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Title: Beauty In Wax
Type: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Belle, Regina, The Mirror, O.C.
Spoilers: Through 2.07
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended
Word Count: 859
Summary: Belle recalls a meeting during her pre-curse imprisonment.
Note: This is both a missing scene fic and a Vincent Price homage.
Belle sat handcuffed in the library, several tears trickling down. She did not weep for herself but for those who had shackled her -- an imp, a queen, a father, a wolf, an artist...
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 magic in that land without, 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...”
Belle sat handcuffed in the library, several tears trickling down. She did not weep for herself but for those who had shackled her -- an imp, a queen, a father, a wolf, an artist. She had been imprisoned by metal. They had been imprisoned by pain.
Type: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Belle, Regina, The Mirror, O.C.
Spoilers: Through 2.07
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended
Word Count: 859
Summary: Belle recalls a meeting during her pre-curse imprisonment.
Note: This is both a missing scene fic and a Vincent Price homage.
Belle sat handcuffed in the library, several tears trickling down. She did not weep for herself but for those who had shackled her -- an imp, a queen, a father, a wolf, an artist...
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 magic in that land without, 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...”
Belle sat handcuffed in the library, several tears trickling down. She did not weep for herself but for those who had shackled her -- an imp, a queen, a father, a wolf, an artist. She had been imprisoned by metal. They had been imprisoned by pain.