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"All right, I've cleaned the back room and restocked all the fellip nectar. I'm going to go..." Belle pauses. "Home," she was about to say, but she can't quite bring herself to call the small, bare quarters she inhabits on this world that. "...going to go and get some sleep," she finishes.
Her boss -- she's carefully learned to pronounce all the hissing, buzzing consonants of his name, but he seems to prefer "boss" -- waggles his antennae at her in acknowledgement. He's a nice person, if you can get past the giant-insect appearance. Not that Belle has found that particularly difficult.
She removes her apron, stuffs it into the laundry recycler, and waves a quick goodbye to her co-workers at the bar. Ordinarily, she might stay for a while after work, talking with patrons or having a drink by herself. She's come to like fellip nectar, which almost-but-not-quite reminds her of the Enchanted Forest's ale. But tonight she's tired. No, it's more than that. She's tired of being here.
It isn't that she doesn't like her job. She's glad to have it, and not just because when she arrived here she had nothing on her the locals would recognize as currency. She's used to, even comfortable with, serving and cleaning, and it gives her the chance to talk to interesting people of all different shapes and kinds. She's also gained quite a reputation for being able to deal with unruly, drunken aliens, even the ones that are three times her size and armed. She likes that; it's nice to feel useful. But none of it changes the fact that she doesn't belong here.
Tired or not, Belle decides as she weaves her way through clusters of tables toward the door of the refreshment house, she won't go right to sleep tonight, after all. Instead she'll spend a few more hours -- a few more arns -- combing through this world's data library, looking for a way back home. Or, at least, back to Storybrooke, which became her home when it became the place where everyone she cares about lives.
She wonders whether it's finally time to stop searching for a magical solution. This place doesn't seem to be entirely without magic, but what it does have is ill-defined and strange, and called by other names. Like "psychic gifts." She's beginning to wonder whether it's even really magic at all. Maybe it would be better to concentrate on the more technological possibilities. After all, just because Storybrooke technology can't open portals into other worlds doesn't mean that the technology here can't. People in Storybrooke don't know how to travel between the stars, either. And she's heard rumors about something called...
"Wormholes!"
Belle stops cold just as the door whooshes open for her, and turns to see where that voice came from.
"Sparky, I'm getting sick and tired of listening to your royal opinions!" That's a dark-haired, blue-eyed human -- no, Belle corrects herself, Sebacean -- man, dressed in leather. She remembers seeing him at the bar earlier, although she wasn't the one to serve him. "I'm goin' back to Moya, where I am going to work on getting my damn self home. Unlike some people, who seem to think it'll happen by sitting around bitching and moaning!"
He drains the last of his bottle of nectar, slams it down on the table, and stands. Belle barely notices any of it. She's staring, instead, at the being with him, the one she's fairly sure she heard speaking first. He is no species she recognizes: small and squat and green, dressed in rich purple and seated on an ornate, hovering chair. Something about his appearance, along with that familiar word, "royal," reminds her suddenly of a story Rumplestiltskin told her once, about a prince he'd turned into a frog.
The pang of loss and homesickness that comes over her with the memory takes her by surprise, and for a moment all she can do is to close her eyes and gather all her courage until the feeling passes. And here she thought she was past all that by now.
When she opens her eyes, the Sebacean is on his way out the door. I should go after him, she thinks, but by the time her brain has finished forming the sentence, he's gone, disappearing rapidly into the afternoon crowds on the street outside.
She turns back toward his companion, who doesn't appear to have noticed her. "Obsessive frellnik," he mutters to himself, scooping a handful of frask eggs from the plate in front of him and stuffing them into his mouth.
Belle squares her shoulders, puts on a friendly smile, and approaches. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. Were you just talking about wormholes?"
"Oh, yotz," he says, rolling his eyes. He has vertical-slit pupils, like a cat's. "Not another one."
"So, that is what you were talking about." She sits down in the chair vacated by the Sebacean and leans across the table a little, trying not to look too eager and knowing she isn't quite succeeding. "I heard your friend say something about trying to get home. Is that what happened to him? Did he fall through a portal?"
"Through a what?" The being's stubby green hand hovers above his plate for a moment before plunging in for another mouthful of eggs.
"A portal. That's what a wormhole is, right? Assuming they actually exist. A portal that takes you to another place. Or another world." She wonders suddenly whether the man is even a Sebacean at all. Maybe he's an outsider here, too.
"They're a frelling nuisance, that's what they are. What's your interest in wormholes?" He peers at her from beneath gray eyebrows and green brow ridges. It's a sharp, calculating look. A kind of look that she knows very well. She decides to respond to it the way she usually does: with honesty.
"I fell into one," she says. "Or something like it. It was an accident." A magical accident, of course, part of yet another desperate attempt to deal with yet another of Storybrooke's constant crises. Not for the first time, she feels a stab of worry about what might be going on back there without her, and once again she tells herself that, whatever it is, Rumple will surely be able to handle it. Assuming he's in any state to handle anything at all, after watching yet another of his loved ones disappearing through a portal. It's hard not to take it as a bad sign that he hasn't found her yet, but then, it took him three hundred years the first time. Which is one of the reasons why she's determined not to sit around and wait for rescue. "I'm looking for a way to get home."
"Are you, indeed? How do I know you're not working for Scorpius?"
The name isn't familiar to her. "I'm sorry, is that a person, or...?"
He looks her up and down. "Hmmph. Well, you don't look like a Peacekeeper."
That name she does know. "I'm not! I'm just a... a noblewoman turned servant, turned librarian, turned barmaid."
"Noble?" He suddenly looks a little more interested.
"My father was the lord of Avonlea. You've probably never heard of it." She smiles a little, wistfully. "It's a long way from here."
"I am a Dominar." She has no idea what a Dominar is, but from the way he says it, it's a rank well above "lord." A king at least, she thinks. He may be small and alien, but the way he carries himself is almost ridiculously familiar.
She rises from her chair and bobs a graceful curtsey. It's not something she's done in a very long time, but her body still remembers. "Your Majesty."
"Your Eminence," he corrects, but he looks pleased. "And you're obviously not a Peacekeeper. None of them have any manners." He pops the last of the eggs into his mouth and licks his fingers.
She grins at him and sits down again. "So, about those wormholes?"
"Hmm. Well, I may have access to certain... information." He's giving her that shrewd look again, and she feels a surge of excitement and hope.
"Yes?" she prompts, fairly certain she knows what's coming next.
"Which I may be willing to disclose. For a price."
Belle leans back in her chair. "I see. You want to make a deal."
He waves a hand. "While I am by nature a generous being, you must realize that I could not possibly provide such a valuable service without, mmm, compensation." He looks rather smug, she thinks. Ready to drive a hard bargain with a sweet, innocent young woman.
"I don't exactly have a lot of money."
"I am prepared to accept trade goods," he says. "Any jewels? Family heirlooms, perhaps?"
"Sorry. I didn't have any on me when I fell through the portal. If I'd known I was going to be coming here, believe me, I would have prepared better."
"Then I'm afraid this conversation is over. I am not a charity for little lost girls, and I am not remotely inclined to give away the most valuable secret in the universe for free. I have an empire to reclaim!"
"I don't believe that," she says.
He makes an indignant sputtering sound. "I assure you, I do! I am Dominar Rygel XVI, rightful ruler of the Hynerian Empire and its six hundred billion--"
She cuts him off. "Oh, I believe that part." She leans forward a little again, and locks his gaze with hers. "What I don't believe is that you are nearly as greedy and selfish as you're pretending to be. If you were, you wouldn't even be talking to me. I mean, look at me!" She holds out her arms a little, indicating her worn barmaid's dress. "I clearly don't have the ability to buy... What was it? 'The most valuable secret in the universe.' But you were hoping I would think of something to offer. And not just because you want the money. You want to help me. Do you know how I know?"
He simply stares at her, so she keeps going. "Because you're not off ruling your rightful empire. Instead you're here, just like me. I heard what your friend said. You're trying to get back home, too, aren't you? You know what it's like." She reaches across the table and grabs his hand. It's warm and dry in hers, not like a frog's at all. "You know what it's like to be torn away from the place you belong, separated from the life you're supposed to be living, and from everything and everyone you care about. To wonder, every day, whether you'll ever see any of it again. You understand." It's guesswork and intuition, all of it, but she's not wrong. She knows she's not wrong, even before she sees the startled, vulnerable look that flickers through his eyes.
"Help me, Your Eminence," she says, and squeezes his hand.
He makes series of incoherent harrumphing noises, as if he's desperately trying to come up with the words to deny what she's just said, and is failing miserably. At last, he gives up.
"Well," he says, then clears his throat and starts again. He's staring at her hand where it's still holding his. "Well, I suppose I could arrange for you to speak with my... shipmate. But you may find I'm not doing you any favors. Not only is he extremely annoying, but no matter how interested you may think you are, once he starts talking about wormholes, within five hundred microts you're going to be desperately wishing he would shut the frell up."
The smile that spreads across Belle's face is so wide she wonders for a moment whether her cheeks will be able to contain it. "I'll take the chance," she says, and leans the rest of the way across the table to plant a kiss on his forehead.
It's not a way home, not yet. But it's a good first step. And a single glimmer of hope is all Belle has ever needed.