠

TAGS: Fluff, m!falls first, plot with porn, helmet stays on for now, P in V, outdoor activities, protective!Din, soft-ish!Din.

WARNINGS: reader is/was a slave; references to abuse; no curses or slang outside of Star Wars canon (that's a warning if you hate that hahaha)

**************************************************************

"I thought vagrants were barred at the door. How did a Mandalorian get in here?”

The Mandalorian in question does not react to the insult. At the table before him, the taunting Trandoshan guffaws, but his laughter dies when he gets no reaction from the bounty hunter.

"What do you want?" He snaps, his green jaws clicking shut.

Instead of replying, certain the answer is obvious, the beskar-covered man leisurely surveys the colorful, boisterous room, his hands folded in front of him. Having already scouted the upscale casino, he does this for sarcastic effect. He’s also certain that fact is lost on his Trandoshan quarry.

Upon returning his direct attention to the lizard, a small movement in the booth catches his heat sensor. A young woman, likely his quarry’s slave by her frayed appearance, sits with her head bowed behind her master.

“Hey, tin man, you in there?” Your master’s voice sounds more like rocks scraping together than fluid language.

The Mandalorian chucks a bounty puck onto the table, the name and alien visage of Rathos Craaf glowing in a blue cone of projected light.

“Go quietly or don’t - it makes no difference to me.”

“Ahh,” Rathos Craaf hums in his throat and leans back in his seat, making your demure form more visible to the bounty hunter. “What’s the price?”

The Mandalorian again does not dignify a response.

“Can’t be greater than what I’m willing to pay,” Rathos insinuates.

The tense silence eats through your body as the ruthless men stare at each other - the probability of oncoming violence ratcheting up.

“Go prepare my ship,” your master barks suddenly at you, raising his hand.

Flinching, you scoot around the U-shaped booth to obey.

You weren’t always a slave. As a child on Kenari, you had been born into a world of vivid green, rippling blue, and rich, brown soil. Trained in both hunting and fighting from birth, you had been too young to save your village from the brutal relocation program of the Empire.

Dispersed onto harsher worlds, you’d been sold from one slaver to another until finally coming into the collection of one Rathos Craaf. He has been your master for several years by this point, and while not the worst, he was close.

“What will you do about the girl?” A modulated voice asks.

Pausing on the edge of the hard bench, you look between the two antagonists. Me?

“Who cares about the mudscuffing girl? Tell you what, I’ll sell her to you.” The crafty Trandoshan gets an even better idea: “Or - take her in exchange for the bounty. She’s considered top-tier sentient property.”

“Not what I was asking,” a gloved hand thumbs his blaster. “Once you’re in carbonite, wh-”

The Trandoshan lunges up from his seat with a booming yell, launching at the cloaked, beskar-free neck of the Mandalorian. Rathos’ claws reach around the smaller man’s throat, but the Mandalorian is lighter of foot, ducking out of the hold.

Off-balance, Rathos tumbles but rolls back on his feet, his scaly tail acting as a counterweight. Gasps and mutters spill from the crowd as people scramble out of harm’s way.

You remain seated in the booth, frozen and unsure. But then, as the silver bounty hunter aims his blaster, Rathos whips his tail into the Mandalorian’s legs, knocking him with a clang onto his back.

The blaster goes skittering through the crowd, and you’re shocked to find your legs racing after it.

The thunder of a powerful flame roars in the cavernous room as you weave through aliens and humans alike, searching. The blackness of the blaster appears on the gray floor and you dive for it.

Cold steel excites your skin. It’s heavier than you thought it would be, and though you’ve never fired one, your ancient muscle memory remembers the feeling of a bow in your hands; the trajectory, strength, and steadiness necessary.

Sprinting back through the crowd, you find Rathos pinning the Mandalorian’s chest. The solid armor prevents any of Rathos’ blows from truly hurting the bounty hunter, but the weight of the lizard is too awkward and great for him to shove away from this angle.

The fire-throwing vambrace comes up again and, as it billows into the Trandoshan’s face, you fire a blast at the substantial tail that had once been used against you.

Rathos bellows in pain, tumbling to the side, and the Mandalorian takes full advantage. He jumps to his feet, then connects his fist to his quarry's skull, rendering the creature unconscious. Binders clasp around the arms of your master and the successful bounty hunter staggers backward a single step to catch his breath.

You freeze at what you’ve just done, the blaster still pointed at Rathos. People murmur, and the words, “Killed by his slave” can be heard, though he is only unconscious. Your chest heaves, far more out of breath than the Mandalorian walking toward you.

“Thank you,” he says drily, taking his blaster out of your hands.

Unsure what else you should do, you follow your master as he is dragged without dignity along the smooth fogstone floor.

Exiting the casino, snaking down an alley, and traipsing to the outskirts of the city limits, the silhouette of a ship against the orange horizon becomes visible.

Neither you nor the Mandalorian have spoken a single word since he took the blaster from your hands, but as he presses a button on his vambrace to lower the loading ramp, he turns to you now.

“Grab his tail."

An order. That you could do. You immediately grab Rathos’ tail and lift. The Mandalorian half-drags and half-lifts the Trandoshan by his cuffed hands and the lizard is loaded into the ship’s hold.

Standing at the far end of the Mandalorian’s rather busted ship, you’re surprised to see a small, green being. Dressed in what must be a sack, its long ears perk up and its eyes glimmer at the sight of the bounty hunter. A happy coo reverberates in the quiet, metal space.

The child looks at you and makes another, similar noise. It waddles toward you, but before you can react, the Mandalorian scoops the child into his arms and sequesters it behind a thin blast door.

“You are free to go.”

It’s an odd statement. He must be familiar with the underworld. He knows how slaving works.

You’re not sure when you last spoke; you weren’t allowed to speak. But the bounty hunter seems to expect a reply.

“I am not. The law says I am to be returned to the slavers’ coalition for repurchase.” Your voice is scratchy from disuse and the helmeted man tilts his head in curiosity.

“You won't run?”

It seems too monumental a task. Hopes and fears trip over each other in their efforts to be heard. Freedom. Finding a place to call home. Your family was long dead. But… maybe there was hope of a family somewhere.

Where would I even go? No way I could stay ahead of the slavers. They’d send hunters like this Mandalorian after me. I’d be worse off than I am now.

“I do not know if I can,” you whisper honestly.

The Mandalorian looks at you - at least, you think he does - for so long that you begin to squirm under his gaze.

Without warning, the wind is knocked from you. Rathos’ tail slams into the back of your knees, crumpling you to the floor. His claws wrap around your neck, and you yell, plunging two fingers into his lidless eye.

“Traitorous shutta!” Spittle from your master flies onto your cheeks.

As he recoils from your jab, you squirm underneath him, trying to flee, when the weight on your chest vanishes in a rush of air. Coughing and wiping your face, you lie there momentarily until your throbbing pulse abates inside your head. You sit up and widen your eyes to hasten their focus.

The Mandalorian has the Trandoshan by the throat with both hands. Rathos sputters and gags, but you watch as gloved fingers dig harder into the scaly throat. The anonymous man shoves his quarry into the carbon freezing chamber and smashes the button with more force than necessary.

It's over.

When you woke in the dark that morning, never would you have expected to watch your master be frozen in carbonite aboard a bounty hunter's ship.

That bounty hunter turns to you now.

“I have something I need to do. I’ll give you passage if you provide assistance.”

________________________________

Crossing your arms, tucking your legs under your body, and leaning against the hull in your seat, you try to make yourself as small as possible. You wouldn’t have even climbed up here if the Mandalorian hadn’t indicated that you should.

He wanted to keep an eye on you. He did not trust you around the kid - despite (or perhaps because of) its interest in you.

Moments after leaving the planet’s atmosphere, a new emotion bubbles in your chest: elation. The stars flow by in a technicolor kaleidoscope; hues and shapes you have never seen race past your eyes. It’s beyond anything you could have imagined.

“Has it always looked like this?” You wonder to yourself.

You jump when a deep, electronic voice answers, “Yes.”

“Oh,” you murmur, realizing he had been watching you. “I’ve never seen hyperspace. I was kept in the hold,” you state without self-pity.

The Mandalorian lets that terrible fact hang in the air before eventually saying,“I recommend you get some sleep. It will be several hours before we reach Mid Rim.”

He turns away from you and folds his arms. The muffled clang of his helmet tipping back against the headrest tells you that he will be taking his own advice.

Interestingly, you feel safe enough to get some rest. Being constantly attuned to the temperamental wills and whims of others, you've become a great judge of character.

This Mandalorian, though quiet, is clearly capable of kindness to those who deserve it. A rarity for someone in his profession.

___________________________________

The blue cone glows in his hand, projecting the face of one ugly slug. The name at the bottom, written in a language you had been forced to learn, reads: Salaa the Hutt.

Fearful eyes flick up to the veiled Mandalorian, “A Hutt?”

The helmet nods, “You will be my way in.” You make a whimpering noise, but the bounty hunter continues. “You’re a slave on the run. I will be returning you for a small reward.”

Crushing disappointment deflates your body. Believing yourself to have been wavering between freedom and the life you had known, you realize, now that the decision was being made for you, that you’d chosen freedom. Further adding to your pain is your misjudgement of the Mandalorian.

I’d have never made it to freedom - far too naive. Thought a karking bounty hunter was doing something out of the kindness of his heart. Unbelievable.

Still, to your credit, you take several steps back, almost as though you might try to outrun the nimble, strong bounty hunter with a kriffing jetpack, of all things. You’re proud of yourself for even thinking about doing it.

The Mandalorian doesn’t react. He pockets the puck and opens his weapons cache on the hull wall. He lifts a small item from the assortment and shuts the doors. You can’t see what it is, and he doesn’t return to you.

He opens the blast door to the child’s tiny room. The baby snores in his bungalow, and the ever-fascinating Mandalorian rubs the green, fuzzy head before closing the door. He turns and strides toward you.

You take one more step backward, just because you can. Because you should.

He still says nothing. Closer, and closer, the armored man advances on you until you can see your nervous eyes in his breastplate.

“Give me your wrists.”

Is his voice naturally that persuasive or is it the vocoder?

Overriding your fledgling autonomy, you obey him with a preprogrammed respectful nod. He clasps binders around your wrists.

The Mandalorian steps away to retrieve another weapon, then he lifts his chin toward the boarding ramp.

Shouldn't you at least try to gain freedom? Beg him to let you go?

“Please, I can try to pay you,” this is a lie and he knows it. “Or I could work off the debt of transport. Something!”

It’s the loudest your voice has been in living memory, and it both surprises and emboldens you. But the Mandalorian does not seem swayed.

“Walk,” he orders.

You minutely shake your head twice. It means nothing to him, but everything to you.

An electronic sigh, then he takes a single step toward you. Fear switches you back into the subservient girl of the last twenty years. You flinch, your manacled hands blocking your face.

The Mandalorian falters, slightly abashed. “I am not going to hurt you. But you need to start walking.”

Slowly, you lower your hands. His gloved fingers curl around your bicep, and he leads you out into the sunny air.

It’s a hot day on Niamos. The beachside resort that serves as the capital city is teeming with families of all species bathing in the muggy air. The sandstone path that Mando - that’s what everyone calls them, right? - parades you down is packed with beachgoers. Embarrassed by your plight, you try to hide the binders, but it’s impossible with the angle he holds your arm.

Finding another gust of will, you reason, “Surely you could find a way inside without turning me in? You’re good at your job. You could've killed my m-”

“Salaa angered powerful people. There is a bounty on him and it’s higher if he’s dead.

“What does that mean?”

“He's careful. Employs expensive security. Easiest way in is through the front door,” Mando finishes.

Mando’s leathery hold on your arm is soft. Unyielding, of course, but he doesn’t hurt you. It saddens you to realize how different that is from your usual treatment. He had still binded you and planned on turning you in, but hey! At least he wasn’t going to leave a bruise.

Directing you down a narrow alley, the Mandalorian stops in front of a tan-colored, generic shield door. He raps twice on it, standing casually still. If he feels you shaking, he says nothing about it.

A Yaka man is standing behind the door when it opens with a whoosh. His metal implants reflect the sun and you squint. Behind him are another two Yaka and a particularly menacing-looking Zabrak, all armed with pulse rifles.

“We ain't buyin'," he slurs.

“I'm here to claim the slave reward.”

The Yaka stares at the impenetrable, T-shaped slit in the silver helmet, scrutinizing, before stepping aside. Mando guides you ahead of him, then you hear the spur-like sound of his step over the threshold. The close quarters are sweltering, and sweat beads on your temple.

“This way,” the Yaka servant veers to the right and up a steeply inclined hallway. The other members of the security team follow behind you.

The Mandalorian’s thumb slides over your skin. You would give it more thought if a wide, dingy room wasn’t quickly coming into view.

On the second floor, a muted, sparsely furnished area overlooks the residence across the street, and the beach beyond. However, you can’t see the view because the balcony is being taken up by a massive, blob-like shape, and a tall, spiky silhouette.

“Ahh,” the huge shape speaks, and for the first time in your life, you’re thankful you speak Huttese. “What is this?”

Bowing, the Yaka guard explains, “This Mandalorian has returned a loose slave.”

He grabs for your arm, but you lurch when Mando pulls you out of reach, warning, “Careful. She killed her master before fleeing."

The bodyguard recoils as though you personally threatened him. He steps away, waiting for actual instruction from his boss. The green Rodian next to Salaa tuts in his sour voice.

Deciding it was best not to speak, you raise your chin with dignity as Mando drops his hand from your arm.

“Why do you return her here?” Salaa the Hutt inquires. “Surely you know that I have been removed from my associations. Including the slavers.”

“I am here for information,” Mando drops the ruse completely, his voice calm.

“Information,” the Hutt laughs horribly. “I have much of that, pateesa. What do you wish to know?”

“You should ask what I have to trade first.”

“Hmm. You do not wish to trade the girl, I hope. Must be better than that,” the slimy giant slug laughs derisively.

You don’t even bristle. Worse things had been said to you daily.

The green, mohawked Rodian chuckles. Though you do not understand his language, the human bounty hunter does: “She is too sad-looking to be any fun. Pity.” The reptilian-looking male then makes a vile comment about what he can see through your ratty, loose clothing.

The Mandalorian's eyes narrow, and his right hand drifts toward his hip of its own accord.

“Make your offer, Mandalorian.”

“If you provide the information I need, I won’t claim the ten-thousand-credit bounty on your head.”

That horrible, bulging laugh bursts from the ex-crime boss once more, hurting your ears in its pitch and volume.

“Far too aggressive, Mandalorian. I decline.”

Salaa’s stubby arm motions at the armed security who raise their rifles at the two of you.

While you freeze in terror, the Mandalorian stills in focus. Faster than a hyperdrive, he clenches his fist. Miniature rockets whistle through the tense air, eliminating all three bodyguards; the angry Zabrak, the mouthy Rodian, and the blubbery Salaa remain.

The Mandalorian draws his blaster, pushing you behind him, and fires from his hip as the Zabrak guard begins to raise his modified arm. What type of weapon it held, you’ll never know because he falls to the ground, dead, before he can use it.

The Rodian darts away from Salaa, circling the room. To you, it seems as though he is intending to flee, not fight, but the Mandalorian fires a laserblast at his bug-eyed head, dropping him.

Mando calmly swivels his blaster to Salaa.

Resigned, the Hutt slimily states, “Ask what you wish to know, pateesa.”

“I have been told that you have seen another Mandalorian. Where?”

“Ahh, that is all? I have seen one here.”

“On Niamos?” So surprised, Mando forgets to keep the tone from his voice.

“A beskar-covered man does not go unnoticed on a planet filled with water-bathers,” Salaa laughs again. You visibly wince.

“Where?”

“Where else? Water’s Edge.”

Mando twists his head toward the opposite window as if he could see his fellow Mandalorian from here. He holsters his weapon and turns to leave.

“Those Yaka were expensive guards, pateesa,” the Hutt grumbles ominously.

“You paid too much.”

He returns his hold on your arm, pushing you forward. Marching awkwardly down the sloping halfway, you try to make sense of his actions.

Your face screws up in confusion, “You didn’t turn me in or claim the Hutt’s bounty. You're earning no credits.”

That’s the defining feature of a bounty hunter.

The silence lengthens as you reach the ground floor, and hurriedly exit the sandstone building. As you soak in the blistering sunshine, the hand on your arm turns you to face him. The Mandalorian’s quick fingers remove your binders.

“That’s it?” You rub your wrists even though he had left them on the loosest setting.

“Passage for assistance,” he reminds you.

He then nods once and takes his leave. For an interminable length of time, you watch as he calmly walks away, breaking only when he turns down an alley and is lost from sight.

What the hell do I do now?

__________________________________

The new day is growing late. Din Djarin basks in the heat of the single sun. For being one of those odd planets without plural light sources, the strength of the lone sun is incredible. Din much preferred the scorching, arid planets to the ice-covered ones, and Niamos is perfect. The breeze gently carries through his light flight suit, while the sun warms whatever dark material is visible around the beskar.

While Din feels more comfortable in this climate, heat signatures can be a little bit more difficult to read. He had managed to track a faint heat signature around Water’s Edge. The day before, immediately after speaking with Salaa, Din had come to check the place out, but his quarry had left some hours previously and he had lost the trail.

Din enters the establishment for the second time in as many days. Inside is a large, open floor with dining tables set out across the expanse. High society clinks glasses as they wait for the next act to grace the small stage. Din surveys the room, switching between heat sensors and normal vision, before concluding that the Mandalorian he searches for is beyond the far wall.

Heads turn and stare as Din, strutting as if he belongs, makes his way to the unobtrusive doorway next to the stage. A Mandalorian stands out here. This was a place for people who employed bounty hunters, not those whom they hunt. Din slides the door open, and he is greeted by a dark hallway.

Light spills from a room to his right. Din flips on his heat sensor again, and presses his lips together in satisfaction when the heat signature picks up.

Rounding into the room with confidence, Din observes everything at once.

A large mirror, complete with lights, sits above a desk. A rack of clothing stands lonely in the far corner. And on a stool in front of the mirror sits a Mandalorian, their flaky, blue-painted armor having seen better days.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he announces. “I have been tasked with finding other Mandalorians in order t-”

“Oh, my stars!” The Mandalorian squeals. The helmet is removed by purple hands, and a humanoid species stares in awe. “I’ve always wanted to meet a Mandalorian. I- I do this character because I just love your culture so much.”

Blinking behind his helm, Din confirms what he's already becoming sure of, “That armor you wear - it is not real beskar.”

“What? This stuff?” The actor scoffs. “This is expensive paint and cheap wetboard.” He stands up, advancing unwisely on the real Mandalorian. “Can I ask you some questions? I’ve got a real opportunity here to elevate my perfor-”

Din backs out of the room in a single, fluid motion, punching the button for the door.

He sighs.

***

A blaster shot turns the corner of the building Din had just walked past into dust and debris. He spins, drawing his own blaster, expecting to see the Empire itself. Instead, a young human bounty hunter stands there, nervously fumbling with her jammed blaster. The Mandalorian rushes her, pinning her by the collarbone against the alley wall.

"Bounty?”

Terrified, she nods and whispers, “Yes.”

"Who contracted it?"

She wheezes from under Din’s forearm, “Don't know. It's open Rim-wide for now. Just told to kill you and the girl.”

Under his helm, Din’s brow pinches. “The girl?”

The wide-eyed woman shrugs, again in the dark. If this inexperienced bounty hunter managed to track him down already, it's likely another has found you. Din releases the woman roughly and rockets up into the sky.

_______________________________

The sights and sounds of the beach are incredible. The late-daylight is deliciously warm as it touches your skin through the holes in your clothing. You sit on the top step of the tiered beach area, staring out at the water as you try to come up with a plan of action. Having slept on a lounge chair last night, you’re nearly grateful for the decades of poor lodging training your body.

The sky is hazy, but the flash of sunlight glinting off of something tiny flying far above has you twisting your head and squinting. Unable to make out the object, you return your attention to the ocean and ignore it.

From behind you, a voice calls your name and you automatically turn.

As you stare down the barrel of the blaster pointed at you, you remember no one should know your name here.

"Let's go," the bounty hunter tells you.

It's a woman with red skin and long, blue, braided hair. Etches in her cheeks make her bone structure look even sharper.

You frown. What you’d told the Mandalorian had already been proven correct. You weren't able to run.

Resignedly standing to your feet, you take a step, but go stumbling forward as the woman kicks your back.

Your second foreign emotion of the last twenty-four hours sparks in your chest, glowing as hot as the sun above.

"Hey! I was going," you glare.

"Move faster, scum," she orders.

You continue walking, your eyes scanning for something, anything, to get you out of this.

Ahead on the right is a large crowd of vendors and their customers. If you can duck through them, maybe you can lose the blue-haired madwoman behind you.

A cold, circular shape presses between your shoulder blades as you march, and your bravery starts to fail. If you make a single wrong move, you'll be shot before you even get to the crowd.

Just do it - better to die now than live as a slave.

The crowd swells as a school trip pours out from a nearby museum. Your confidence rises at the sight of the increasingly busy, confusing horde.

Closer. So kriffing close.

The female bounty hunter cries out suddenly as a blaster shot scalds her arm. She defensively spins, kicking out powerfully behind her.

A large species you're unfamiliar with, tall and teal, is thrown sideways with the force of the kick. The competing bounty hunter recovers into a crouch and shoots at your captor, hitting her in the chest.

With a violent exhale, she falls. Too busy sprinting into the crowd, you do not hear her final, pathetic breath.

Weaving, keeping ducked and hidden, you whisper a constant stream of 'excuse me.' You don't want to push anyone, knowing a reaction from an offended beach-goer could give away your position.

The unblinking bounty hunter, your newest enemy, stands tall above much of the crowd, and it doesn't take him long to spot your trail.

Thundering forward, happily shoving people you had so politely passed, he roars. Fear ices your stomach.

The sound of a sputtering jetpack drowns out the noise of the people. Never breaking stride, you search for the source of another bounty hunter.

I know I’m a runaway slave who assaulted her master before turning him into a carbonsicle but, banthashit, is the price on my head really that high?

The massive hunter gains on you, and just as you clear the other side of the crowd, you gasp, pained, when he snatches your hair. You whirl, packing all of your strength into your right fist. Your blow lands on the creature’s lower jaw, which seems to be two pink tubes, and it wails grotesquely.

The grip on your hair loosens and you rip away, but the much larger creature lunges for you again. It pulls you upward by your shirt this time, and you scream. Kicking out, your foot knocks a breath from the ugly bounty hunter, but it does not release you.

Staring at you with shallow black eyes, it speaks in a language you don’t understand, but the intonation is clearly a question.

Gasping, you boldly say, “Let go of me and I’ll tell you.”

The creature seems to understand Basic because his three-fingered hand leaves your shirt.

Before you get a chance to make up a lie, the hulking bounty hunter vanishes in a flash of silver. Your head snaps in the direction of travel, and a trail of exhaust follows.

A hundred yards away, the jetpack flares out and the two fall to the ground in a tumble of fighting. A strangled laugh exits your mouth.

From bigger fish to bigger fish. Eventually the biggest fish would win and come after you.

The sound of the ugly creature roaring ends abruptly with a choked grunt. You push your legs hard as you run. The doorway to a cantina catches your eye as an intoxicated human stumbles out, and you rush past him.

Inside the dark, clamorous, smoky business, you slide into the booth furthest from the door, hoping that neither hunter saw you duck in. Panting heavily, you tell the droid waitress you’d like a bit of spotchka. You’ve never had it, but you’ve seen how relaxed and brave it makes people and that sounds wonderful right about now.

The circular cantina door slides open and the silhouette of a tall, broad Mandalorian is outlined by the glaring sun. You can’t tell what color or condition his armor is in, but your stomach clenches all the same. It had been an entire revolution of the planet since your Mandalorian had left, so it can't be him.

Wonder if he found his friend, you think about his ten-thousand-credit question for the Hutt. Must’ve been quite a reunion if it was worth that much.

Shrinking back against the wall of your booth, you shift completely out of sight and pray to whatever Ancient is listening that the stories about their helmets’ capabilities are exaggerations.

The droid waitress sets your pretty blue drink on the table without comment, for which you’re grateful. You don’t think your voice works.

Clinking metal is audible despite the volume of the rowdy bar. The sound gradually grows louder as he approaches your booth.

“What are you doing?” The Mandalorian has his hands on his hips, and though you cannot see his face, you’re certain he looks like a disapproving parent.

“I- what?” You squeak, completely confused by his question. And why he's here.

He moves to sit down across from you, and your nerves flare.

“Why are you still here?” He asks the same question you want to ask him.

“Where was I supposed to go? I have no credits.”

“There is work available on this planet.”

You pause, unhappy to give away just how out of your depth you are, “You mean paid employment? I’m not familiar with the process."

The Mandalorian doesn’t speak, he simply stares at you until you break your stare first.

Looking down at the grimy table, you trace a piece of graffiti with your finger and whisper, “Thank you.”

Mando shifts his head in askance.

“For saving me from the slave hunter.”

“He wasn’t a slave hunter.” Mando’s helmet tips down to where the bright blue liquid sits on the table. “You going to drink that?”

You shake your head, too self-conscious now.

“Good.”

He slides out from the booth and motions for you to walk ahead of him.

________________________________

Standing in the bay of the Mandalorian’s ship once more, you engage in a staring contest with the little green baby as it sits on the floor. Its ears move like he’s listening to Mando speak on his holocall above in the cockpit, but its eyes remain on you.

You’ve always liked children. While they could be blunt, they were kind to you and other slaves because they hadn’t yet learned any differently.

“How old are you?” You ask softly.

In your experience, children prefer to be spoken to as one would an adult, so you refrain from the baby-voice that springs to the surface when you look at the adorable infant.

He tilts his ears toward you.

“You’re pretty cute." The baby coos, then babbles once.

“You really are cute. And you seem highly intelligent. Have you been with the Mandalorian long? He seems to pick up strays easily,” you smile warmly.

The child awkwardly gets to its feet, toddling toward you. Remembering how quickly Mando had taken the child away when it last interacted with you, you slowly move backward toward the ladder. You don’t know if it's dangerous. Maybe the cuteness is a front.

A gurgling noise, as if it’s trying to tell you something, breaks from its little mouth. He raises his hand, pointing, and you whirl.

The Mandalorian is but a few feet away, watching.

How the kark did he get down the ladder so quietly?

“I’m sorry,” you don’t know what you’re apologizing for.

Mando strides around you and crouches to pick up the baby, “We're leaving this planet. I won't have enough fuel to get across the galaxy, but there is a job a few systems over."

He cradles the child so gently that it makes your heart ache.

Who is this guy?

The child in his arms makes grabby hands at his helmet, so he tenderly sets it back down. Mando heads back toward the cockpit, indicating you should follow.

Up the ladder, sitting once again in the same seat, you keep your eyes on the Mandalorian as he begins the lengthy takeoff procedures.

“The bounty hunter you encountered was not after the slave reward.”

“But she knew my name?”

“I am referring to the Aqualish you punched.”

“Oh.”

The Mandalorian does not immediately continue, focusing on his tasks for several minutes.

“There is a reward out for you,” he flips another switch. “And a bounty.”

“Both? Why both?”

“The bounty is secondary. Dependant on you giving them m-”

A panicked, childish cry echoes from below, and you’re only a moment behind the Mandalorian as he leaps down the hatch to the hold.

You gasp in horror as you see the long-eared, big-eyed baby squished in the crook of another kriffing bounty hunter’s arm. The loading ramp closes slowly behind him. He must’ve jumped in at the last moment.

Mando raises his hands, indicating his desire to negotiate.

“Do not hurt him,” he says. Instead of coming out as a plea, his vocoded words come out as a warning that makes your hair stand on end.

“Din Djarin, you are wanted for the murder of Senator Nesota’s son. I know your reputation, and therefore do not wish to fight. I’ll release your… this," he nods at the green baby, "when you’re in carbonite. There,” the human bounty hunter nods his head at Din’s own carbon freezer.

He killed a Senator’s kid?

The child frowns, his ears drooping, and he focuses hard on the bounty hunter. His little hand curls, and the man’s ruddy face turns purple. His eyes grow red and glassy.

Din reacts quickly, drawing his blaster and firing at the hunter’s face. The man falls with a clattering thunk, and the child rolls away, unmoving.

“No," you cry. "Is he alright?” You start toward the kid, fear in your voice.

“He’s fine,” the Mandalorian replies, holding his palm up for you to stay back. He reverently lifts the unconscious kid. “He’s just asleep.”

The Mandalorian - Din Djarin - murdered an important person’s child. And his own kid just choked someone without using its hands? I didn’t inhale spice, did I?

“You killed a kid?”

Din believes you’re still thinking of the baby in his arms. “I said he’s sleeping.”

“A Senator’s son?”

“Oh. Yes, the Rodian with Salaa.” Din hadn’t known he was the son of a powerful person, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

Relief floods you once again as your evaluation of the Mandalorian’s character remains intact. After seeing the way he cared for the little green one, how could you have believed he would harm any child?

“Okay." You return to the wildest topic, "What just happened with your kid?”

Din sighs. This was getting more dangerous than negotiating with a Tusken. He places the kid in his hammock and shuts the door.

Turning on you, he threatens, “Never speak of him outside this ship.”

“I- I wouldn’t,” you promise, surprised by the fierceness in his voice.

Din is satisfied. He’d watched you speak to his ward earlier, and the kid seems to like you immensely. But he doesn't solely rely on the kid's opinion.

The experienced, Mandalorian bounty hunter's own character assessment is top-notch, and he finds that he feels strongly about you. He doesn't categorize or identify the specifics, however.

The Mandalorian does not ask for your help in removing the dead bounty hunter from his ship, so you look on in silence as he does it alone. He lowers the landing ramp, drags the body to the edge, and watches it roll down unceremoniously. He turns and stalks past you.

“So, where's that job?”

“The Outer Rim.”

You sigh. “Of course it is.”

__________________________________

The planet blinds you when the Razor Crest launches out of hyperdrive. Brilliantly green, the single sun reflects the vibrant landscape right into your eyes.

Shielding your face, you venture a question. The Mandalorian had not finished explaining.

"Why is there a bounty on me?"

Even through the modulator, you can hear his dry tone: "You aided a bounty hunter in entering the Hutt's hideout through false pretenses which ended in the blasting of a Senator's son."

"Right," you frown, slumping in your seat.

"Don't worry. The bounty on my head is far larger than yours."

You scoff under your breath. So reassuring.

A deep breath, then you postulate, "Is that what the bounty hunter was asking me? About you?"

Din doesn't respond. He didn't hear the Aqualish's question. He was too busy aiming at its body with his own, but his best guess is yes.

"That's the reason you saved me," you mutter, oddly dejected.

A loose end. That's what you are.

Din often - almost constantly, actually - appreciated his helmet for the freedom it gave him to show any emotion at any time. No need to worry about a convincing poker face when no one could see it.

"You could have told them where my ship was."

"Except I thought you'd flown away the day before," you argue, saddened that he thought you would’ve talked.

Of course, he didn't know you, and he had a child to protect, but it still stings.

"Why not just kill me?" You wonder seriously.

You're a liability. Two separate prices on your head? The Mandalorian's easiest solution is obvious. A slave of no importance, no one would put a bounty on his head for your death.

Din Djarin's armor clanks as he spins the chair a quarter-turn toward you and he cocks his head.

"I don't want to die," you read his body language correctly. "But I don't understand you."

The Mandalorian silently returns to his piloting duties as he nears the lush planet. He does his best to shut his thoughts away, but he stumbles over you again and again.

Din had rescued you because he didn’t want to see you harmed for his actions with the Hutt. The idea of protecting himself from prying questions had been an afterthought.

He had flown above the city, looking for your trail. Since you hadn’t moved much, there wasn’t much of a trail to find. Then he spotted the crowd roiling and parting for the violent Aqualish.

When he watched it yank your hair, he felt angry. An emotion he experienced less frequently than many of his friends would believe. Frustration, irritation, sure. But true fury was rare for him.

Not wanting you dead was basic decency, but the anger had been interesting.

On some level, Din knows his emotional responses to you deserve greater scrutiny. But he doesn't have the time nor the energy.

When the Razor Crest lands in a grassy clearing between forest walls, Din rises from his chair and commands, “Stay here. Watch the child.”

“O-okay,” you agree hesitantly. “What do I do when he wakes up?”

The Mandalorian stares, uncomprehending.

“You… you don’t do anything for his… condition?”

“I told you he’s fine.” Din thinks for a moment, and remembers there is actually something you should know: “When he wakes up, he might be hungry. Do not let him eat the metal ball on the thruster.”

With that, he climbs down the ladder, and out of sight.

_________________________________

As the fist flies at you, you subconsciously register that your assailant must be right-handed, because this left hook is much sloppier than the other. Or maybe it's because his left arm is still human.

Ducking, you escape the jab and slam your palm-sized stick into the quarry's metal shins. He doesn’t react except to kick your thigh. You cry out, knowing it will bruise if you survive this.

The blaster you had taken from the Mandalorian’s cache lies just out of reach. The silver gleam is stark against the rich soil of the forest floor.

Enraged, the cyborg quarry leaps at your hunched form, knocking you flat. Surprised by his speed, you forget to keep hold of the heavy branch you use as a weapon.

The growling man rips the stick from your hands and slams it against your throat like a vise, choking you, “Die, wretch.”

You turn your head to the side, providing yourself with a precious moment of air before the quarry shifts to cut that escape route off, too.

Swinging your leg up, you kick him in the back of the head, pushing him forward. You take the opportunity to headbutt him - thankful that his head is still completely human - and he falls sideways. Right next to your blaster.

You snatch up your wooden weapon, but it's too late.

He laughs mechanically as he grabs the blaster, swinging it at you. “Too late, sweetheart.”

Panting, you don't raise your hands. If he's going to kill you, he'll do it when you charge him.

You take a step and the sound of a laserblast ricochets through the trees.

The creature cries out, dropping the weapon, his arm useless at his side. Wires spark from the elbow joint that had been blown away.

"Found you," the Mandalorian says flatly, his blaster pointed at the machine.

The metal man lunges but Din fires again - hitting the quarry in what should be its gut. It doubles over, groaning, then topples, fighting for labored breath.

He must still have lungs underneath, you shudder.

Still trying to catch your own breath, you gasp, "How-"

"Heard the fight. You were supposed to stay on the ship," his voice turns scolding.

Clenching your jaw, you finally find a steady breath. You had stayed on the ship. This piece of space junk had broken inside through the cockpit window.

As you sat in the hold, dutifully watching the kid, the sound of glass shattering alerted you that it was not Din who was back so soon. You had snatched up the baby, touching him for the first time with no concern about his potential dangers, locked him in the little room, and ripped a small blaster from the Razor Crest’s weapons cache.

You crouched at the far end of the hold, against the closed boarding ramp, waiting, uncomfortably far from the child.

A cyborg, more spidery-droid than man, with a human head and fleshy left arm had come skittering down, bypassing the ladder completely. Unwilling to chance a blaster shot going through the baby’s door, you hit the button on the landing ramp and scrambled out.

The forest. It was your home. Your element. If there was any chance you could kill it, to prove to yourself that you could survive this life - it was then and there.

Of course, you hadn't expected the quarry to get your blaster.

"I tried," you breathe as Din binds the still-groaning quarry.

The helmet turns to face you, understanding. "He entered the ship?”

You nod, and Din stands bolt-upright, his head whipping in the direction of the Razor Crest.

“It’s fine,” you assure him pointedly, walking with your hand outstretched toward the worried Mandalorian. You remember your promise not to speak of the child, “Your ship is fine. Knew you'd hate it if he trashed the thing, so I ran out here.”

The Mandalorian visibly relaxes his broad shoulders, and your heart tugs once again.

"Thank you," Din says with hidden feeling.

His sincerity wedges a lump in your throat.

He really loves that little guy.

Din turns and snatches the connector between the binders, pulling the quarry. Its metal feet dig trenches as it tries to stall, but the Mandalorian is far too strong.

Somehow, it's the first time you've truly noticed. Din is extremely strong. Is it the suit?

Can't be. It's just metal and fabric.

The realization might as well be a thunderbolt to your brain. Your assailant must weigh as much as a land speeder, and here your bounty hunter was carting him along like a sack of starfruit.

An unfamiliar feeling, something like hot, sharp sparks shoot through your stomach. Your eyes follow the Mandalorian as he makes his way back to the Razor Crest.

Is this attraction? You’ve never experienced it. Far too busy surviving, wanting someone in that way is a foreign concept to you. You roll your eyes at yourself. Din Djarin, a kriffing Mandalorian bounty hunter is not going to look twice at a slave, and it's best to kill those feelings before they take root.

***

Across the large clearing, at the ship, the bounty hunter waits patiently while the boarding ramp lowers.

“She yours?” The quarry asks curiously, his voice wheezing. "You orbited me like a karking moon, but as soon as I go after her, you come runnin’.” It laughs.

The cyborg doesn't expect a verbal answer; he wants a reaction.

Din turns his head slowly with a cold warning, “I would advise you to stop speaking.”

“I damaged her pretty good for you. Might wanna che-” his taunting words end in a pained grunt when Din slams his fist into the man’s cruel mouth.

Surprised by the sudden violence, you inhale sharply. Din hadn’t knocked the thing unconscious, so what was the point of that?

The Mandalorian hauls the creature up the ramp and shoves him into the carbon freezer.

“Should’ve killed me,” the cyborg threatens with a laugh as he freezes into a solid mass.

Din turns to face you and asks in a low voice, “Are you injured?”

The rush of adrenaline you had been riding on slowly fades, and you remember the only blow you’d received had been the one to the side of your thigh. Your hand falls to it, feeling the area through your tattered pants.

A small amount of blood comes away on your fingers.

“Oh,” you murmur.

You pull up the ripped, baggy material, exposing your entire leg. The skin had split with the force of the blow, but there’s no serious damage and it would heal on its own.

The cyborg must’ve been trying to unnerve us. Or distract the Mandalorian? Maybe he thought Din would check right away, you almost laugh aloud at the ridiculous idea.

Din, for his part, really wishes you would let your pant leg fall. It’s insane, it makes no sense to him. Millions of people walked around in far, far less clothing than you, and Din never reacted like this.

But here you stand before him, slowly checking out the inch-long cut on your mid-thigh, and the Mandalorian can’t tear his eyes away.

When you look up at the helmet of Din Djarin, he fixes his face as though you could actually see the way his lips had parted. You fleetingly, timidly, smile at him and, miraculously, let go of the flowy pant leg.

Released from the spell, Din exhales and makes his way to the child’s room.

“You can use the refresher to clean that, if you’d like.” He does not look at you as he speaks.

“Is the baby okay?”

Din need not answer as the child himself murmurs in happiness at the sight of the two of you. To Din’s abject shock, the kid lifts his hands toward you.

You laugh once, flattered. “Can I?”

Din simply turns sideways so that you can fit between him and the hull wall. You reach for the child and it snuggles into your arms, touching your chin.

A brilliant smile lights your face.

“Are we friends now?” You whisper to him.

The baby babbles a response you’ll take as an affirmative.

“I’ve not asked. What’s his name?” You turn your still-smiling face up to Din.

Again thanking the Mythosaur for his helmet, he stares, stuck on your glowing expression as you cradle his ward. His brown eyes swim with an emotion he’s never felt.

“I don't know.”

Taken aback, you realize that there is a far deeper story here.

Did he steal this baby?

You move on quickly, “What do you call him?”

Din shrugs. “Kid.”

The child makes a cooing sound, then reaches for the Mandalorian. You hand the baby to his stoic guardian, and your smile changes to a satisfied one.

“He looks like he belongs there,” you laugh. Then your eyebrows pull together as you regret the too-comfortable comment.

He’s a bounty hunter, a killer, and he may or may not have stolen this fuzzy, long-eared infant.

And you’re just a runaway slave.

You back up a step, feeling awkward now. “You said I could use the ‘fresher?”

Din simply nods his head in the direction of the tiny facility.

When you've shut the door, Din's body relaxes.

***

But not for long. He didn't account for the sound of your clothes hitting the floor and the sound of the sonics. You are steps away, unclothed, and some wild instinct inside him awakens. Ashamed, he sets the child back in the hammock and climbs up to the cockpit to relieve himself.

_________________________________

The planet is purple. Dark and cloudy, the yellow, green, and blue street lights cast strange shadows. Neon signs of every shade flash from every corner. You've been to thousands of cities like this one. An underworld.

The Mandalorian landed the Razor Crest on the outskirts despite there being a busy spaceport made for that purpose. He transported the carbonite body of the cyborg to the edge of the city where he was met by some anonymous creature in a cloak. He asked no questions.

Din had entrusted you with the care of the child. He directed you and the kid to go on ahead to one of the less-reputable inns. The worse-looking, the better. People were more likely to mind their business.

You've found the perfect one. Din wanted seedy, he was getting the seediest. After all, most of your tasks as a slave had been spent in this environment since your masters hated to be seen in them.

But seedy didn't always mean crumbling and derelict.

Din, having tracked the child's chain code, returns later that night. His eyebrows rise at the size of the room.

"I said find an inconspicuous place to hide. You got the emperor's suite," he places his hands on his hips.

There are technically three rooms: the main living space, complete with couch, table, and a space to prepare food; and two small bedrooms both on the same side of the building.

"It was their only available room. Trust me, this place is as disreputable as they come. And he didn't upcharge," you rise from the couch. "If that was what you were worried about. I… made a deal with the clerk."

Din advances on you, "A deal?" His voice is tight.

"I didn’t involve you. I promise."

The Mandalorian clenches his teeth. Anything involving you, involves him.

"The kid?"

You tilt your chin across the apartment and laugh, "He wanted the room with all the toys.”

Din disappears into the room, and you chuckle at how long the child had been fascinated by the weird sculptures inside.

A low, rasping voice travels from the open door, "Hey, kid. Missed you, too."

Your smile deepens and your heart swells with emotion toward the two of them. Though they are not your family, it's comforting to watch them be one.

The modulated voice sounds again with a short laugh, "She can't hear you. Do you want her?"

You shake your head fondly, the kid had been babbling and reaching for you every time you set him down.

After a significant pause, Din softly admits, "I agree. I like her, too."

Flushing with shame for eavesdropping, you move to the far side of the apartment, to another large window.

Several minutes later, quiet footsteps get louder as Din leaves the child's room and closes the door.

"He tried to lift one of the sculptures," Din scoffs.

You laugh, picturing the child peacefully sleeping after tiring himself with the effort. It wasn't the first time today. Growing serious, you turn to face the Mandalorian.

"He helped me today. Someone grabbed at me and he… did what he does."

Din takes two huge strides toward you. "Did anyone see? What happened?"

"No one saw. It was in a closed alley. I-" you pause in momentary reluctance, then remember who you're talking to. "I took care of it."

You glance at the blaster on the table that Din had given you earlier that morning.

For the first time in a long time, Din's sigh is one of relief instead of irritation.

"Thank you," he says. "Again."

You wave him off, "It was between a scumsucker and the kid. Wasn't exactly hard," you try to make light of it.

Din shakes his head slightly. "I've seen you use a blaster. I'm glad the kid was there," he deadpans.

You exhale in feigned irritation, pleased by his playfulness.

He comes to stand next to you at the open window, and the peaceful silence is companionable.

As the breeze flutters, you shiver noticeably and his torn, rough cape curls into your ankle. The Mandalorian turns his head to you and reads how low your heat signature is.

Din stalks back to the entryway where he had set down a cloth bag. He snatches it up and brings it over to you.

"I hope they are acceptable."

Hands outstretched, you freeze as you realize you're being given a gift. You blink and look up, desperately trying to read a face you know you can't.

"Um, I've never -" you whisper, needing to tell him why you look like you've been struck. "Never had someone give me something."

Inside his beskar armor, Din grimaces. Had he overstepped? It might get even worse when you see how personal the items are.

He releases his hold on the bag and you open it, pulling out a pair of clothes. They're dark blue, and, while somewhat flowy like your current clothes, these do not have holes, stains, nor bad memories associated.

And they are a gift from Din Djarin.

How do you thank him for these? They certainly weren't cheap. The clothing is sturdy but light, beautiful but practical.

Embarrassingly, tears collect in your eyes.

"Oh, wow," you look up at him, panicking. "I can't take these." It was too much.

Din has an excuse in his arsenal.

"Take it as payment for your help with the kid."

You look back down at the material in your hands, rubbing the soft fabric.

"Thank you, Din. Really. I- I don't know how to thank you. You have been so kind to me."

His cheek pulls upward when you say his name for the first time. How sweet it sounds in your mouth.

"You needed them. These," he waves at the shredded scraps on your frame, "are no longer clothes."

You smile timidly, unused to being treated so well. "I'm going to go take them off and burn them."

The Mandalorian taps his vambrace. "I have the means when you're ready."

"Thank you again," you murmur, escaping to the refresher.

Din steps to the center of the room and places a hologram disk on the low table.

While you're busy, he's going to figure out how to get out of this.

***

After an actual shower, real water loosening the knots in your muscles, you exhale in pleasure at the feeling of the clean, well-made clothing on your skin. You feel like a person.

It's similar to seeing hyperspace for the first time. It scares you with how good it feels, knowing you’ve missed out on so much.

You slide open the refresher door to see Din seated on the couch, facing away from you. He sits reclined, his legs spread wide. The Mandalorian hears the door open, but he does not turn.

Stomach growling, you head to the cold storage near the front door. The box of food you'd bought from a vendor sits on the countertop. You unpack it carefully, still in disbelief you can eat whatever you want.

"Are you hungry?" You call to the Mandalorian as you continue to pull items from the box.

"You are no longer a slave. You do not have to serve me." The deep, rough voice sounds from right behind you, and you jump in surprise.

"Dank farrik, you move quietly."

Din reaches around you for one of the fruits you had purchased with his credits. His nearness has your body tensing, but he backs away almost immediately.

"How do you eat with that on?" You wonder, clearly meaning his helmet.

"I don't," he answers, walking into the other bedroom.

***

A week passes in that calm hotel apartment. The child provided more than enough entertainment for you, attempting to lift different objects of his desire at random.

For Din, so used to the child's antics, you are the object of his attention. You brush it off when he stands near you at the window, when he ensures that you have something to eat, and when he silently takes the couch over the comfortable bed.

But you're unable to ignore his touch.

Just after you wake, the dual suns begin to peek around the tall city buildings. Trying not to wake Din on the couch, you tiptoe to the window in the main room, still enthralled with the city view. You’ve seen cities thousands of times throughout your enslavement, often imagining running away to explore. Now that you have the opportunity, you find that you don’t want to go.

Seated on the bare floor, your arms wrapped around your knees as you watch the suns rise, you're wandering down halls of your own thoughts when a voice drifts into your consciousness.

"I will get your bounty lifted."

Turning your head, Din leans forward on the couch, his forearms on his knees.

"If that's what you are concerned about."

You shake your head, "I'm not concerned. I think I'm happy."

You had just come to that conclusion a moment earlier. It's an emotion you don't remember feeling. It's like your lungs are expanding after twenty years of suffocation.

You look back at the city and smile contentedly, "This is the best my life has been."

The admission is extremely personal, but you can’t keep it to yourself. It’s liberating. You weren't ready to fight for your freedom when the Mandalorian came for your master, but you are now.

Din’s footsteps advance on you until he’s standing off to your right. He says nothing.

After an interminable length of time, wondering what he’s doing, you twist and look up at him. His helmet turns toward the window just as you face him.

His hands are folded behind him, but a sliver of something flesh-toned is visible.

Is that his wrist?

Your stomach drops. His bare skin. It looks warm-toned and soft. You close your eyes and turn away, back toward the window.

“I am glad,” Din says.

“About what?” Since it has been several minutes since either of you have spoken, you’re unsure if he’s responding or making a statement.

He simply looks back down at you as if that answers your question.

“We’ll be leaving today,” Din continues to study you, appreciating the way the orange dawn lights your face. “You’ve almost drained me of credits with this palace of a hotel.”

You deny the accusation with a laugh, “I did not. I told you I made a deal.”

“And you have not told me what that deal was,” he says, a hint of a threat in his tone.

Din is on edge about your ‘deal.’ The night before, he had gone down to the reception desk to intimidate the clerk about it, but the employee you’d dealt with hadn’t been there.

“I promised you already - it has nothing to do with you or him,” you motion toward the child’s room. “It is not worth your attention.”

Din scowls. “You are also under my charge, and if you’ve placed yourself in danger, I need to be aware of it.”

Your face snaps up, uselessly trying to make eye contact with him. His charge? Why does your face feel hot at those words?

Finally taking pity on him, you answer, “He was a gambler. I bet him I could win more rounds of sabacc. And I did.”

The Mandalorian is stock-still. That was all? Din had gotten incredibly worked up over what you could possibly owe this mysterious desk clerk, and all you’d done was a bit of hustling?

“Why would you not tell me that right away?”

“I didn’t want to seem like I was bragging,” you frown. Din had tasked you with something and you had wanted to complete it with as little fanfare as possible.

“What other skills have you been hiding?” Din’s tone is half-mocking, half-serious. He knows next to nothing about you despite the monopoly you’ve had on his thoughts.

You side-eye him, unsure of his intention. “I can do basic ship repairs. I can speak four languages. I know how to fight.”

“I am not convinced of that last one.”

“The cyborg caught me on a bad day,” you protest.

"It was fortunate you were not seriously injured. I wouldn't have the credits for this," he nods his head up at the high ceiling.

For the second time, your head turns to scrutinize him, but he’s as impenetrable as ever.

"Why not?"

Din's silver face snaps down to you. "The quarry would not have made it into the carbon freezer."

And as you open your mouth - to say what, you have no idea - a quiet knock raps on the front door.

Spooked, you whirl so that you face the door, still seated.

“It’s alright,” Din’s deep, rough voice soothes.

When he holds out his hand to help you stand, you take it without second thought.

But it wasn’t just a hint of his wrist that you saw - his gloves are completely off. His rough palm slides into your grasp, and his thick fingers close around your hand.

Eyes widening, you audibly gasp.

Din raises you to your feet with no effort, and you wind up far too close to him. Your breath fogs on his chestplate, and your pulse thrums in your ears.

Too-quickly, his thumb rubs your skin, and then he releases your hand. Do you imagine the sigh he makes as he steps away?

Your eyes are glued to his broad form as he retrieves his gloves from the couch, then heads to answer the door.

“Should I -?” You whisper.

“Stay,” he says simply.

It’s unbelievable how one word could affect you. You swallow hard and clasp your hands together in front of you.

***

“As you are well aware, Mandalorian, my esteemed patron was unhappy to hear about her son’s death. However, you are of concern to us for a different reason. If we are able to reward you for your silence regarding where her son was at the time of his unfortunate, accidental death, this business might be put behind us.”

The slimeball flashes her biggest smile at the bounty hunter.

“What am I being paid to be silent about? The Hutt was banished by the Republic due to his slavery connections. Is the Senator afraid of her choice in friends being known?”

The emissary smiles nastily. “Let us say that the Hutt is also on my list of individuals to speak with.”

“I require explicit terms regarding this agreement. I am a Mandalorian, I can assure you of my discretion.”

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slavery you overheard between the Senator’s son and Salaa the Hutt, and we shall reward you with twenty-thousand credits to be paid over the course of three months.”

To your horror, Din rises from the couch and nods his head, saying, “I accept your terms.”

“And what about her?” The emissary wrinkles her nose as she indicates you.

“She is a slave,” the Mandalorian says with harsh finality.

You physically shrink next to him. He had insisted you remain while they spoke, but now you’re regretting agreeing to it.

The distaste with which he had uttered the word ‘slave’ makes you feel unclean, unwanted. Tears threaten to spill over, and you keep your head down in a familiar, submissive posture in case they do.

The bounty hunter escorts the Twi’lek emissary to the door while you sit, head bowed, on the couch.

“Senator Nesota will be most appreciative. If you are ever in Coruscant, she would be delighted to have you visit her apartments. They are most grand.” She disapprovingly glances around the hotel room. “I assume you had your slave pick this one.” The emissary briefly places her hand on the Mandalorian’s forearm, “Remember, we are friends now, Din Djarin.”

The helmet saves his entire operation, for Din cannot stop the disgusted scowl that mars his face. This piece of scum uses his name to both threaten and flirt; the difference in his feelings between her saying it and you saying it are blindingly stark.

“I do not have friends. My name is not for your use,” he says evenly as he punches the button for the front door.

The emissary walks away without another word.

When Din closes the door, he turns back to you with a sense of relief for more than one reason.

But something is wrong.

“Do you not feel well?”

You shake your head, “I misunderstood something. That’s all.” Your head remains bowed.

“You will not look at me.”

“I am… embarrassed,” you mutter honestly.

An emotion Din has never experienced or understood, he is at a loss. Instead, he sits across from you and tosses you the recorder.

The small, comm-looking device lands on your lap, and you pick it up, curiously rolling it in your hands. You press the button.

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slav-”

You stop the device and look up at Din with renewed hope, “You were lying.”

Din leans forward in his seat, “I was not lying. I gave her my word as a Mandalorian. But you didn’t.”

“That’s a stretch and you know it,” you laugh.

Din shrugs. The moral reasoning works for him.

“I am to send this recording to the Republic, correct? Get the senator removed from office?”

“She will no longer have the funds to pay our bounties. They will be considered void.”

Your smile falters. He had done what he promised.

Din tilts his head, “You’re unhappy about that?”

“It’s not your problem, of course. But I have to deal with the slaver’s reward. And… and I am not sure what I should do, where I should go.”

Really, you’re saddened because there is no longer any reason for you to stay. You wish there was.

The Mandalorian is silent, weighing his choice of words carefully.

"There is room on the Razor Crest. The kid is fond of you. I can pay you for your services to him. And, occasionally, the ship needs repairs - you can assist me with those.”

“Is this that ‘legal employment’ you told me I needed?” You grin. “I would like that very much.”

“You will need to learn how to fight, though,” he shakes his head, his tone teasing. “The kid can’t save you every time.”

____________________________________

You sit on the hold floor, the child in your arms. Having left the inn rather early, the child is still asleep.

Jostling as Din lands the Razor Crest on a new planet, you slowly stand and place the little lump in his hammock and shut the door.

The Mandalorian drops down into the hold, passing you and hitting the button for the boarding ramp. Deciding to trust him, you don't ask where you're being taken.

The answer isn't far. Din stops right at the treeline and hands you the same silver blaster from the previous week's fight with the cyborg.

"You need to learn to use it."

"I've done well with a blaster before," you protest. "I shot Rathos."

"But you didn't shoot the cyborg," you can hear the frown in his deep voice. "Pick a tree."

Nervous to be evaluated by a master of the craft, you hesitate briefly before aiming at a massive trunk a few speeders lengths away.

The plate of his armor brushes against your back as the Mandalorian gingerly sets his heavy hands on your shoulders, straightening them. With his boot, he taps the inside of your foot, indicating you should widen your stance.

You blink rapidly. Your face flushes with warmth. Why is your heart thundering? Can he hear it?

He can.

His own heart rate increases when his helmet's display shows your heat signature rising. Din pushes it further: his leather-covered hands slide down to your waist where he turns you a fraction - completely unnecessarily.

Close enough that, were he unveiled, you could feel his breath, he murmurs, "Fire."

Utterly distracted, you squeeze the trigger as a matter of following his command. The blaster shot continues on through the treetops, singeing leaves.

Din straightens, his hands leaving your body, and he huffs.

"You distracted me," you explain. "I can hit it."

You realign the weapon and inhale deeply, releasing on the exhale just as you would with an arrow.

The tree sizzles as you hit it dead-center.

Spinning to face him triumphantly, the smile freezes on your lips.

One of the suns on this planet has begun to drop behind him, and his large frame casts you in shadow. He still hasn't moved away from you. The way his mask is angled toward you makes you believe he's lost in thought.

"What is it?" You whisper in the tense silence.

Din feels dizzy. You're a natural with a weapon you'd fired all of three times. Your words cudgel his mind. He had distracted you enough to miss a huge karking tree.

"Do it again."

You nod and return to the target. Throwing your mind back to your childhood, you once again hit the tree dead-on.

Weighing the blaster in your hand, you turn back to him and say, "I still prefer wooden weapons. Or at least something resembling a spear."

"Why is that?" His voice is rough, and his hands find a home on his hips.

"That's how I grew up," you answer.

"Okay. Grab one."

Your mouth drops open in confusion, but he finally leaves your personal space and picks up a slender, twigless branch.

"You can't be serious," you sputter a laugh, certain he had just found a sense of humor. "I'm not fighting you."

"Why not?"

"Um. Because I can't."

"You can." He holds the stick out toward you.

You stare at him, watchful, as you curl your fingers around it. Din removes a small, cylindrical object from his utility belt. He pumps it once and it unfolds into a thin cane-like weapon.

"It's been twenty years," you frown. "You're going to win."

But, when that makeshift spear is in your hand, it all rushes back. The key to winning is in gaining ground. Whatever you do, push your opponent back. So, you launch at him first.

Only partially surprised by the speed of the typically-timid girl now coming for his throat, Din manages to duck out of the way just in time. But you whirl to the opposite side he expects, and swing your weapon into his helmet. It clangs, and you stand upright.

"I'm sorry!" You react, fearful both from years of mistreatment and not wanting to hurt Din.

He ignores you, swishing his weapon toward your middle, and you jump backward. Hating that you conceded even that little ground, you quickly drop to a crouch and sweep at his knees like Rathos did to you.

Din rockets upward a few feet, then drops back down on your other side. He swings at you and you parry.

Dancing for several steps, you eventually land a blow to his ribs where the beskar does not cover. Din's modulated groan makes you feel a rush of two separate emotions.

You don't want to hurt him, but that sound ignites a heat between your legs.

Din retaliates, kicking his tipless spear into your chest and shoving you backward. He knows your move, now. You don't like giving up ground, so you'll throw yourself at him, arms raised to strike.

When you do exactly as he predicts, he drops his weapon completely, grabbing you around the waist and spinning. He throws you to the ground, coming down on top of you.

You laugh, exhilarated, "Almost."

Something is jabbing your hip, and when you shift to identify it, Din grunts again. Your eyes shoot to his hidden face.

Under the helmet, Din's brown eyes are blown, pained at how aroused he is. He can't handle much more of this. Your wide eyes and galloping heart match his, but underneath him you look so vulnerable that he feels downright predatory. His stiff length twitches.

Din’s voice is raw, barely contained, "Tell me to stop and I will." His gloved thumbs push your bottoms down.

Speechless, your core pulsing, you nod.

Din unfastens the material around his middle, pulls his desperate cock from the flight suit, and hastily positions himself against you. Your slick coats him as he drags himself through your folds. He groans through the modulator.

“Oh,” you gasp when he eases the tip past your entrance.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Din sheaths himself inside you with a determined grunt, his patch of dark curls mingling with yours.

Your hands try to fist in his flight suit, eyes wide at the incredible feeling of him filling you. His right hand cradles your jaw as he starts to rock his hips, cursing as he does so.

For the first time in his life, Din resents his helmet; both for the separation from your soft skin, and the heightened senses it gives him. How is he supposed to last when he can see your heart racing, hear your quiet cries as though they’re inside his own head?

In an insufficient compromise, he rips off his gloves. His tan skin is calloused and scarred.

“Yes,” you plead.

Din intertwines his fingers on both hands with yours, hypnotized for a precious second by the intimacy. Reverently, you press a kiss to his knuckles. He makes a wild sound deep in his chest, then plunges your hands above your head.

Pushing your chest to his, you signal that he can do anything he wants to you. He collects both your wrists in one hand.

Din rhythmically arcs into you, the sound of his body - soaked from your arousal - striking yours nearly driving you insane. When you’d imagined it before, you wondered if looking into the blank face of his helmet might be off-putting, but you find that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because it’s him. If anything, it’s erotic to trust him so blindly.

Din is resolved to know your body better than you do. With his free hand, his fingers nimbly massage your clit until you jerk.

“There?” He confirms.

You nod, unable to speak. His heavy, straining cock dragging through you, and his rough fingers replace the output from all other senses.

When he finds the perfect combination, he doesn’t let up until your eyes screw shut and you shake, incoherent underneath him in ecstasy.

“You can say it,” he hoarsely encourages through the modulator.

It was already on your lips, “Din.”

The hand that acted as a manacle releases you as he places his palm on the ground, giving himself as much leverage to bury himself as deep as possible. The toes of Din’s boots dig up clumps of grass as he thrusts into you, the sound of skin slapping skin lost in the breeze. Your legs curl around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He feels the spark at the base of his spine and knows he doesn’t have much strength left. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his flight suit again, clinging to him for all you’re worth.

Din makes the mistake of looking into your lust-filled eyes as you speak.

“Let go,” you whisper tenderly, feeling his tense body begin to fracture.

Din has no choice but to obey you, pumping himself into you with a long, harsh sigh. He works his release inside you, gradually slowing until his arms shake.

He finally drops to the ground beside you, breathing rapidly.

Suddenly shy, you want nothing more than to reach over and take one of his hands, but you lack the confidence. You also don’t know what to say.

Din doesn’t believe there’s anything to say. He had never been so tempted in all his life, and he had not passed the test. A shred less self-control and his helmet might’ve followed the gloves.

In fact, the temptation is still so strong that he begins to plan for its eventuality.

____________________________________

#din djarin #my fics #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars #star wars fanfic #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #Spotify #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #grogu #baby yoda #my writing

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rumbellesummervacation · 7 years

Text

Gone to See the Elephant: Rumbelle in San Antonio

Rumple, Belle and Gideon visit South Texas, expecting cowboys, history and weird stuff (Gid’s choice). They find everything they expect, plus a lot more: a magical river and Alamo ghosts who need their help. Rated K+.

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They’ve discovered that the three of them make an excellent traveling team. Rumple loves to plan: studying road maps, pumping Expedia and Priceline for the best deals, then phoning hotels to ferret out even better deals with his “your competitor offered me a senior discount and a Triple A discount. Can you do better?” approach. Not that they need worry about money: they’ve learned in their travels that their black America Express is almost as powerful as magic in this vast land. Belle is the researcher, proudly taking each town on his map and running it through Fodors and Lonely Planet before hopping on Yelp and Trip Advisor. In less than an hour, she can produce an annotated list of sights to see in any American town—as well as a secondary list of the overrated and overpriced tourist traps.

And ten-year-old Gideon, eyes eagle sharp from the backseat of the Caddy, has radar for finding sights not in any book. The more unusual, the better. Like his father, Gid is a collector of the odd, capturing everything from roadside snake farms to street jugglers with his camera. They have come to South Texas now, for a week of high adventure. This is more a Rumple-and-Gid thing, Belle thinks, but that’s okay: whatever excites them pleases her. Gid has been yammering on about the amusement parks: he can’t wait to ride The Joker at Six Flags and catch his breath as the mighty Shamu etches an arch against the bright blue sky at Seaworld. But his favorite, which he makes sure to include in every conversation, lest his parents forget, is Ripley’s Believe It or Not Odditorium, with its shrunken heads, headless chicken, and duck-mouthed lady. “On Alamo Plaza,” he reminds Dad solemnly. “Open 10 a.m. to 11 p. m. daily." From behind the steering wheel, Dad assures him Ripley’s will not be left out, while Mom just sighs.

In private, they’ve discussed Gid’s fascination with the weird, Mom wondering if indulging it will leave an indelible stain on the boy’s innocence, but Dad replying by pointing to the odd stuff in his shop—including a portrait that she herself had painted of the sparkly, scaly Dark One in his Enchanted Forest years. “I think his interest in the unique things in life is unavoidable, sweetheart.” Still, Belle had fretted, until one afternoon, as Neal and Gid grossed each other out with a shed snake skin, Snow remarked upon the same fascination in her own son. “They’re ten,” Snow concluded. “Two years ago, they played in mud. Two years from now, it’ll be cars.”

Belle does believe in encouraging her child’s intellectual development, so she indulges him, taking comfort in the fact that Gid reads more and plays computer games less often than his peers. As the Caddy sails down IH-35, weaving its way between Ford F150s with “Protected by Smith & Wesson” bumper stickers and Honda Accords with “I love my granddog” bumper stickers, Rumple growls every time he’s cut off: “Use your friggin’ turn signal, Sheep-Dip-for-Brains.” Belle thinks, for Gid’s sake, she should chastise her husband, but these drivers make her just as annoyed as he is, so she lets the first almost-cuss-word slide. Five minutes later, as a U-Haul slides in front of the Caddy, Rumple’s at it again: “Use your friggin’ turn signal, Sheep-Dip-for-Brains.” Ten minutes later and it’s become a mantra that Belle lets him have, because she realizes it’s tamping his temper down.

Gid reads every road sign aloud (every road sign, Rumple mutters under his breath). Periodically he shouts out, and they pull off the highway to satisfy his curiosity (when he whispers, it’s because he needs a restroom). It impedes their progress to San Antonio, but that’s okay: by sunset they can boast that they’ve seen the Giant Slice of Pie (Kyle), the Fake Castle and Dragon (Buda—Gid is not impressed; he’s seen the real things, but he does appreciate the World Largest Pinball Machine inside the castle), the Giant Armadillo (Schertz), and the World’s Largest Cowboy Boots (San Antonio). At a Cracker Barrel they chow down on chicken fried steak and pick up an “I Wasn’t Born in Texas But I Got Here as Fast as I Could” bumper sticker.

That was just the first day in Central-South Texas.

San Antonio

Gid and Belle ride the Joker, the Batman, and the Krypton Coaster, while Rumple sits on a bench, cheering them on and “guarding our stuff.” He accompanies them on the bumper cars. When they zig and zag and loop on the Pandemonium, he loops into the nearest men’s room and loses his lunch. Staggering dizzily off the ride, Belle clutches Rumple’s arm to regain her balance, but Gid shrugs. “It was okay. Let’s go on the Screamin’ Eagle!”

When her head has cleared, she whispers at him, “Are you okay, darling? You look rather pale.”

“That last ride was a belly-buster,” he admits.

“But you— ” She clamps her mouth shut. “It sure was. Tomorrow will be easier: Seaworld.”

Except, as they discover, there’s the Great White Coaster and Steel Eel and the Wave Breaker, and by time his family have experienced the last thrill ride, Rumple wonders if someone has spiked his lemonade, for the bench he’s been riding all day tilts precariously. They spend a few sedate hours watching the animal shows, and when his stomach has settled he joins in with a Dolphin Swim.

Tired, sore-footed and sunburnt they fall into bed at a Holiday Inn. “Thank gods tomorrow is a shopping day,” Belle groans, rubbing her hip. “I’m getting too old for all this adventure.”

Rumple gives her a look and she giggles. “I know, I know.” He needn’t remind her he’s ten times her age.

The Hill Country

Then it’s Rumple’s turn to choose the adventure. They whisk up Highway 16 to Fredericksburg for some antique shopping. The winding two-lane blacktop takes them through the wild part of the Texas Hill Country. They have come too late in the year for the famous bluebonnets, but white-flowered yucca plants and Mexican Hatdot the limestone cliffs, and Gid spots vultures perching on electrical poles. The ruggedness thrills Belle as she fantasizes aloud about the pioneers crossing this land in creaking, jolting wagons. The traffic is hopping for a town of only 11,000 residents and there’s a B & B on every corner: from Fodor’s, Belle learns that Fredericksburg, with its German restaurants, vineyards, art galleries, antiques shops, and Old West specialty shops is a draw for artists, history buffs and weekend cowboys alike. From the sights beyond his windshield, Rumple ascertains that his pawnshop would do more business here than he could keep up with.

Rumple keeps his shopping short, taking photos of objects he takes a fancy to, exchanging business cards and, when he just can’t resist it, making a quick deal here and there for bits of furniture to be shipped back to Maine.

Then they swing back down south to the little but very busy town of Bandera, where motorcycles compete with pickups for parking spaces, and an arts and craftsshow takes up the courthouse lawn while, at Mansfield Park, there’s a mutton bustin’.This is “the Cowboy Capital of the World,” and though Rumple professes to have chosen this site as compensation for making Gid sit through a morning of antiquing, the truth is, this visit is for the older Gold. Belle knows this, from the shelf full of Elmer Keltons and TV Westerns in his closet at home, but she lets him have his little yellow fib.

The Golds find a city parking lot—just a plane of gravel, really—within walking distance of downtown (but then, pretty much everything here is in walking distance). As they approach Main Street, Gid bounces on ahead to watch performers reenact a gunfight. He squeezes his way past the iPhone photo-takers cluttering the sidewalks to get to the front for the best view. Belle frets a moment when she loses sight of him—even now, a decade after the Black Fairy’s defeat, she gets nervous sometimes. “It’s okay,” Rumple assures her. “If he needs us, he can yell louder than any six-shooter.”

But he gets a bit nervous as the people around him eyeball his D & G silk shirt and pressed slacks (at least he’s left the tie and jacket in the car). It’s not just that he stands out in this crowd of faded jeans and Spurs t-shirts, though he certainly does that: the tourists and Banderans alike step aside for him, apparently assuming he’s some federal government official (certainly not a local politico, or he’d be wearing denim). Normally that deference would be feeding his ego; as soon as he’d gained his power, he’d begun dressing to impress (and frighten). But not today, not here. Today, for one weekend, Rumplestiltskin wants to be a cowboy. “No, this won’t do,” he murmurs before pressing his mouth to Belle’s ear, to be heard over the street entertainers. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, sweetheart. You just stay and enjoy the show with Gid.”

She nods and takes advantage of her small frame to ease past the spectators to her son’s side. He wheels about and ambles (imagining he’s already wearing cowhide boots) down the boardwalk until he comes to a limestone-front shop with a pair of red boots decorating the facade: the Cowboy Store. What better place to outfit a fella who’ll be moseying on out to the ranch tonight. “Cowboy me,” he orders the clerk, slapping his Amex Black on the counter, and in fifteen minutes he’s in Wranglers, a short-sleeved Cinch shirt (Belle will be pleased: she admires his forearms) and Justin Hidalgos. In a shopping bag he tries to hide under his arm are his D & Gs and his Italian loafers. He hasn’t gone so far as to buy a Stetson—yet. But sometime before tonight’s rodeo at the Twin Elm he reckons he ought to.

He slathers on some sunblock and joins his family at the shoot-out. Standing shoulder to shoulder with other men, he feels, strangely, comfortable, as if he’s lived here before. His thoughts flash back for a moment to the Mr. Gold he once was, in the First Curse Days; Gold would have snickered, not just at the new clothes, but at the crowd he’s now associating with: middle-class, middle-aged, family men.Henpecked, Gold would have called today’s Rumple; today’s Rumple would have snapped back, “Proud of it.” And he would have known that, beneath the D & G layers beat an envious, lonely heart.

It’s time to let Mr. Gold go. Bury him in the rubble of the broken curse. Sliding an arm around his wife’s waist, Rumple won’t miss the old bastard a bit.

They drive out to their home for the weekend, the Twin Elm Guest Ranch. There’s so much to do this weekend, they can’t fit it all in: horseback riding and fishing tomorrow, followed by a rodeo. They’ve come too late for the Wild Hog Explosion and BBQ, and too early for Celebrate Bandera, featuring a real-live cattle drive down Main Street, the Circle of Life Inter-Tribal Powwow, and the Professional Bull Riders rodeo. They knew from their research their timing was off for these events, but they figured they’d have a wonderful time anyway, and so they have. Still, after an evening of chuck-wagon steaks and line dancing to guitars and fiddles, Rumple leans against the gate, watching the sun go down as Gid and Belle chat quietly with other guests around a campfire. In the lengthening shadows, Rumple watches horses move slowly across the pasture, cropping grass. He hears tails swishing at horseflies, an occasional snort, a stomp of a hoof, and his heart stills. He’s lived many lives, but never this one, and yet, though there’s an illusion to it, for which his MasterCard Gold has paid, this feels more real to him that the Longbourne hovel or the Dark Castle. More like home.

In the West, a man can start again if he has the gumption for it. We only ask what he is, not what he was. He learned that from novels and movies. Here, he believes it to be true.

“That’s all right,” Belle remarks after she’s tucked Gid into a bunk bed. “We don’t have to rush. We have money enough, and time. We can always come back.”

Watching his son’s chest rise and fall in slumber, he dimples at this thought. “Yes. We’ll come back.”

San Antonio Again

“You seemed to really get into our little rodeo.” The ranch hand mops sweat and dust off his brow as he joins the Golds, leaning on the gate.

“We did,” Belle assures him, glancing at her bright-eyed boys, who are chattering excitedly with a barrel racer who’s resting on her sorrel, one leg hooked over the saddle horn.

“If you really want to see some action, you should go to a charreada. There’s one at Crying Creek Ranch in New Braunfels next Saturday.”

And so Belle’s choice is made. But Saturday is eight days away, so she relinquishes her turn to Gid, and the Caddy winds it way back down Highway 16. As soon as they hit Loop 1604 around the outer edges of San Antonio, they can feel the difference. The air itself changes, becomes charged with irresistible energy, almost borderline frantic, as the traffic on the very crowded highway-turned-city-street pushes and prods the Caddy to skim the speed limit. Belle has driven down from Bandera, but she pulls off at a Valero station to switch seats with Rumple: he taps into his mean streak and it’s his anger that allows him to compete with two million people for space in this sprawling, casually aggressive city. He’s powerful, even without his magic, and he drives like it. Though the Rams and the Tundras could easily blow him off the road, they give the Cadillac driver a little respect, perhaps assuming he can put his money where his mouth is. “Use your friggin’ turn signal, Sheep-Dip-for-Brains!” he shouts as a Camry cuts him off, and he raises his fingers from the steering wheel, wagging them. “Lucky for you he doesn’t have his magic,” Belle mutters, “else you’d be a snail washed up on the beach at Padre Island.”

Teeth gritted and “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” on the CD player, Rumple needles his way onto Loop 410 East, then, at Belle’s shouted directions, pushes onto IH-10 headed south (though he’s confused because the signs say “10 East”), which, to confuse matters further, merges for a spell with IH-35. With Gid in the backseat clutching his rolled-down window, sticking his face out into the whipping wind, Belle shouts again, and Rumple swings the Caddy across three lanes of traffic to the Houston Street exit, where suddenly everything. Comes. To. A. Standstill.

“Glad we got those brakes relined before we set out,” Belle grins, because Rumple has to ride them. They’re now on a two-lane red-brick street, which she finds charming and Gid finds delightfully bumpy, but Rumple finds maddening because there’s a bloody stoplight at every corner which pedestrians ignore, stepping right out into oncoming traffic, too busy admiring the buildings (they are interesting—a theater with a glitzy marquee, an old-fashioned drug store, Belle muses later) or reading the iPhones to watch where they’re walking. “Damn tourists,” Rumple grumbles, as if he lives here.

“Just be glad this isn’t playoff season,” Gid quips. He’s been watching Spurs games on YouTube. A natural athlete and a sports nut, the kid is; it separates him from his parents, gives him an identity of his own.

Gripping the wheel, Rumple ignores the streetcars, guns his engine a little to scare the jaywalkers, and inches his way east on Houston.

“In February, at the start of the Stock Show and Rodeo, they drive Longhorns down this street,” Belle comments, reading from her Fodor’s.

“I wonder if the pedestrians stop for Longhorns, or do the Longhorns stop for them,” Rumple grunts.

“Is that it?” Gid points at a hotel. They have plenty of time to examine it; a stretch limo unloading its passengers at the hotel entrance is blocking the entire east lane of the street.

“Emma would never allow a disruption like that,” Rumple complains. “A hazard, that’s what it is.”

“No, it’s not our hotel,” Belle informs her son.

They creep along. As a Lexus making a right turn cuts them off, Gid yells out the window, “Use your friggin’ turn signal, Sheep-Dip-for-Brains!”

Belle raises her sunglasses to squint at Rumple. She doesn’t have to say anything; he knows that admonishing look too well. “Uhm, yeah, I’ll, ah, modify my language from now on. Though technically, none of those words were swear words… .”

“Gid’s teacher might have another opinion,” Belle cautions.

Restaurants, a jeweler’s, an optician’s office, a clock on a tall post. “I can see the river. Can we go back later and walk down there?” Bars, apartments, novelty shops. Another hotel—”Is that it?” “No, that’s not our hotel.” Another hotel. Gid stops asking. “Turn here,” Belle instructs, and Rumple makes a right onto Losoya. The car and foot traffic are so dense now, and there’s construction blocking off lanes, so Rumple has to focus on what’s immediately ahead; he depends upon Belle to direct him. She does so, with careful specifics and plenty of advance notice. “Turn left at the next light. Crockett Street.”

“Look, Mom, there’s Ripley’s!”

“There’s the Alamo. Keep going. Cross Alamo Plaza. There, on the right.” Belle smiles back at Gideon with great satisfaction (and relief—not that she doesn’t trust her husband’s driving, but, well, “those bloody tourists!”). “That’s our hotel. The historic Menger. The oldest still-operating hotel west of the Mississippi.”

“Where Teddy Roosevelt recruited his Rough Riders,” Rumple adds as he pulls up at the front. Hands shaking, he pops the trunk and tosses the keys to a valet, while a bellhop steers a luggage rack to the back of the car. “Welcome to the Menger, ma’am, sirs,” the valet greets them.

Belle takes charge from here; Rumple is still too edgy. She gives him their name and leads the way inside, intending to beeline to the reservation desk, but she’s stopped short. “Ooh, my… .”

The lobby is indescribable in its elegance. A stained-glass ceiling, Corinthian columns, highly polished marble floors, woolen rugs, a stately grandfather clock overseeing it all. “This is the same furniture that was here in 1859,” Belle whispers to Rumple. They’re paying guests; they don’t need to whisper; but she feels a full voice would insult the atmosphere of this place… or disturb the legendary ghosts.

“Double-dial Seth Thomas,” Rumple gushes over the clock, then hurries over to an etagere: “Napoleon III revival, mid-1800s.” He cocks his head to study the ornate inlay. Then in a flash he’s on his feet again and admiring a table “French boulle, brass and tortoiseshell inlays; not a scratch!”)and a settee: “Empire, walnut, 1870’s.” Rumple wanders around, bending, crouching, even kneeling to admire the detail in the furnishings and the rug. “Handwoven. It would take me a year to produce a piece like this. It’s not a rug; it’s a work of art.”

“Mom, can we check in now?” Gid is already standing at the counter, bouncing from foot to foot. Belle knows full well what that means. “Yes, of course.” She digs around in her tote bag for her travel notebook, in which she’s written their confirmation number. As she searches, she amuses Gid with another factoid. “One of the wilder stories about this hotel is that in the early 1900s, a man who stayed here didn’t have enough money, so he paid his bill with an alligator.”

“What?!”

“And the hotel accepted it. They kept the alligator in a pool outside, and they bought some baby alligators to keep it company. They called him Bill.”

“Really?” Before Belle can stop him, Gid accosts a clerk. “Where’s your alligator?”

The clerk is unfazed; she’s heard the question many times before. “I’m sorry, young man, but Bill passed away a long time ago. We haven’t got around to replacing him yet.”

Belle apologizes and quickly switches the topic to the registration information.When a bellhop is summoned for her, she takes Gid by the hand and they are led to the elevator. “Rumple, you can look around. We’re going up to the room.”

A second bellhop takes this as a cue and offers Rumple a tour. “I can tell you about the paintings, if you like, sir. And over here there’s a very fine mahogany vitrine displaying rose medallion Chinese porcelain, and two matching Duncan Phyfe sofas that I think will impress you. And this grand piano was bought in 1876 for five hundred dollars… .”

With a slightly guilty glance at his departing family, Rumple promises he’ll join them shortly in their room.They have the Roy Rogers Signature Suite on the second floor, with two double beds, a private balcony overlooking the plaza gazebo, and Old West style furnishings, from cowhide chairs to a flower vase made from a boot. Throughout the suite are Remington- and Russell-style paintings as well as photos of Roy and Dale. A wooden poker table replaces the traditional writing desk, and overhead a wagon wheel chandelier completes the theme. Rumple will feel comfortable here—if he ever finishes his examination of the first floor.

As Belle tips the bellhop, Gid pauses in his dash to the bathroom long enough to ask, “Hey, where did Trigger sleep?”

Again, the question doesn’t faze the staff. The bellhop points to the bedroom closet. “In there. You see that little door in the wall? It’s closed off now, but that’s where we’re drop the hay in.”

“Cool,” Gid nods before scampering off.Gid uses the bathroom, and afterward Belle makes him take a bath. She has him wait in one of the fluffy robes provided by the hotel; when Rumple is ready, she’ll have Gid dress up and they’ll go down to the Colonial Room for late lunch. An hour passes and still Rumple hasn’t come up. Gid has taken note of the pool and is begging for a swim, so she dresses him in his trunks, puts on her own modest suit and a robe, leaves Rumple a note and takes her boy down to the pool. While he splashes about, she relaxes in the hot tub until her gurgling stomach reminds her that, by Eastern Daylight Time, it’s nearly suppertime. “Hungry yet, Gid?”

“Yeah. Can I have pizza?” He pulls himself out of the pool and stands over her, intentionally dripping cold water on her.

“Gid! Stop that.” Reluctantly she parts company with the hot tub. “Let’s go up to the room and change. I’ll bet your dad’s there, conked out on the couch, remote control in his hand.”

Gideon giggles. That vision is permanently etched in his memory; it’s a favorite of his, Rumplestiltskin as only two people have ever seen him. Mother and son patter in their flip flops up to the suite, doing their best not to drip on the marble floor.

Rumple is there, as predicted, but he’s not napping. Or watching TV. Or any of the other little things he does to relax. He’s standing in the narrow hallway between the living room and the bedroom. Framed photos of Roy, along with a painting of a bucking bronco, line the western wall, but it’s not these he’s looking at; it’s the mirror across from them. An ordinary, framed mirror.

As Belle approaches, her shoes slapping against the wood floor, he doesn’t budge. In fact, not a hair on his head twitches. He just stares into that mirror.

Two things bother Belle about this sight: one, her husband has a distinct aversion to mirrors. Always has, and not just because of Regina; he’s always disliked his appearance, and as years went by and guilt piled upon guilt for all the wrongs he’d done, he’d reached a point where he could barely look himself in the eye.

Two, Rumple is talking. Low tones, soothing tones—and though he’s been known to mutter to himself when he’s tired or frustrated, he’s definitely not talking to himself now. He’s referring to his listener as “dearie” and he’s asking questions that one might consider ordinary, polite conversation—if there was another person in the room to converse with. And he’s pausing to listen for an answer.

A dripping Gideon at her side, she hesitates on the threshold between the living room and the hall. She’s seen her husband completely absorbed in an experiment before and she certainly knows what it’s like to lose oneself in a book, so deeply that all sense of time and space are momentarily warped. She’s seen him in that restful trance that spinning produces for him. But this is none of those. He’s carrying on a conversation with a mirror. If this were Storybrooke or Misthaven, she’d assume he was simply using the “mirror phone” spell to communicate with another sorcerer, but this is San Antonio, Texas, in the Land Without Magic.

So she waits and watches until a hungry Gid makes an impatient sound and goes around her, headed for the bedroom. He’s not disturbed by his father’s bizarre actions: he’s grown up with them. He brushes past Rumple with a “Yo, Pop” and trots into the bedroom. In a minute Belle can hear a grunt and the squeak of the wheels on Gid’s suitcase, then onto one of the beds shirts and pairs of jeans come flying. “Mom! D’ya want me to dress up?”

Rumple tears himself away from his conversation just long enough for a hasty glance at Belle. “Just a moment, sweetheart. He started talking to me in the lobby mirror, so—yes, Captain?” He resumes his conversation with the mirror. He seems well enough, calm and safe, and when it comes to magic he almost always knows what he’s doing, so she decides to leave him be for now. She eases past him and into the bedroom. “You know, it’s only five o’clock. We should grab a quick bite and get in a little sightseeing before dark. Put on your jeans.”

Gid lets his wet swim trunks fall to the floor; Belle scoops them up to hang up in the bathroom. “Ripley’s?”

“Of course.” Belle tosses a towel at him. “It’s open until 11.”

He scrubs his goose-pimpled body dry. He’s lean, like his father, but he’s long-muscled and the tallest in his class at school and in another year he’ll overtake his mother. He likes to boast that he’s built for basketball. He can recite the stats for the Celtics’ entire starting five, but judiciously, today he chooses to wear a Spurs t-shirt that they picked up at the World’s Largest Convenience Store in New Braunfels. Before Belle has a chance to unpack her suitcase, he’s already dressed and has flopped onto his bed, Game Boy in hand. “Mom, is it okay if I have something from the mini-fridge?”

“Something small. Some nuts would be okay. I’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes,” she calls from the bathroom.

Gid peers into the hallway to check the status of his father. “Is Dad coming with us?”

“We’ll see. He seems to be busy.”

“Sorry about that.” Rumple moves into the bedroom, sits down on Gid’s bed and pats his boy’s foot apologetically. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Gid shrugs. “Had to wait for Mom anyway.”

Still in the hotel bathrobe, Belle opens the bathroom door a crack and peeks out, hairbrush in hand. “Rumple? What were you doing?”

“Well,” he sort of chuckles, but it’s a puzzled sound. “I guess you could say I made a friend.”

“A sorcerer?”

“A spirit. Seems your guidebooks are right: there are a lot of them in this hotel. I felt them as soon as I got out of the car. My friend isn’t sure how many; they tend to come and go, he said.”

Gid tosses his Game Boy aside and sits up. “A ghost?”

“But don’t call them that. They consider it derogatory. They call themselves ‘spirits’ or ‘unanchored souls.’ I’ve known a few in my time, but not well: they’re difficult to do business with. Their memories aren’t dependable.”

“Who was this one?”

“He said he was a rancher. He owned a big spread along the Nueces Strip, he said. He lived in this hotel for a while; they named a suite after him, the one at the other end of the hall. That’s where he usually hangs out, but when he realized the Dark One was in the house… .” Rumple shrugs.

“Can I talk to him?”

“He’s gone now, but perhaps later, we could try.” Rumple and Belle exchange a look that says we’ll have to discuss this in private. They know, from his previous incarnation, that Gid has the capacity for magic, but the boy has yet to exhibit any skills in that regard. Not unusual: he’s got a lot more growing to do. Gid doesn’t mind waiting for his magic to manifest, he says. He’s seen how much study and strain are involved in successfully casting even simple spells. He’d rather play basketball.

“Did he know Teddy Roosevelt?” Belle can’t help but ask. American history fascinates her, the bigness, the wildness of it all.

“We can ask him.” Rumple is encouraged by his wife’s curiosity. Perhaps she won’t be too upset if Gid converses with the spirits too. With that small victory, it’s time to change the subject. He claps his hands. “Well now! Who’s up for a trip to Ripley’s?”

It’s after eleven when they trudge back to the hotel; Gid is half-asleep and glances longingly at his father’s shoulder. In the old days, this late at night, Dad would have carried him, letting his doze. As much as Gid looks forward to growing up, sometimes he longs for the good old days.

Though it’s dark, the plaza is well lit and still fairly busy with tourists spilling out of the attractions that have now closed their doors. Most of the families have left the streets, and now the young adults have emerged, many of them in stiff new Navy and Air Force uniforms. There’s a USO in the vicinity, along with plenty of bars from which music and the smell of beer spill out. The tavern owners seem to have a preference for the UK, with names like “Mad Dog British Pub” and “Pat O’Brien’s,” but Rumple suspects they all sell Lone Star beer and barbeque wings.

They’ve been to Ripley’s (smaller than expected, but Gid loved the shrunken heads), the Guinness World Records Museum (Gid tried to break the record for the loudest scream), and the Plaza Wax Museum (Belle posed for pictures with Indiana Jones and Abraham Lincoln; Gid pretended to box with Rocky). They shot laser guns at monsters in the Tomb Rider, but Belle put the kibosh on entering the Haunted Adventure (too scary for a ten-year-old, she claimed; when Gid started to argue that they were sleeping in a hotel occupied by real spirits, Rumple shook his head fiercely). For Rumple’s sake, they browse the Buckhorn Museum, part of which houses a Texas Rangers collection; the rest contains stuffed creatures, ranging from the local, such as deer and a longhorn, to the exotic, including a gorilla and a polar bear. Though Belle, too squeamish to tour the taxidermied wildlife, waited in saloon, sipping a Prickly Pear margarita, Gid was treated to more shrunken heads, a peanut-sized elephant, and other oddities. They At Moses Rose’s Hideout Gid orders the “Damn Good Fries,” relishing the fact that he’s getting away with a cuss word—besides, Mom is distracted because Dad’s got that faraway look again. “Another spirit,” he whispers to her. “Over there. In front of the men’s room.”

“And I thought all we’d find here were cowboys and Miss America winners.”

“I won’t let him spoil our dinner.” Rumple assures her, then smiles up at the server and places his order.

After dinner, they stroll through the plaza, then stop at a street cart to buy raspas. It’s been a fun trip so far for everyone—though it seems clear to Belle that even here, where Rumple’s only power is in his credit cards, he’s going to pestered by magic-seekers. They wrap up a very busy day with a soothing barge ride down the San Antonio River.

When the tour guide’s back is turned, Gid leans out of the barge to trail his fingers in the water. “Gid,” Rumple warns, yanking him back. His grasp on Gid’s dripping hand suddenly loosens and Rumple murmurs something Belle can’t quite hear. “What’s that, darling?”

Rumple’s brow creases. “I feel something… a power… .” He shakes the thought off. “Just my imagination, I’m sure. Never mind.” He slides an arm around her and they enjoy the colorful shore lights, the gentle movement of the barge, the soft warm breeze and each other. It’s so relaxing that Belle closes her eyes, but it’s Gid who falls asleep. Rumple has to carry him back to the hotel.

“My turn tomorrow,” Belle whispers as Rumple eases Gid onto his bed. They have to pull his sneakers off, but they leave him dressed.

“Something quiet, I hope?”

“I hope your new friends will be quiet tonight. You’ve had a long, busy day.” She kisses him before retreating to the bathtub.

—————————-

Pale sunlight ekes in through the open balcony doors as Belle, awakened by music from the TV, hauls herself out of bed. She’s never been a morning person, and after last night her muscles are sore and her joints are stiff. She pulls on her robe and joins her husband on the balcony. He’s barefoot but already dressed—jeans and a plain white t-shirt that make him look so scrumptious that Belle would like to drag him back in and throw him on the bed, if not for the boy watching TV in the living room. Rumple is watching the city come awake: trolley cars and Lexuses battle it out with jaywalkers dressed in everything from board shorts to business suits. He’s made a game of it, during their travels: guessing the salaries by the suits. She approaches from behind, slips her arms around his waist. “Did you sleep well?”

He nods. “The captain came back. In the bathroom mirror.”

“Is there… reason to be concerned?” She’s holding her breath. Please, no; let them have this time to enjoy themselves and make a pleasant family memory. In Storybrooke they had enough trouble to last a lifetime.

“No.” He turns in her arms and kisses her forehead. “He’s just a gregarious guy. Likes to brag about that spread of his. The King Ranch. Over a thousand square miles, he claims. Cuts across six counties. But I have my doubts. Spirits are notoriously unreliable. Very entertaining to talk to, though.”

“King.” She ponders. “Is his first name Richard?”

“He didn’t say.”

“You said there was a suite named after him. There’s a King Ranch Suite down the hall, room 2052 named for a steamboat pilot. He’s the real deal, Rumple. An important historical figure.” She pauses. “I’d like to meet him. He’s sure to have a wealth of colorful stories about the 1800s.”

“I bet he’d like that. He’s lonesome. Most people shriek when he makes an appearance. Are we going to let Gid talk to him too?”

“Let’s decide after I do.”

Rumple steps back inside the bedroom and closes the balcony doors. “Gid’s already had breakfast—I took him down to hotel restaurant. But that was two hours ago, so knowing him—”

“Knowing him and his bottomless pit stomach.” She takes pride in that: the boy can scarf up an entire medium pizza by himself. He eats like a kid with nothing to worry about and he sleeps the sleep of the innocent. As it should be. As they’re careful to make sure it will always be, after what he was subjected to, in his previous life. “Let me get dressed and we’ll go down.”

Belle has educational activities on the itinerary. Gid is allowed to take his Game Boy; it will help stretch out his patience over the course of a day of grown-up stuff. After breakfast they catch a hop-on, hop-off trolley tour that brings them to Hemisfair Park, where they walk through the Institute of Texan Cultures, which, thankfully, has plenty of hands-on activities to teach kids about everyday life for the earliest Texans. Then they take an elevator to the top of the Tower of the Americas for a 750-foot view of the city and an early seafood lunch in a revolving restaurant (Gid makes a game of sending salt and pepper shakers around the room by placing them on the small ledge beneath the windows. As the wall of windows revolves, the shakers travel along with it, making other diners chuckle.)

Departing the Hemisfair, the trolley makes a sweep of the four missions that mark the beginnings of San Antonio, all the way back to 1720. “Can you imagine the courage it took for those priests to come out here from Spain?” Belle gushes. They stroll the artists’ shops and eat breakfast tacos at La Villita before taking the trolley back toward the center of town. They hop off at the stately San Fernando Cathedral, where, it’s said, the ashes of William Travis and Davy Crockett are interred. (Rumple is able to verify this claim: more ghosts than in the Menger reside here, he discovers. “So many of them want someone to talk to,” he shivers, despite the 104 degree heat. “So many of them have forgotten how to talk.”) The cathedral, nearly three hundred years old, is reassuring in its quiet strength, Belle whispers; “Individuals come and go, nations pass, but this cathedral will live on. What a worthy place to pray.” They stay in the cool quiet of the structure for nearly an hour, until Gid grows restless.

From there they catch a city bus to “the piece de resistance,” according to Belle: the six-story Central Library. They’ve seen larger, but, as Rumple remarks, they’ve never seen redder; in a librarian-led tour of the building, they learn the locals have nicknamed the building “The Red Enchilada.” An entire floor is dedicated to the children’s collection; while Gid admires the life-size mosaic cow, created by a high school art class, Belle chats a while at the service desk, stealing ideas for programs.

The first and second floors, they discover, provide an unspoken refuge for the homeless. With their bedrolls and backpacks at their feet, they peruse newspapers and network on the public computers from opening to closing time. “Where do they go after closing?” Belle whispers to a librarian at the Reference Desk.

“Some of them go to a nearby shelter called Haven for Hope. Some of them… .” the librarian looks across his desk at a tall, white-haired man wearing high top sneakers. “Some of them don’t.”

“They… sleep on the streets?”

“In doorways, alleys, the steps of the church across the street, when they can get away with it. They’re waiting for us when we come into work everyday. We know most of them by name. We help them when we can: teach them to use the computers, help them write resumes, refer them to places they can shower and wash their clothes. It’s a hard life.”

“Hard on you too, I suppose.”

The librarian nods. “Especially when they don’t come back.”

Walking back to the bus stop, Belle links her arm through Rumple’s and draws up close to him. “Remind me, next time I complain about Regina cutting my budget.”

As the bus pulls up, Rumple looks back. He’s experienced homelessness several times in his long life, as recently as 2015. He’s never figured out why, in a land as powerful as this one, that particular curse hasn’t been broken.

“Dad, we have money.”

“Yes,” he assures Gid. “We’ll always have a place to live.”

“No, but I mean, we have more than we need.”

“I see.” Tonight, safe in their luxury suite, the Golds will sit down together and write out a check to Haven for Hope.

“I think we’re ready for the Alamo,” Belle says quietly.

As soon as they set foot inside the cross-shaped limestone structure, Rumple goes quiet, his body rigid and still. Belle leans into him, silently inquiring; he startles, then glanced down at her. “Spirits?” she whispers. He nods. “Hundreds. And they all want to be heard.”

“Good morning. My name is Anna Shulman. I’ll be your guide as we tour the Mission San Antonio de Valero, commonly known as the Alamo.” They’re being led by a sweet little grandma—who has a knack for describing events in such vivid detail that Belle and Rumple both shiver. Their guide smiles at each of her charges in turn. Gid grins back at her—he’s got a soft spot for little old ladies, since he lacks grandparents of his own. Old folks turn him to mush.

The high arches of the limestone fort are cathedral-like, Belle observes; the tour guide remarks, “As befitting the men who defended it.” She proceeds to fill the tourists in on the background: in the 18th and early 19th centuries, the land that now makes up Texas was owned by Spain, but in an effort to make it profitable, Spain invited American settlers, some of whom owned slaves, to move in. In 1821, Mexico won its war for independence from Spain and thereby gained possession of Texas. The Texians, as the former Americans were called, were expected to free any slaves they owned, swear allegiance to Mexico, and join the Catholic Church, but in such a vast and unsettled land, those rules were difficult to enforce. Arguments and skirmishes ensued between the Mexican government and the Texians over cultural differences and political and economic disputes. Led by Benjamin Milam and George Collinsworth, the Texians stormed the Alamo, where a Mexican garrison was headquartered, and they won; they gained control of San Antonio—temporarily, until Mexico sent in more troops. Under the leadership of Jim Bowie and William Travis, the defenders hunkered down, determined to hold the fort, despite a huge disparity in numbers: 200 to 1600. Mexican forces pounded relentlessly over the course of thirteen days until they finally broke through, reclaiming the fort and killing nearly all the occupants.

As the guide leads them through the fragmented shrine, Belle notices that both of her boys are struggling to pay attention. She understands their reasons: to a ten-year-old, anything that happened more than a week ago is ancient history, so the politics behind the Texas Revolution have no meaning to him—he becomes more involved in the lecture when the guide describes the 13-day battle. Rumple, meanwhile, is switching back and forth between voices competing for his attention. Tonight, after Gideon is sound asleep, he will relay as much as he can sort out and remember from those speakers. Belle will not be alarmed; she has become used to the inconveniences that a sorcerer, even one on vacation in the Land Without Magic, has to put up with.

As for Belle herself, her skin grows cold and her heart leaps into her throat as she listens to the details of those thirteen days of siege. She has to wipe her eyes as Ms. Shulman relates the story of one of the few survivors, a woman named Susanna Dickinson. On the final day of the siege, Susanna took refuge in the chapel with her fifteen-month-old daughter and other women and children. As bugles blared and cannon fired, Susanna’s husband burst into the sacristy just long enough for a last kiss: “Great God, Sue, the Mexicans are inside our walls! If they spare you, save my child!” And then he was gone. Ms. Shulman concludes, “General Santa Anna allowed Mrs. Dickinson and her daughter Angela to go free, expecting that the report Susanna would give would frighten the Texians into ending the insurrection. But her report, along with that of other survivors, only fueled the revolution. When the armies met again a month later in San Jacinto, the rallying cry ‘Remember the Alamo’ gave the Texians the strength they needed to win.”

Belle has to know: “What happened to Susanna?”

“A series of troubled marriages, but eventually she set up a boarding house in Lockhart, and there she met a wealthy businessman who fell in love with her cooking. They lived happily together until her death at age 68.”

Belle takes a little comfort from that, but still, she shudders as they silently troop through the sacristy. She’d been through the exact same terror when ogres invaded the Marshlands, uprooted crops, smashed houses, ate cattle and sheep whole, and tore humans limb from limb. Village by village they stormed across the kingdom until Marshland troops made a stand at the capital city. For six days Avonlea was pounded, its children hiding in caves and cellars, its women and elderly making arms of farm tools, its men being plucked from battlements and ripped into unidentifiable body parts.

Until the Dark One answered the princess’ call and made, what was for him, an uncharacteristically whimsical deal. Belle glances up at her distracted husband and suddenly she knows he’s going to do it again: he’s going to make an uncharacteristic deal to rescue souls under siege. And she’s going to help him. Proudly.

He’s not just quiet through the rest of the tour; he’s absolutely silent. Throughout their window-shopping stroll of the Rivercenter Mall (“it reminds me of Agrabah’s marketplace,” Belle says) and their wanderings through the Briscoe Western Art Museum, he’s silent. When they take seats at a riverside table at Boudro’s Bistro, she has to order for both of them (the restaurant’s signature guacamole); he seems oblivious to the wait staff’s presence. She gives Rumple his space, keeping Gid occupied with casual chatter, then after dinner she rewards the child for his day of patience by treating him to a visit to the dinosaur gallery at the Witte Museum.

It’s after he’s changed into his pajamas that Gid addresses the elephant in the room: “What’s up with Dad?”

“I’m not sure,” Belle admits. “Something to do with magic.”

“Oh.” That’s all Gid says; that was all Belle needed to say. Gid’s been exposed to all sorts of magic, all of his life; it’s one of the reasons his parents decided to bring him out into this world, so that he could see that not everyone lives with magic—not everyone needs it. Rumple’s only regret in this decision was that he hadn’t done the same for Bae.

When Gid is asleep, Rumple finally speaks. “There was so many at the Alamo, a hundred voices. But one… .It’s time for me to talk to Captain King. Will you join me?”

“Of course.” Over the years, they’ve become in a sense partners in magic, studying and experimenting together. It took a long time for him to allow her into that world; magic had driven a wedge between them before, and even after he learned that it was his destiny to unite dark and light powers, he was slow to trust that magic wouldn’t scare her away again. It was the many times they’d been separated—Neverland, Zelena, the Underworld—and the heroes had turned to Belle as a sort of substitute expert in the academic side of magic that had initiated the change, but it was in raising Gideon, a child with innate powers, that the Golds let magic unite them. They had no choice then, they realized; Belle had to accept Gid’s true nature and help guide him in learning how to control his magic, so the more that Rumple taught her, the happier and safer they would all be.

She takes his hand as he closes the bedroom door, shutting off the hall from the sleeping Gideon. Rumple draws in a breath, smiles encouragingly at her, then positions them both in front of the hall mirror. He calls a name: “Captain King.” Immediately the visage of a broad-faced, cigar-chewing gent shimmers and comes into clarity in the mirror. He exudes confidence to the point of bluster, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes that promises tales to tell and a glint that assures the listener he can back up his boasts. He dresses to impress, in a string tie and a suit that Belle suspects is the 19th-century equivalent of Dolce & Gabbana. She can see why Rumple has taken to him.

“Good evening, Mr. Gold.” The voice is velvety and warms with charm as the captain observes, “Ah, you’ve brought your lovely wife with you!”

“Captain, this is Belle. Belle, this is Captain Richard King.”

The captain ducks his bushy head in a bow. “Madame, good evening. Delighted to meet you.”

“Good evening, sir. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Captain, as much as we’d love to just chat and get acquainted—”

“Yes, Mr. Gold, we have business to transact.” King draws himself up; Belle’s seen her husband assume this same pose. She calls it “the deal making stance.” “I understand you’ve been visited to the point of pestering by some of my cohorts here in the hotel.”

“A few, yes. Some seem deeply troubled.”

“So many of them were victims of violence.” The captain’s voice grows heavy. “A few, at the hands of people they loved. Shock, grief, or a yearning for revenge keeps some of them here.”

“We visited the Alamo today,” Belle volunteers.

“Oh, of course.” King falls silent for a long moment, closing his eyes. “That is where you’ll find the most of our kind. Confusion over their state—they have yet to accept that they’ve died—and a fierce determination to protect the Alamo against invaders forever bind them to Earth. They are adrift in time, you see. For them, the siege continues and always will.”

“Can’t we help them?”

“It’s generous of you, madame, but not if they don’t want to be helped. For most, they don’t want to accept the truth.”

Rumple is thoughtful. “And you, Captain? Why do you remain here?”

“This is where I’m happiest. This vast and rich land, which I helped to tame, and which gave me a reason to be; I don’t want to leave it. I am Texas, through and through. The time will come, I’m sure, when the summons to Heaven is more than I can resist, but not yet. Not yet.” The captain drifts off a moment; Belle suspects he’s dreaming of the past.

“There was one, a man named Moses Rose,” Rumple says.

“I’ve heard of him,” King glances at Belle. “Pardon, madame. His name—rightly or wrongly—is cursed in this state. ‘The Coward of the Alamo,’ he’s called.”

The blood drains from Belle’s face. She looks to Rumple, who’s staring at the carpet, his mouth stretched tight. His thumb is rubbing against his forefinger.

“It’s said that the day before the final battle, Colonel Travis warned his comrades that the end was near. He drew out his sword and slashed a line in the sand and said, ‘I now want every man who is determined to stay here and die with me to come across this line.’ They all did, but one. When darkness fell, Moses Rose managed to escape through town. He lived another fifteen years or so.”

“But he came back after death, to stand with the others who continue to defend the Alamo to this day,” Rumple snaps. He’s taking history a little personally, but Belle understands why.

“So he did,” King agrees. “The facts of his story are known to only a few on this side of the veil.”

Belle is about to ask whether King can call forth a spirit who would know those facts, but a hasty glance at her husband makes her realize the facts don’t really matter. The truth is bigger than the sum of the facts, and regardless, Rumple has been asked for his help, and for a change, he wants to give it. Freely.

“He said the revolution for him is finally over; he’s ready to face his final battle. He wants to move on, but he can’t find the way.”

“The Dark One can lead him to the afterlife,” Belle informs King. “He’s done so before.”

“One problem, sweetheart: opening a portal to the Underworld requires a tremendous amount of magic.”

“And we’re in a Land Without,” Belle concludes.

“Not quite,” the captain leans back, proud to announce he has the solution. “You’re in San Antonio. A modern, multicultural metropolis, yes, but at its heart, deep, deep in its heart, it has not forgotten the old ways. It wasn’t just land barons and cowboys that founded this city. It was the children of a very old culture that believed in magic. Amid the bankers and software writers, you’ll find a few genuine curanderos, practitioners of healing arts. Part magic, part religion, part botanical science, and all faith. Find a curandero and you’ll find your magic supply.”

“Do curanderos advertise?” Belle wonders.

“Shops,” Rumple suggests. “They will have shops, if they’re actively practicing their art. If they aren’t— ” he shrugs. “They probably will know nothing that can help me.”

“I’ll search the Internet, you can talk to the concierge,” Belle surmises. “First thing in the morning, we’ll start working through our list.” She starts to walk into the sitting room.

King clears his throat to get their attention. “Pardon, madame, Dark One, but there are so many others, more deserving, your magic could help.”

“You, Captain?” Rumple raises an eyebrow.

“No, no, I’m quite happy here. But Moses Rose—let me ask you, Dark One, I’ve heard it said, there is always a price for magic. I fear that you and your lovely family will be the ones required to pay it. Is a coward worth it?”

Belle scowls into the mirror. “I’ve learned that most so-called ‘cowards’ and ‘villains’ are not what they seem. You can’t truly know a person until you’ve looked into his heart.”

Rumple raises his chin. “Even a coward deserves a second chance, Captain King.”

—————————————————————-

But as they drop onto the parlor couch after completing their research, Rumple ponders, “Belle, perhaps the captain has a point. Maybe I should send you and Gid on ahead, out of Texas, out the line of fire, if there is any.”

She presses her lips together; it’s the look Rumple calls her “stubborn-as-a-rock face.” He usually loses the arguments that start with that face. But before she can fashion her response, he reminds her, “We have to keep Gid safe.”

Her mouth twitches. That means she’s reconsidering, though she’s aggrieved by her new thoughts. “You could take the car, start out for Canada; I can catch up in a day or— ”

“Papa? Mama?”

Their heads shoot up from their lists. Gid, in his sleep pants and Celtics shirt, is standing in the hallway. Belle and Rumple exchange a worried look: he hasn’t called them “papa” and “mama” in years. He claims he’s too old for that, along with bedtime stories and tuck-ins. Both parents clamber to their feet and rush forward.

“What’s wrong, son?” “Gid? Don’t you feel well?”

“There’s a kid in the bathroom.”

________________________________

Belle leans over the sink and squints into the mirror, but she sees nothing, but she trusts her son and after meeting her first ghost just minutes ago, she’s sold on the idea that the Menger is inhabited by ghosts. That’s what she’s telling herself, anyway, as she shifts from side to side in an attempt to catch different views by changing her angle of vision. “Is he—she—still there?”

“He.” Gid peeks around from behind her. “He’s gone.” As Belle steps back, Gid huffs, “Well, he was here.”

“I believe you.” She rests her hand on his shoulder. “Your father and I were just speaking to a spirit.”

“Yeah?” Gid is relieved. Any other kid would find this news alarming, but he’s pleased to have his ghost encounter verified. Gid’s used to being unlike any other kid; after all, his parents are the Dark One and the Dark Lady, his grandparents included a fairy and Peter Pan, and his best buddy is the son of Prince Charming and Snow White. Gid would feel weird if he didn’t have strange experiences. He turns around and searches the bedroom. “Where is it?”

“Gone now.”

“Uhm, Belle… .” Rumple is pointing into the bathroom mirror. “It’s okay. You’re welcome here,” he says softly into the mirror.

Her hand on his back to support herself, Belle leans across the sink again. Looking back at her is a boy about Gid’s size, except he’s dressed in a loose gray shirt and brown trousers held up with suspenders. He needs a haircut and a wash, Belle notices—then chides herself for thinking like a modern mother. “Hello,” she softens her voice. “My name is Belle. What’s yours?”

“Ben.” The boy’s voice squeaks; he’s going through the vocal changes of puberty. Or, rather, would have been at the time of his…

“How can we help you, Ben?” Belle longs to reach out and smooth down the sweat-matted hair, but she folds her hands in front of her, offering the boy a signal of non-aggression.

“I was askin’ him.” The boy’s chin juts toward Gid. “You seen my brother?”

“I don’t believe so,” Belle answers. “What’s he look like?”

“Shorter than me. He’s eleven.” Ben straightens his shoulders. “I’m twelve. Our pa’s a gunnery man.”

“What’s your father’s name?” Rumple asks.

“Anthony. They killed him.”

“Is he with you?”

Ben lowers his head shamefully. “I ain’t gone lookin’ for him yet. Cain’t, not til I find Michael. He’ll wail me for sure. I was suppose’ to take care o’ him.”

Rumple chooses his words carefully. “Where did you last see Michael?”

The boy’s face scrunches up. “I can’t remember.”

“What was he doing?”

Ben’s eyes widen with horror and his mouth falls open for just a moment, then he vanishes. With a deep sigh, Rumple turns from the mirror.

“He asked me the same thing, to find his brother. He says the last thing his father said was to take care of Michael,” Gid explains, wringing his hands in his Celtics shirt. “He thinks his father hates him now.”

Belle slides a comforting arm around Gid’s shoulders and leads him into the sitting room. “Let’s see what we can find out, shall we?”

As they flop down on the couch and Belle reaches for her iPad, Gid smiles. Research—that’s Mom’s go-to answer for most problems and she’s nearly always right. Between her, with the Internet and books, and Dad, with his basement lab, they can almost always solve a problem. Gid even smirks a little. His parents maybe can’t shoot an arrow or toss around a sword like Neal’s, but they’re the smartest people in Storybrooke. Even Neal says so. In the hallway, Dad’s staring into that mirror again and there’s a low-toned conversation going on between Dad and that other ghost. Somehow Gid finds that reassuring.

“Here’s a start: Handbook of Texas.” Belle’s eyes dart over the column, then she looks up at Gid unblinking, which Gid knows means she’s got something she doesn’t want to tell him.

He tries to look at the Ipad sitting on her knee. “Mom, you can tell me. I already know he’s dead. It’s kinda obvious.” He manages to glimpse the word bayonet before she shuts the Ipad off.

“Ben and Michael and their father were all killed in the final attack on the Alamo.”

Rumple seats himself in one of the leather-backed wooden chairs. “Richard tells me there is no eleven-year-old boy among the Alamo spirits remaining on this side of the veil. Nor is there anyone answering to the name Wolf. The simple answer is the most likely one: Anthony and Michael Wolf moved on, perhaps immediately after their death.”

“Perhaps they’re searching for Ben in the Underworld.” Belle sets the Ipad aside. “Ben’s sense of responsibility must have kept him on this side. That’s what he meant when he said he wouldn’t go looking for his father until he found Michael first.”

“It seems I’ll have one more passenger to escort to the Underworld.” Rumple muses.

“You’re going to help Ben find his brother? Thanks, Dad!” Gid leaps to his feet. “Can I tell him?”

Rumple exchanges a questioning glance with Belle, who nods. “Go. But then we all need some sleep. We have to search for a magic man tomorrow.”

—————————————————————

Rumple looks up from the iPad as Belle comes in from the bedroom. “Is he asleep?” At her nod, he speculates, “He might have a nightmare or two tonight. Those were some heavy-duty stories we heard today.”

“I think he’ll be fine. He was jabbering about LaBron James while he was falling asleep.”

“He has your courage.”

“He’s a product of this world as much as he is of you and me. Another eight years and we’ll lose him to it, you know.”

Rumple shrugs. “We’ll just follow him out into it. Isn’t that what this vacation is really for, to see if you and I can adapt out here, away from Storybrooke?”

“And yet we can’t seem to escape the call of magic,” Belle grins wryly.

“Well, maybe that’s a good thing.” Rumple tests the thought. “Maybe I won’t have to give it up entirely, when we become citizens of this world.”

“You’d really give up magic, so we can stay close Gid?”

“I won’t let go of his hand.” There’s an ancient pain in his eyes that will never completely fade. “Not for any price.”

Belle curls up on the couch next to her husband, laying her head against his shoulder. “What were you reading?”

“About Richard King. You’re right; he’s the real deal. An indentured servant at age eleven, til he ran away and stowed aboard a ship. The crew found him, let him stay, started teaching him, and before long, he had a ship of his own transporting military supplies, and a monopoly on Rio Grande. Went from that to buying up land and breeding cattle. Part visionary, part speculator, part manipulator, completely self-made.”

“A little like you.”She yawns. “Though a whole lot more loquacious. I’ve been thinking about Ben Wolf. How sad it is, to die so young. And how powerful family ties are, that he would remain here, searching nearly three hundred years for his brother.”

“Aye.”

“If his brother is on the other side, will they find each other?”

“I’ve no doubt. Arthur will make sure of it.”

She clutches his hands in hers. “When the time comes, you’ll find Bae on the other side.”

“He’s in the Land of Heroes. Whether I’ll be allowed in, after all I’ve done… .”

“You are a hero, Rumple. And there’s so much more left you’ll do before it’s time for you to pass through.”

He presses his cheek against the top of her head.

————————————————————————

They’ve debated whether this is a good idea; it��s just another chapter in their ongoing debate about how much magic Gid should be exposed to. Interestingly enough, it’s been Belle who has pretty consistently argued in favor of expanding Gid’s education in this regard; after a period of doubt in his infant years, she eventually came to terms with the fact that her son would grow up to be a sorcerer. Whether he chose to use that part of his nature or not, he should learn about it, be prepared for the dangers as well as the benefits. Rumple has been of a mind that the less the boy knew, the less tempted he would be to “tinker.” When pressed, he would admit the truth: he was afraid Gid would be tempted down the dark path.

But, as he relents in this argument, curanderos practice light magic. If, indeed, there are any real mages left in San Antonio. So it is that Gid is packed into the back of the Caddy, and with Belle in the navigator’s seat and Rumple driving (and muttering his trademark “Use your friggin’ turn signal, Sheep-Dip-for-Brains”), they set out to find a genuine spiritual healer. Their list takes them to unexpected places: a strip mall in the northeast part of the city, then to a cluster of boutique shops in the neighborhood the locals call “the 09,” where Belle supposes this world’s princesses shop. Then it’s to expected places, wandering the worn streets of the West side, where next door to barber shops, car washes and churches, psychics hold court in their living rooms. They needn’t have worried about Gid: bored, he occupies himself with his Game Boy. Besides, as Rumple is quick to report, there’s no magic here. He doesn’t even have to go inside a shop to know it’s a fake; he can smell it. “After three hundred years, I can detect the scent from a block away.”

“What does it smell like?” Belle muses. She’s expecting something exotic, like “the breath of a unicorn in winter” or something enticing, like chocolate.

“Burning leaves and the hair of wet, muddy sheepdogs.”

They scour the West side, stopping at a taqueria for lunch. They’re at the last entry on their lists and Gid is pressing them to give up for the day and go to Splashtown when a soft voice interrupts, “Excuse me. Maybe I can help.” They both look up at their waitress, who’s setting glasses of tea and soda on their table. “Is your son sick?”

“No, he’s fine,” Belle assures her.

“Another in your family?” She nods at Belle’s list, headed with bold capital letters. “Not to be nosy, but you’re looking for a curandero.”

Belle and Rumple exchange worried looks. What would happen if they admitted to a stranger, whose name they don’t even know, that the Dark One is seeking a source of magic so he can open a portal to the Underworld and send two ghosts there?

“We are,” Rumple admits. “For two friends who are…not where they should be. Who need to go home.”

She offers a faint crooked smile. “To somewhere a Greyhound ticket can’t take them, I suppose?”

“Can you help us?”

“My aunt can.”

———————————————————-

They’ve just finished their beef fajitas when Leticia returns with a fortyish woman in a Laura Ashley skirt and blouse at her elbow. Rumple rises, and as soon as he collects his manners, Gid does too. The newcomer’s dark hair is cut in a pageboy that shows off her sharp cheekbones and her pearl earrings. Her eyes are a bright blue, like Belle’s. Belle would have guessed her to be the manager of a Riverwalk gift shop or an ‘09 boutique, not a curandera—but then, the stylish witches and warlocks she’d met over the years had shown her not to expect stereotypes. As she begins to pick up the dirty dishes, the waitress identifies her guest. “Mr. and Mrs. Gold, this is my aunt, Consuelo Leal. Aunt Connie, this–”

Leticia doesn’t get to finish her introduction—doesn’t need to. Connie Leal’s lips part in amazement, then her head cocks, then she blinks herself back to awareness and offers her hand. “I am stunned. It’s a… . rare opportunity to meet the Dark One.”

Rumple grins and offers a similar greeting that no one hears over the clatter of a plate that Leticia drops. “The Dark… .” The waitress echoes faintly. “Oh my god.”

Other diners and waitstaff swing around to stare at the source of the disturbance. Belle slides out of her seat and kneels, picking up the broken pieces of plate. Red-faced, Leticia kneels too, taking the pieces from Belle. “Oh, ma’am, let me get that. Here, Jorge’s coming with a broom.” Still flustered, Leticia gathers the remaining plates and hurries into the kitchen with them as a young man in an apron brushes up the shards.

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” Connie suggests, looking around. “The party room.” She sweeps her hand in the direction of a space curtained off from the main dining room. She escorts them in, flicks the lights on and invites them to be seated; for herself she selects a chair at the head of the table. Gid leaps to the fore, pulling out a chair for her as Rumple does the same for Belle. “Very good, son,” Belle murmurs. When they’re all seated, Rumple begins, “We’ve searched this city for a genuine curandero. Obviously we’ve found one.” His nose twitches slightly; later, he admits to Belle, he’s smelled chocolateand cinnamon—the scent of light magic—on Connie’s blouse.

“Curandera,” she corrects mildly.

“Apologies. I can see the magic surrounding you.”

“It hasn’t always been a blessing, though I’ve tried to use it that way. You, however—“

“No, that’s true; for too many years I used my magic for selfish purposes. But today, I’m asking for help on behalf of someone else. I hope that, knowing that, you’ll consent to assisting me.”

“I see your magic around you too.” She falls quiet for a moment, then admits, “It’s very confusing. I see light magic in the Dark One.”

“I was fated for light magic, but I was set off course. I’ve struggled to get back.” He glances guiltily at Belle, who clasps his hand. “I don’t always succeed.”

“Tell me what you want.”

He sits back in his chair, a sign that he’s comfortable, that he trusts her; he’s not often like that with strangers, and that simple gesture sells Belle on trusting this woman too. She smiles her thanks at Connie, grateful that at least, their plea will be heard.

“We have been approached,” Rumple begins. “Two souls who want to go home but can’t find their way. They’ve been on this side of the veil too long, can’t remember where to go.” At her encouraging nod, he gets a little more specific: “They are waiting at the Alamo.”

“Ohhh.” She fiddles with a salt shaker.

“You’ve been approached too, haven’t you?” Belle guesses.

“More than once,” Connie admits. “It’s why I hardly ever go downtown any more. I can’t do anything for them. I can heal bodies, relieve anxiety, but that—” she shakes her head.

“I can lift the veil.”

Connie gasps. “I’ve read that it’s possible, but—I thought only Merlin had power like that.”

“I’m not sure myself how it happened. One minute I was dead, the next I was resurrected. My elder son sacrificed his life to bring me back. Having passed through the veil and back has given me a free pass to the Underworld.”

“Amazing. You really are one of a kind.”

He draws a half-smile. “Not really. A rival of mine was chosen by the gods to be given a second life.” Belle snorts; despite working alongside Hook in research projects, she retains doubts about him, and she certainly wouldn’t label him as more special than her husband.

“We all have a role to play that we can’t see for ourselves,” Connie muses. “A part in the human play.”

“So I can go under the veil and lead my acquaintances home, but”–he points at the salt shaker and snaps his fingers. The shaker remains secure in Connie’s grasp. He shrugs. “I can’t reach my magic.”

“You need a reservoir.”

“Yes.”

“I use the term intentionally, not metaphorically.”

He ponders before grasping her meaning. “Oh… yes… .” He’d studied the healing arts, of course; over three hundred years he’d studied every branch of magic. Healing had been a wonderful bargaining tool. Besides, after he’d figured out that any family member of the Dark One was vulnerable for attack for revenge seekers, he’d learned how to magically stitch lacerations, reduce swelling, and knit broken bones. But he hadn’t had need of that magic often enough for it to come easily to his fingertips, so he was bit rusty on the basics. “The river.”

“The river.” Connie explains to Belle, “All rivers contain a slight amount of healing magic for those who know how to access it and use it properly. Rivers bring life, after all. But some have more power than others, and the San Antonio River is one of the strongest. Local curanderas have tapped into its magic for centuries.”

Asking for help has never come easily for Rumplestiltskin. When he was a half-starved, neglected child, he was blamed for his father’s failed con jobs; when he was the ward of two eccentric old women, he was considered too weird to befriend; when he was a lame war deserter, deserted by his wife, his neighbors resented the fact that he had survived when their soldiers had died. The few times he’d asked for help, he’d been refused, so he quit asking. But since he’d learned his true destiny, he’d allowed Belle to nudge him towards society, for the sake of their son, who needs acceptance and friendship, and so he’s learned to offer help, usually freely. Asking for help, that’s something he’s still working on.

The request comes a little easier, though, when it’s for someone else. Especially when the someone else are a war deserter and a boy separated from his family. “Ms. Leal, will you come with me to the river and teach me how to access its healing magic?”

She takes a moment to consider. He expects that; but what he doesn’t expect is that she’s studying Gid, not him. Maybe she thinks Gid is too young to disseminate. Finally she stands up and he stands too, partly out of etiquette, but largely because he’s ready to grab her arm if she walks away.

She does walk away, but not before she answers him. “Tonight. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Menger at 11:30.”

“Thank you.” But she’s already walking away. He wonders if she looks down upon him because of his evil past, or whether she doubts herself, fears what he might do when she grants him access to magic. As long as she helps, that’s what matters.

So once again the Golds have to debate the question whether Gid will be allowed to be exposed to an act of magic. Rumple wins this round: the meeting with Connie is set for so late that Gid probably won’t stay awake through it, nor does Belle feel comfortable having her ten-year-old out in a dark and unfamiliar area. They explain it to him at supper (Korean barbeque in the Castle Hills area). He throws a fit, of course, throws every argument in his bag of tantrums at them, but they stand firm and united. “Tomorrow, when you wake up, we’ll go on to New Braunfels.”

“The corridor?” He brightens.

“Charreada,” Belle corrects. “Yes. I hear a special horse will perform. He’s what’s called a Friesian and he’s eighteen hands high—that’s six foot tall!”

“That must be the biggest horse in the world!” Gid’s only seen two horses in his life, those owned by David and Regina, and he promptly decides neither of those horses can match up to Don Pepe. He borrows Mom’s iPad to search for photos of the great Friesian and by supper’s end, Don Pepe has replaced Trigger in Gid’s estimation.

Belle frowns, looking down at her chicken katsu. “Did I just bribe him? We said we weren’t going to do that.”

Rumple lifts a shoulder. “Consider it a deal. We were going to New Braunfels tomorrow, regardless of how he behaves tonight.”

Back in the quiet of the Roy Rogers Suite, Rumple goes to the hallway mirror with Belle by his side and has a friendly chat with Richard, just to say goodbye, then he summons Moses Rose. The face that appears before him is quintessential codger: heavily lined and tanned brown as leather, a nose that hooks over a collapsed mouth, a bushy white beard that stretches from ear to ear. He’s holding a cane. The old dude yanks his battered hat from his head when he spies Belle. “Evenin’, missus. Ain’t you the pretty one, though?”

“Thank you, Mr. Rose.”

“Mr. Rose, we’ve found a way to help you, if you still want to cross over to the Afterlife,” Rumple begins.

“You know, young man, I waited all these years for somebody to tell the truth about me. Get my name cleared.” He turns his whiskey eyes to Belle. “Ma’am, they call me the Coward of the Alamo. They say I ran instead of standin’ to fight with the heroes. But it wa’nt like that. Travis, he said, if you want to go, go. We’re gonna die for sure, he said. Well, I thought they was all a pack of fools. What good would it do, when they was just gonna get killed anyway? I’m no coward, ma’am, I want you to know. I want somebody to know. I served under Napoleon. You think he woulda tolerate any cowards in his army? No coward, damn it, but they call me that, all these years. So when I died, I came back here. Walked all the way from Nacogdoches to pick up a rifle and stand with them that stayed. I been here with ‘em all this time, figurin’ somebody would see me, speak up for me, and then my name’d be clear. But nobody never did. The Coward of the Alamo. So I’m givin’ up, lightin’ out for the other side. The people there’ll know the truth about me.”

Belle assures him, “I’m sure they will. I’m sure Arthur will see to it. Good luck to you, Mr. Rose.”

“Stay ready, then. I’ll call you again when it’s time to lift the veil,” Rumple instructs. “Now, can you find another spirit for me, a boy named Ben Wolf? He’ll be coming with us.”

“I know the boy,” Moses reports. “I can find him.” He leans forward confidentially. “He thinks he’s a coward, ‘cause he took his brother and hid in the chapel when Santa Ana broke through. He thinks he shoulda stayed to load guns for his pa, like some of the other boys did.”

“Arthur will help him too, to find his brother,” Belle insists.

“I’ll find him–”

But Gid is calling from the bathroom; turns out Moses need not search. “Dad, Mom! Ben’s here.”

————————————————————

He hasn’t had much experience with ghosts—er, unchained spirits; in the Enchanted Forest days, with his existence entirely focused on the tasks that would eventually reunite him with Bae, he’d ignored that element of the supernatural, in the assumption that the bodiless would have nothing to add to his research. As he’s matured, he’s learned to be less judgmental, not just because of his developing sense of fairness, but but also for practical matters: every living being, and those not-exactly-living, has skills or knowledge that can be useful, even to a very old, very powerful mage.

So, with his lack of experience, Rumple has to admit that he doesn’t know what it will take for Ben and Moses to make the journey tonight. Sustaining a visible form takes a heavy dose of energy; getting to Underworld will take an hour or more. Can they hold up that long? Moses admits he’s only “gone thick” a few times, for a few minutes, in his post-death existence; Ben has even less practice. Richard, who’s been a frequent “guest among the guests” is brought into the conversation. He concurs with Rumple’s assessment; a tremendous expenditure of energy will be required, and the unpracticed may not be able to hold on for the entire trip.

“But they don’t have to.” Richard runs his finger along the edges of his side of the mirror. “Take a mirror with you. They can ride along in it, until you pass through the veil.”

“I have just the thing.” Belle dashes off to the bedroom, returning with her tote bag. Rumple knows what she’s thinking before she reaches into the bag, but she explains for Richard’s sake. She produces a silver hand mirror, an engraved rose curling up the handle. “This belonged to my mother. It’s one of the few keepsakes I have from her.”

Rumple shares a soft smile with her as they recall the afternoon he gifted her with that mirror, the day after he’d brought magic to Storybrooke and she regained her memories. It was the first time he’d been happy to see her cry. He’d held her tightly until her tears ceased, then he’d made her a cup of tea and sat her down to tell her how he’d obtained the mirror and why. A few days after she’d come to live in the Dark Castle, he’d made a solo trip back to Avonlea to pick through the rubble for her clothes and her books. As he’d passed silently through the crumbling walls of Maurice’s castle, he’d entered first the master chambers. Very little was salvageable—what hadn’t been smashed by ogres had been looted by returning citizens after Maurice and his courtiers had fled to another castle. But on the floor beside an overturned vanity table, he’d found a lovely silver comb, brush and mirror set that he suspected had once belonged to the lady of the house, and he’d tucked them away, intending to offer them to Belle as Yuletide gifts.

Except, by Yuletide, Belle was gone.

As she lays her offering on the ornamental table beneath the Western paintings, Rumple realizes what he must do. Turning her around, he takes her in his arms. “Sweetheart, we agreed that one of us has to stay behind with Gid. But it doesn’t have to be you.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you saying I should—But without magic—”

“With Ms. Leal’s assistance, I’ll open the portal. When you’re ready to come back, Arthur will reopen it. In between, you won’t need magic. Charon will take care of you. Belle, this will be your chance to see your mother again.”

“How will I find her? She wasn’t in Hades’ Underbrooke.”

“That space was just one of hundreds in the Underworld, one that Hades created especially for Zelena. I doubt that it exists now. Arthur will show you to the land where your mother resides.”

Instantly Belle is digging into her tote bag for her wallet. She flips it open and a strip of photos falls from it. “I can show her baby pictures—oh, Rumple, she’ll adore that! To know she’s got a grandson! Our wedding pictures, Gid learning how to walk, his first day of school—she’ll be so thrilled! But Rumple, are you sure? Are you sure I can do this, without magic?”

“I’m sure. Remember, the King of the Underworld is on our side now. But if it will put you at ease.” He removes his wedding ring—formerly, his sorcerer’s ring, through which he could channel and amplify his magic—and slides it onto her thumb. Before they’d left Storybrooke, he’d stored an ounce of magic in the ring’s moonstone, not enough to do much more than heal a sprained ankle or change the color of a traffic light, but it just made him feel a little more normal. The ring is heavy, heavier than its natural weight, and warm, with a faint buzz emanating from the stone.

As she adjusts it, she makes up her mind. “I’ll do it. I’ll find my mother and tell her all about you and Gid.”

He winces. “Maybe not everything. I want her to like me.”

She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. “I won’t take too long. I’ll be back at sunrise.”

“Take as much time as you need, beloved. We’ll wait.”

——————————————————————–

They’ve squeezed into Connie’s Honda, Rumple in the backseat, a half-asleep Gid slumped across his knees, while Belle and her tote bag, carrying her precious cargo, ride in the front. Connie insists on examining the mirror before they set out; she finds the shadows of a young boy and an old man shimmering beneath the reflective surface. “Smart.” Satisfied, she returns the mirror, then starts the engine and backs out of the parking space. “Now what’s this about you going instead of him? Shouldn’t it be someone who’s crossed over before?”

“I have, and returned safely.” Belle doesn’t want to relive that memory, so she changes the subject. “Where are we going?”

Connie grunts, but allows Belle to keep her secrets. “It’s your funeral, I suppose.”

“Very funny,” Rumple huffs.

“We’re going down to the Missions. We’ll get there right about midnight.” She doesn’t have to explain the significance of the timing to the Dark One and his lady. “It’ll be quieter there; the bars along the Riverwalk stay open until two. Besides, the magic is stronger at the Missions. Purer.”

Though the time is past eleven-thirty, the streets are crowded with staggering pedestrians who pay no attention to oncoming traffic, their laughter and ribald jokes interlaced with horns honking. Connie slides easily in and out of the mess, until at last they’re free of downtown and cruising through slumberingneighborhoods, with only patches of light from the streetlamps overhead to guide them over pothole-littered dark streets. The parked cars and worn-down houses grow sparser as they continue south. “We’re going to Mission Espada.” As they pass under a streetlight, Connie’s brown eyes seem to flash, then darken again as they leave the safety of the light. “The oldest mission in Texas.”

Belle clutches at a good omen. “Espada. That means ‘hope,’ doesn’t it?”

Connie’s eyes flash under another streetlight. “You’re thinking of esperanza. Espada means ‘sword.’”

“Strange name for a church.”

“Saving souls was only one reason that Spain built these missions. The other was to keep the French from out and quell the Indians.”

Belle reclaims her good omen when they pass a library.

Another ten minutes or so and Connie swings the Honda onto the highway, then off again, onto a quiet road. She pulls into a small gravel parking lot behind a tall stone structure. “This is it.” She pockets her keys as she waits for her passengers to unload.

Away from the streetlights and traffic, Belle feels the tension drop away from her shoulders.It’s too dark tosee much of the old church, but something about its presence, so tall and ancient, calms her nerves. Reluctantly, Rumple shakes Gid’s shoulder, urging him to waken, and the Golds walk hand in hand behind their guide. Belle lights the path with the flashlight in her iPhone. So that they can follow her voice in the dark, she talks as she leads them through thick brush. For their edification, she points out some local plants: “Mesquite—good for treating open wounds and reducing fever. Huisache—to treat rashes and diarrhea.Spiny hackberry—sore throats.Pecan.”

“What’s pecan good for?”

Connie pauses to grin at Belle. “Pies.” They’ve cleared the brush now and have come to the river. Carefully they pick their way down the grassy slope to the water, and Connie kneels. The Golds kneel on either side of her as she stretches out her arms over the water and prays in Spanish, and Belle could swear the river answers her by roiling up. She cups her hands to raise a sampling of the water toward the sky and her prayer intensifies. She swings her hands over Belle’s head and lets the water drizzle between her fingers onto Belle’s hair.

Belle shivers. “I can feel it! There’s a vibration in the water, the same as in Rumple’s ring.”

“Cool,” Gid approves.

Finishing her prayer, Connie rocks back on her knees and sighs. “I always feel younger after coming here. Are you ready to go, Belle?”

She inspects the contents of her tote bag one last time. “Ready.”

“Tell Arthur hi for me.” Rumple stands and reaches into his jeans for his key ring. Opening the small pocket knife he keeps attached to his keys, he looks down into the roiling water. “This river’s got Storybrooke Lake beat by a mile. Here goes.” He slides the blade across his palm, then as blood oozes from the laceration, he turns his hand over and lets the blood drip into the river. A sudden mist blankets the river and as Connie rises to her feet, an ancient skiff navigated by a hooded figure glides into view. Rumple binds his wounded hand with a handkerchief as Belle grabs Gideon and pulls him in for a hug and a kiss. “Now I want you to go straight to bed, as soon as you get back to the hotel. Try to get some sleep. I’ll be waiting here when you come back for me in the morning. Deal?”

“Yes, Mom.” As she starts to pull away, he clutches her sleeve. “Mom, are you scared?”

“Just a little.”

“I would be too.” He fishes something out of his pocket and presses it into her hand. “This will help.”

She opens her palm. He’s given her the medal he won this year for scoring the most free throws for the Storybrooke Giants. “Thank you, son. I’ll bring it back safe and sound.” After a last hug from her boy, she throws her arms around her husband. His scruff scratches her cheek as he kisses her. “See you at sunrise, darling.”

“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

Confident that the river will keep her upright, she steps out into the water. At midpoint, she should be fully submerged, but her feet float atop the waves. She glances over her shoulder to wave goodbye to her men, then proceeds to the skiff. The hooded figure shifts his ferryman’s pole to his left hand so he reach out with his right, steadying her as she climbs aboard. Before she can wave again, the mist engulfs the boat and she can see nothing.

Underworld

The fog lifts as they enter a brightly lit cavern. Belle has to blink to clear her eyes; Charon gives her a moment to adjust, then look around. Beneath her, the river that carried them here is placid and crystal clear. On shore, a string quartet plays a cello suite.The skiff is just one of many parked alongside docks, where waiters in white shirts and bow ties stand with silver salvers holding hors d’ourves and brandy in snifters. Most of the boats are unoccupied, but those that are peopled are all directed by hooded ferrymen (and -women). The waiters assist new arrivals from “above” out of their boats before offering greetings, refreshments and directions. She lifts her head, seeking the artificial lights, but sees none. She takes a moment to admire the ceiling, which is covered with an incredibly vivid and colorful painting of Mount Olympus; the style of the mural reminds her of the Sistine Chapel.

A baritone with a classy English accent carries across the water.“He painted it, while he was here before moving on.”

“Michelangelo?” Belle practically squeals as she casts a second look upon the mural. “He was here?”

Arthur shrugs. “Everyone comes through here, remember. I’m told Hades fouled up the paperwork and while that was being straightened out, Michelangelo needed something to pass the time, so, voila.”

“I suspect that paperwork conveniently showed up the day after the mural was finished,” Belle says dryly as Arthur hands her out of the boat.

“Funny how that works, isn’t it? And that piece you’re listening to now? Specially written for the Underworld, compliments of J. S. Bach’s lost paperwork.” As her feet land safely on the wooden dock, Charon moves his boat away. Arthur continues to hold Belle’s hands while he leans forward to kiss her on both cheeks.He then takes a half-step back to admire her. “You look well. How are things in Storybrooke?”

“Everyone’s fine. We’ve been away a while—”

“Yes, touring the world. Are you enjoying it all?” He offers her a snifter. “Napoleon brandy—distilled by Bonaparte himself, thanks to a transposed date on his paperwork.”

“Immensely. The world is so big, so diverse, and so utterly fascinating.” Belle sniffs the brandy’s bouquet before taking a sip.

“I hope you can spare an hour to tell me about it.” He places her hand in the crook of his elbow and turns her about. “A midnight supper, perhaps? Julia Child is here. She got so bored cooking for the gods; they’re all on butter-free diets.”

“I’d love to, but I came on a mission—”

“Yes, of course. Pardon me for getting distracted. It isn’t often that people make us part of their vacation plans. I keep a close watch on your husband, as well as the world’s magic users, and I was quite excited when you decided to escort your new friends here.” He walks her to the end of the dock, but before she can step off, they’re suddenly standing in his office. It’s a thoroughly modern space, with clean-lined B & B Italia sofas, chairs and desks. There are no file cabinets or “in” boxes, but there’s a smart board on the east wall and a laptop in every corner and Arthur carries an iPhone hooked to his belt. Music from the string quartet is piped in.

And most importantly, most amazingly, there’s Lady Colette pacing and wringing her hands in the center of the room. Her curls are immaculate, her lacy dress looks brand new and there are no wrinkles in her face—in fact, Belle thinks, her mother looks younger than she does. “Belle!”

Belle falls backward against a desk as a body comes flying at her and arms engulf her. Mother and daughter hug… and hug… and hug, and kiss cheeks and gabble greetings. In all this confusion, Arthur comes up behind, straightens Belle, then takes her tote bag and sets it gently on the desk.He then stands back, hands folded, indulgently waiting for the excitement to die down.

“I have so much to tell you!” Both women squeal simultaneously, but Belle ends, “Oh, but there’s something I have to do first.” She reaches back for the tote bag.

“Yes, your guests.” Setting a soft hand on Belle’s shoulder, Colette leans in to watch as Belle withdraws her mirror from the bag.

Colette gasps and clasps a hand to her mouth. “Oh my gods, I recognize that! How did you—”

“There’s a great big story attached to this,” Belle grins. “Adventure, horror, the supernatural, and romance. I’ll tell you all about it soon, but first… .” She moves to the center of the room, holds the mirror at arm’s length and calls out: “Mr. Rose, Ben, come forth, please.”

There’s nothing dramatic about it—it’s like Rumple’s magic when he’s not showing off. One minute it’s just Belle, holding a mirror and calling; then next, it’s a little hunch-shouldered guy with a bushy white beard and beady blue eyes that dart from face to face, then take in the room. Attempting to hide behind the old guy is a too-thin, shaggy adolescent.

Arthur extends a hand. “Mr. Rose, Master Wolf, welcome. I’m Arthur. I run things here. And this is Lady Colette of Avonlea.”

Rose wipes his hands on his dungarees, shakes Arthur’s hand and nods at Colette. “Mornin’. Or, I guess, evenin’. Feel kinda discombobulated just now.” He tosses a growl over his shoulder. “Come on outta there, boy. You’re breathin’ down my neck.” But Ben doesn’t move away from his safe spot. His eyes search the room for a comfortably familiar face—Gid’s, Belle realizes.

Arthur is chatting with Rose, attempting to allay his suspicions by assuring him he hasn’t arrived in Tartarus; he isn’t here for judgment or punishment. “In fact, where are my manners? Would you care for some refreshment? Beer? A sandwich?” He directs an offering to Ben: “Cookies? Julia makes the most mouth-watering chocolate chip cookies.”

Colette intervenes, “Arthur, may I suggest first, we reunite them with their families?”

Arthur smiles at Rose. “If you’re ready, then?” He presses a button on his phone. “Henrietta, send them in, please.” Turning back to his guests, he informs them, “Your parents and your brother are here, Ben; they’ve been waiting for you, all these years. But Mr. Rose, I’m afraid I couldn’t find any relatives for you.”

Rose looks at his cracked boots. “Got none. Raised a orphan, never married.”

“But there is someone who wants to welcome you, and when you’re ready, take you over to your next stop.”

The double doors swing wide and three people dash into the room, and before anyone can speak, Ben is lost in a sea of arms and kisses. Arthur chuckles. “I guess you folks remember each other, all right.”

Belle can make out bits of the noisy exchange. “Ma! Pa!”

“Oh, Benny, we’re so glad—“

“Mikey, I didn’t mean to—“

“It ain’t nothin’, Ben. Not your fault. Them toy soldiers in their pretty blue and red suits—“ ”

“Pa, I shoulda stayed, loaded guns for you—maybe you wouldn’t’ve got killed. Ma, I didn’t mean to—“

“It wasn’t your fault, son. Like your brother says, it wasn’t your fault, none of it.”

“You ain’t no deserter. You just did what I told you to, takin’ care of your little brother, right up until the end.”

There’s more, lots of crying and hugging and exchanges of forgiveness, but the family closes in on itself and Belle looks away, giving them a bit of privacy. Besides, a new arrival has commanded the attention of her mother, Arthur and Rose. He’s an imposing figure, tall, dressed in buckskin, lean as a whip and just as sharp, and Belle recognizes him from paintings around San Antonio. Moses snatches off his battered hat in respect as he utters, “Mr. Crockett.”

Arthur waves the newcomer into the room and brings the women forward for introductions. “Ladies, I’d like you to meet Congressman David Crockett. Congressman, may I introduce Lady Colette and her daughter, Belle Gold.”

The tall man cocks a smile as he shakes their hands. “They mostly call me Davy, ma’am. Good to know you. And thank you for bringing one of my boys home, Mrs. Gold.”

Moses’ jaw drops as his lips silently form the word my. His eyebrows raise in a question.

“We’ve been waitin’ for you, Mose.”

The old man’s voice squeaks. “We?”

“All the boys are here, except for those we left on guard duty.”

Rose shrinks against the Wolfs, as if seeking to hide within their circle. “You gonna send me to the firin’ squad?”

“No, Mose, we come to bring you back with us.” Crockett takes a step forward, worrying his hat in his hand.

The wrinkled faces scrunches up. “I don’t unnerstand.”

“To the final resting place.” Crockett takes another step forward. “If you want.”

“Or you can stay here until you’re ready,” Arthur offers. “Some call it the Elysian Fields, some call it Paradise or Heaven. It’s whatever you imagine it to be. I like to call it Valhalla, home of heroes.”

Michael Wolf pipes up: “That’s where we’re goin’ too.”

Rose’s misty eyes swing from Arthur to Crockett. “You sure? You ain’t—”

“No, Mose, I wouldn’t pull your leg about a thing like that.” Crockett tilts his head toward the door. “The boys are all waitin’ outside, so we can march together, like soldiers.”

“Like soldiers.” Rose licks his lips, then slaps his hat onto this head. “All right, then. Guess I’m ready. ‘Cept—“ He squeezes Belle’s forearm. “Missus, you and your man, you been—well, I ‘preciate it. That’s all.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Rose. Pleasant journey.”

“Reckon I’ll see you and him again.” He approaches Crockett, who clasps him on the shoulder. Rose pauses to glance back with a wide grin. “In the restin’ place of heroes!”

Michael whoops, and at their mother’s bidding the Wolf family, arm in arm, follows the Congressman and the soldier out into the night.

Colette fumbles for a handkerchief in her sleeve; even Arthur has to brush at his eyes. “Well then!” He pushes a button on his phone again. “Julia, we’re hungry!” He waves a hand at a cluster of chairs and couches in the corner. “Ladies, would you care to be seated? I’m going to go toss the salad for Mrs. Child. We’ll have supper ready in a jiffy—but not too soon. I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Colette dabs at her damp cheeks.

As the women make their way to one of the couches, Belle is fumbling in her tote bag. “I brought pictures, Mother. Loads of pictures. Mother, you’re a grandma now!”

Colette throws her arms around her daughter. “Yes, I know; I’ve been following your story.” She points at a laptop. “Arthur allows us to tune in. Oh, Belle, I’m so happy for you, so proud of what you’veaccomplished. You saved Rumplestiltskin’s soul; do you realize that? Because of you, the Dark One found the light. You saved Avonlea; you saved the world!”

Belle blushes. “Mother, all I did was try to support the man I love. He made the decision himself, to come to the light. He makes that decision, every day, for his family’s sake. He’s a hero, Mother.”

“So are you, my baby, so are you.” Colette seats herself, patting the space beside her. “Sit, my baby, sit and show me pictures of my beautiful grandson, and tell me everything!”

It’s half past seven, nearly an hour past sunrise. Connie and Gid sit on the riverbank, nearly in the exact same spot as last night, except this time the boy is fully awake. They’re drinking orange juice from a thermos that she’d stopped to buy, along with Egg McMuffins, because when she picked them up at the hotel, she could tell at a glance they hadn’t eaten anything. She’s keeping the boy’s mind off what’s happening in the river—or rather, what’s not happening—by sharing some insider gossip about the Spurs. She’s made no attempt to amuse the Dark One. She’d think less of him if he weren’t worried.

She has been puzzling about him, though. The oldest, most powerful magic user she’s ever met, and here he shows up in her hometown with a wife and a kid and Triple A TripTik in his back jeans pocket, like some ordinary middle-aged tourist. The oldest, most powerful dark magic user, of all time, so say the books; and yet he lives in a four-bedroom house in a small town and makes a living selling antiques and collecting rent, when he could live in Paris or London or Barcelona—when he could own Paris or London or Barcelona. He could have forced her to kneel before him, but instead he’d asked for her help with a humble please.

And the most puzzling fact of all: all that light magic buzzing around him, like a colony of honeybees circling their hive, protecting it, busily producing something good in it. Yet, there’s an equal number of killer wasps buzzing around him too, producing pools of evil inside him, tar against the honey. More darkness than any single human has ever carried, and more light, too. How does he contain it all? How does he not just explode?

As for herself, she’s grateful that the Universe gave her this chance to observe him, but she’ll be just as grateful when he leaves. Preferably, permanently.

She feels a rumbling in the ground beneath her and she clambers to her feet. “Your mom’s coming.” She gathers the trash from meal and stuffs it into a bag as Gid runs toward his father, stretching his neck as far as it will go, to see around the bend. Mist suddenly, inexplicably rises from the water, and Gid acknowledges her observation. “Yup! That’s Mom, all right. Look, Dad, there’s that thing on the front of the boat.”

“That’s a griffin.” Rumple steps out into the river, ignoring the mud gathering on his Justin Hidalgos and the water soaking the cuffs of his Levis. “Yes, there’s Charon, and behind him, there’s Mom, about to fall out of the boat.”

It’s true: Belle is waving so hard she’s off-balance. “Rumple! Gid! My boys!” No sooner has Charon poled the skiff into shallow water than she’s leaped off, splashing enthusiastically, soaking her Stella McCartney slacks. Then she’s in their arms and they’re in hers and everything is all right again.

“I have so much to tell you.” She raises her face, allowing Rumple to brush away her tears with his knuckles.

Gid can’t hold still. “Did you get ‘em there okay? Did Ben find his brother?”

“Yes, and they’re all together now, and they’ve left for the Land of Heroes, and Davy Crockett was there; he came to collect Moses and take him to Elysium too, and my mother—she looks wonderful, Rumple, so happy and so much younger than I remember. Wait, I have pictures of her! And Arthur, and the Wolfs and Davy, oh, and Julia Child, and you should see what Arthur’s done with the place… .”

Connie opens the passenger side door of her Honda and tosses the trash onto the floorboard. “Hey, Gid, why don’t you ride shotgun so your parents can sit together in the back.”

“Connie!” Belle brings the surprised curandera in for a hug. “Thank you! Thanks to you, everyone’s back where they belong, and I got to see my mother again.”

Connie doesn’t know quite what to say, so she just nods. She’s healed many a sick or injured client in her time, but she’s never sent anyone to Hell before (or rather, the Underworld), though she’s wanted to.

“We owe you, far more than your financial compensation,” Rumple admits, opening the back door for Belle.

“I dunno, that fee’s going to pay my mortgage off,” Connie winks at him. “But tell you what: I would like to hear what it’s like there, so why don’t you treat me to lunch.”

"Our pleasure,” Rumple agrees. “Your niece’s restaurant?”

“Heck, no, I wouldn’t eat in that dump. I know a nice little place in Southtown where they serve afternoon tea.” She slides in behind the steering wheel. “It’s called The Madhatter’s.”

Belle and Rumple exchange wry smiles. “Madhatter’s, huh?” Belle muses. “We know a guy who’s called that.”

“I’m sure it’s not the same man, sweetheart,” Rumple objects. “Jefferson’s hardly the tea shop kind. More like a travel agent, I think.”

“Or a haberdasher, but that would be rather on the nose, wouldn’t it? A Halloween costume designer, I think. Or an opera singer.”

“I doubt if his vocal chords could handle the high notes. But I agree about something stagy. An actor of melodramas, perhaps. Yes, I can see him in one of the swirly capes, with handlebar mustaches that he twirls.” They press their foreheads together as they giggle.

Connie rolls her eyes and leans in toward Gid. “Your parents always that goofy?”

“Yeah.” The boy sighs deeply. “It’s a burden, but I’ve learned to put up with them.”

“Never would have figured the Dark One for a nerd.”

“You wouldn’t, would you? That’s why it works, I guess. People don’t know what to expect.”

“You want to be a sorcerer when you grow up?”

Gid snorts. “Are you kidding? ‘Wizard of the Hoops,’ that’s me.”

“I’ll watch for you in the NBA.”

————————————————————————–

New Braunfels

Sweaty and dusty and sunburnt, the Golds stagger down from the grandstand. They’ve spent the entire day under the blazing sun as they watched charros perform: roping bulls, riding broncos, bull dogging, performing rope tricks from atop a loping horse. They’ve gasped as the six-foot tall stallion Don Pepe danced like Nureyev across the rodeo ring. They’ve watched the more incredible show of bravery, seemingly reckless, as cowboys galloped their mounts at top speed straight towards the ring’s fence, then reined them to a stop on a dime. The greatest test of bravery, though, they all agree, is the escaramuza, a tightly choreographed exhibit of synchronized riding by the charras, eight girls—the youngest, only eight—riding sidesaddle in huge traditional skirts and hats, cantering in intricate patterns that take them within inches of collision. The horses manage to dodge each other just in time, and the riders never lose balance. “It’s like a game of chicken on horseback,” Gid breathes.

“Ice water in their veins,” Rumple comments. “Nearly gives me a heart attack just watching.”

“Avonlea was known far and wide for great horsemen, but not a one of ours could hold a candle to these girls.” Belle rises to her feet, applauding as the charras finish their performance; all the spectators follow suit.

As the sun sets, the master of ceremonies dances out on Don Pepe. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your applause, and thank you for kind attention today. We’ve worked hard to prepare for this event; we hope you enjoyed it. The charro has been a feature of Mexican culture going back to the seventeenthcentury; their skills and traditions have been passed from parent to child for generations.The reason we do our charreada is to keep those traditions alive and to honor our ancestors. And now, as we close, we pay tribute to the man who founded this show in 1944 and who memory inspires every one of us, every day, my father, Alejandro Guajardo Senior, who passed away last year.” As a mariachi band strikes up a bold tune, all the cowboys come riding into the arena, circle around the MC, and bring their horses to a halt.They take their hats off and bow from the saddle. Don Pepe ducks his head between his forelegs in a bow of his own.

Belle dabs at her eyes. “I think I’ll call my father when we get back to the hotel.” She’s not sure in the twilight, but she thinks Rumple has gone pale. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

Silently he points at an empty space in the area.

She doesn’t understand. “What is it?”

“There… there’s an old man in a sombrero, sitting on a horse.”

“I don’t see—Rumple, there’s no one there.”

“Yes, there is,” he argues.

Then she catches on. “Ohhh.” The ghost of Alejandro Guajardo Sr. “He’s come to bless his son’s work, I imagine.”

Rumple swallows hard. “Do you think I should tell Alejandro Jr.?”

But before Belle can answer, Gid interrupts, clambering to his feet and whistling his applause. “Wow. Wow. Can I go down and meet Don Pepe? Can we talk to the charros?”

Belle gives her husband a moment to collect his thoughts. When he shakes his head and smiles, she suggests, “Maybe we could go down for just a few minutes and talk to the riders. I’d like to look at those sidesaddles, see how they compare to the ones we ladies used in Avonlea.”

Rumple watches the cowboys circle around the area and ride out. “I’d just like to know how those little girls stay on without Super Glue.” He follows his family down from the grandstand. When they reach the ground, he steps aside, allowing other spectators to rush past him to the parking lot. He hooks his sunglasses onto a chain around his neck, then sighs, admiring the moon coming up behind Belle’s shoulder. “There’s Don Pepe; Guajardo’s leading him to the barn. Go ahead, Gid. We’ll catch up in a minute.”

“Another ghost story?” Belle slides her arm around her husband’s waist.

He nods. “I guess I should tell him. It’s his father, after all. At least, the old man looks happy; he might not need anything from us, other than to deliver a message.”

“Whatever he needs, that’s fine. We have time.” Belle turns around to the area, wishing she could see the old charro too. “Some show. Some trip. Some country, a little wild, a little dangerous, a lot of fun.”

“Yeah.” Rumple runs his fingers through her hair. “As the old timers say, we’ve been to see the elephant, Belle.”

She nods. “We’ve been to see the elephant.”

#rsv entry #thank you!!!!#submission

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