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Fanfic: The Tarn (1/1)

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  • Fanfic: The Tarn (1/1)

    Title: The Tarn
    Type: Gen
    Rating: PG-13
    Characters: Belle, Whale/Frankenstein, Regina, The Mirror, O.C.s
    Spoilers: Through 2.22
    Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended
    Word Count: 1,433
    Summary: We learn why the Land Without Color is without color.
    Note: I’ve composited Vincent Price’s House of Wax along with Poe’s “Annabel Lee” and “Fall of the House of Usher” as well as Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

    On the first Wolf’s Moon after the Jolly Roger sailed for Neverland, Belle sat reading with a transformed Ruby looking over her shoulder at the book. “Are you sketching us in black and white or in color this evening, Dr. Whale?,” Belle asked.

    “In black and white,” he answered. “I’m feeling homesick. Please call me Victor.”

    Belle posed, pensive. “I was afraid and sad in your land, Victor. I hope Rumple and I can return there one day and make some happy memories.”

    Victor Frankenstein winced. After Belle regained her memory, she sought him out, apologizing for her behavior as Lacey. He graciously accepted her apology as the wronged party. Later, however, Ruby gave him Belle’s full history, and he wanted his face ground under Gold’s heel. He felt responsible for her. Regina used his false persona to run the hospital that had been her prison. He willed himself to ask the next questions with effort. “When did you visit my land? Why were you afraid and sad there?”

    With effort equal to his own, Belle recounted her tale...

    Belle knew one of the many twisted hopes fueling Queen Regina’s dreams. She wished to break the girl who loved Rumplestiltskin. Every day within the walls of the queen’s secret prison, the guard would bring Belle from her cell into a room that was one giant mirror, floor to ceiling. The queen greeted her. “Time for your recreation, Belle. My mirror will show you any realm you wish to spy on, except the one dear Rumple inhabits. You may choose to leave this room through the mirrored walls to live freely in any realm, except the one dear Rumple inhabits.”

    Belle smiled, continuing their battle of wills. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for this diversion. I’ve learned a great deal.”

    Frowning, the queen exited, reflected black against Belle’s reflected blue. One day, Belle asked the queen’s mirror, “Show me a black other than Regina’s. Show me a black serving as a foil for true beauty.”

    “As you wish,” answered the mirror. The various reds, blues, and yellows to which Belle had grown accustomed faded and muted into various whites, grays, and blacks. “I present to you The Land Without Color,” he replied.

    Belle marveled at what she saw -- a kind of opulent simplicity in which light and texture replaced hue. She beheld a distinguished man, graying at the temples, with a spiritual countenance. He worked clay with tenderness. Belle never interacted with the people she beheld in the mirror. She could see them, but they could not see her. The queen isolated Belle this way to further tempt her to reach out for companionship and leave the realm of her True Love. Belle thought it was polite not to drive the strangers who enriched her life mad through becoming a disembodied voice in their realms.

    Belle listened to and watched the sculptor as he spoke to his clay. “My darling Annabel. We loved with a love that was more than love, and the covetous angels took you from me. No matter. I will bring you to life again -- eternal life -- in wax.”

    “Wax?,” questioned Belle aloud in spite of herself.

    “Annabel, you speak to me from Heaven,” answered the sculptor, “but I cannot see you.”

    “I’m Belle,” she answered, “not Annabel, but you can see me.” Belle was shocked to realize that the bust he sculpted looked exactly like her.

    “True,” answered the sculptor. “This is but the start of the finished work that will return you to me, however. The angels must have altered your memory as well as your name, Annabel, if my process is foreign to you.”

    Belle pitied this man, instinctively seeking to ease his grief by reminding him of his love. “The angels haven’t altered my memory. I’m Belle, but I would love for you to tell me more about Annabel.”

    “As you wish, Annabel,” said the sculptor. “I will help you remember and reclaim you from the seraphim who have parted us. You were born Annabel Lee, the only daughter of a noble family. We were children together, growing up by the sea. Your kinsmen did not approve of me, a lowly sculptor, making figures from wax. They disowned you for our love, but with you as my muse (my life and my bride), we prospered.”

    Rapt by his story and his voice, Belle realized she did not possess the sculptor’s name. “Who are you?”

    “I, my darling, am your Henry -- Henry Jarrod -- given the title ‘Professor’ as a courtesy when I began exhibiting my work. You are Annabel Jarrod, the other half of my soul. I WILL have the other half of my soul.”

    With that, Henry Jarrod walked through a full-length mirror in his studio, seizing Belle.

    “You shouldn’t be able to do that. I only work one way in this room,” said the queen’s mirror. “Your power lies in madness.”

    “My power lies in love -- in her!,” declared Henry Jarrod.

    In a trice, Belle found herself manacled on a long table underneath glass containing a bubbling substance. She fought to free herself, but to no avail. Her peach flesh was highlighted by the grays of the waxing chamber. “Why do you fight, my darling?,” asked Henry Jarrod, genuinely perplexed. “The angels sent a chill wind to kill you -- to take you from me. The wax will warm you, making you immortal.”

    “The wax will make one immortal?,” asked the queen, suddenly between Belle and the mad man. “We shall see.” Using strong magic in that land of paltry power, Queen Regina -- smile blood red in that gray world -- hurled Henry Jarrod into the wax intended for Belle. As his screaming and bubbling stopped, the queen reclaimed her captive. “No one kills you but me, dear...”

    The doctor felt his gorge rise as he added another chapter to Belle’s macabre narrative. “I visited Jarrod’s House of Wax once -- only once -- with two friends -- Roderick Usher and his sister Madeline...

    Victor was thankful he had been able to talk Roderick and Madeline into venturing beyond the House of Usher. Hypochondriacs, both were convinced they were doomed to die of a wasting disease if they could not reclaim a certain power of transformation -- the power to transform into swans. The Ushers had become virtual hermits in pursuit of that goal.

    “According to an ancient legend passed down through our ancient line,” intoned Roderick Usher, “there was a dark wizard named Rothbart with a deeply beloved daughter named Odile. Odile languished from the same illness that slowly drags my sister and myself to our family vault. Rothbart hit upon an extreme remedy. His Odile would live only if she transformed under beneficent moon into a creature hardier than herself -- a swan.”

    Victor saw that Jarrod was fascinated. He pointed to a waxen tableau. “Yes, Lord Usher. I’ve depicted your legend here. My wife stumbled upon it in an obscure volume. It became a favorite, and she modeled for Odile.”

    Madeline immediately and tenderly embraced the figures of Rothbart and Odile -- her gossamer white contrasting with their dark plumage. “Please, my lady, don’t touch them,” admonished Jarrod. “The wax is delicate.”

    Cooing over her, Roderick led his sister away and continued his recitation. “The spell successful, a revived Odile spent her nights in the form of a black swan. Rothbart, a fond father, took the shape of an owl in solidarity. Living, but lonely, Odile required the companionship of others such as herself. Rothbart recruited other ailing souls -- their herd taking flight.”

    Jarrod took up the tale, gently removing a strand of Madeline’s hair from Odile’s wing. “The swans were hunted throughout their native land for their hue -- black being the color of evil. To preserve his family, Rothbart took another extreme step. He magically transported himself and his swans to another land entirely -- our land.”

    Roderick concluded. “According to the legend, the swans first materialized within the tarn below the House of Usher. An ancestor beheld the celestial grace of Odile, and he took her for his bride. On their wedding night, Rothbart transformed his daughter’s soul mate into a drake and drained all colors save black, white, and gray from their adopted refuge. Henceforth, black would no longer be seen as the color of evil, but the color of home...”

    Wistfully, Belle said, “Rumple will know how to help Lord and Lady Usher transform, I’m sure. We’ll discuss them when he gets back.”

    “You think the legend is true, then, that people can turn into swans,” asked Victor.

    For answer, Belle petted the were-creature behind her, smiling.
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