Sorry for the wait, there were some editing issues.

All info regarding ivory polishing was from the Ornamental Turning Center. The ring info I googled months ago, so…I don't really recall.

Props to my betas, King of Jesters, Juliette, OldRomantic, who was a pillar when I was freaking out, and all of my long-time readers. You're fantastic.

As I've said before, I don't know where I'll go after this. If enough of you wanted a continuation, I might work a few short things through season 2, or a sequel that picks up from this last chapter. There are a few ideas bouncing around my head, but we'll just have to see. Right now I'm on an HP kick, and an on-and-off Belle/Rumpel one too.

Oh, and to answer that question, Mr. Carlyle told me his favourite colour-which is dark green.

-XXX-

One year and a month later….

The moon, high and bright, weeps brilliantly onto the dark blanket of sky on which she rests. Her face is full, white and as fair as fresh snow. Tonight, I do not envy her in any way. For I am content as I shall ever be, sitting on my windowsill that overlooks the gardens below, and the high stone wall. Lights of the city just beyond the valley's hills pinprick the sweeping landscape, looking to be reflections of the stars above. The lake beside the town in one piece of smooth, dark glass, with mist rising over and milling to the muddy banks. It is a warm, beautiful night. I fiddle with the ivory handle of my brush, fingering the intricate loops and knots. A fine example of craftsmanship. I recall watching one silversmith working with such goods at the city fair when I was a child. He'd shown us how to polish and carve into the soft element. It was a gift from the far east, inset with jade and polished with pumice powder, till it shone even in candlelight.

As I brush, I sing lowly to myself.

"I'd sell my rod, I'd sell my reel,

I'd sell my only spinning wheel,

To buy my love a sword of steel.

Go, go, go my love

Go quietly and peacefully

Go to the door and flee with me

And may you go safely my dear."

"I am grateful that you would wish me such luck, dearie," a voice from below calls lightly. "Though I must admit I hope you haven't sold my spinning wheel. It is rather precious to me."

Gasping, I tug my robe back 'round my shoulders, where it had fallen. The intruder laughs. He steps from the shadows, his skin glistening in the fair moonlight.

"Nice habit you have of leaning out of open windows. A pleasant welcome for a weary traveler." His unnatural eyes linger on my collarbone. "Especially if you're keen on wearing scraps as those."

I've never been a blushing redhead, so I scowl. "A warning would be nice."

"Not nearly as nice as seeing you in such a lovely tizzy," drawls my imp. "As I said, a fine welcome."

"Are you coming up?"

"Momentarily," he assures me. "But first, I must see to the garden."

I smile, knowing what is to come. "Alright."

When I turn from the window, mere seconds later, he's right there, two feet in front of me, brandishing a peony with a dark purple center, radiating cream-coloured petals on the outside. Unique, nothing I've quite seen before, even in these extensive gardens. The bloom is brushed against my stomach, whispering across the turquoise silk of my nightgown.

He has informed me that, due to the curse held on him, we're never going to be able to conceive. Nevertheless, I often catch a wistful gaze lingering on my soft abdomen. Rumpelstilksin promised that he will do everything within his power to find us a solution, or an alternative. At the moment, when my love isn't traveling, he is in his observatory tower, attempting to find a way to ensure us a child. While children are more often than not the center of his dealings, Rum is insistent that we produce one on our own. He has fiercely worked to find something, some potion or spell that might enable me to bear. Being the Dark One, his magic ought to ensure anything. It's only a matter of time, he assures me.

I'm fine with this. I can wait a bit longer. Twenty-six, partnered with a being that is well over a thousand years old, I will take all the time I can. As I've told him before, it's not quite time.

But Rum is eager. More than eager. He wants this so badly. I don't have the heart to tell him my reluctance. Maybe when he finds the solution we'll have that talk, but no need to let him down now.

"How was your journey?" I accept the flower, burying my nose deep in its petals.

"It was fair. Clear skies, warm weather," says Gold. He crosses the room to remove his coat, tossing it with his saddlebag over the back of his favourite armchair, the one of black dragon's hide. He has told me it is from the same beast who provided him with that lovely maroon creation he wears on the best of occasions. "And a decent deal. A fellow asking for a reduced size in his nose. It was quite a spectacle."

"What did you get in return?" My back is to him as I close the leaded windows. "Unborn babe? A soul?"

My love grins, malice glinting in his gaze. "Ah, let's just say he won't be nearly as talkative of a fellow for the next ten years."

"His voice?" I am surprised.

"Indeed. Then there was the boy with the cow…."

"Three magic beans," I guess, sitting on the bed. He stands before our wardrobe, unbuttoning his brocade vest, following his silken shirt. I watch as he rubs sore shoulders. With a sigh, I slide from the bed to stand behind him. Without the limp, he's now about five inches taller than me. Gently, I remove his hands to begin kneading the pebbled flesh myself.

"Right again."

I can practically hear his approving smirk.

"Rum, you're home early. Not that I mind in the least."

"Good. I say, if you were, I could always go away-"

I swat him lightly. "No, you wouldn't, you foul man. You couldn't stand to, and you know it."

He growls, turning his head to nip at my fingers. "Oh, it would be all too easy with such an ill-tempered girl await me. One whose words are black, and fists are swift."

"But kisses are swifter," I counter, pecking him on his sharp cheek. "my love. Tell me, what did you bring this bitter girl who apparently is mentally and physically abusive to such a poor soul as yourself?"

"Ah-ha!" laughs Gold, swinging around to tackle me to the mattress. "That's what she is after!"

Coy, I wiggle beneath him. "Mayhaps."

"Very well, ungrateful wench." Sighing heavily, he stands and crosses to the armchair to find his saddlebag and retrieve from its depths a small box.

"Come here, Ophelia."

With those words, I'm suddenly thrown back, months and months, to the week after we first discussed having a family.

-XXX-

One year, eight months prior….

"Come here, Ophelia."

The tone is gentle. I hesitate in standing and crossing to the bed. We have spent a dull evening reading in our room. All I have found to occupy myself is watching old episodes of America's Next Top Model on my Ipod. He, on the other hand, has been reading the paper. Sydney Glass's name blazes across the page. I am so sick of reading, myself.

He's holding a small velvet box, bright red, the kind that typically holds jewelry. Particularly, rings. I think back to our conversation of just a week ago. But I quickly allow the thought to dissipate. Surely it can be nothing of that nature?

Though, it is curious. Mr. Gold has never given me anything before, at least, not out right. There have been clothes, the credit card slyly tucked into my wallet, the books, etc. But nothing like jewelry. No cards, or flowers, or chocolates. Wine, occasionally, to share. Besides that, nothing exceedingly romantic. I am unsure of how to feel about this-and I haven't even seen it yet.

"Our discussion last week made me believe that you are unsatisfied in the unusual nature of our relationship," he began in a low voice. "And, naturally, I sought to remedy that. I knew you would be opposed to any sort of legal binding. So, I thought perhaps something a little more symbolic might suit you."

With a flourish, he offers forth the box, flicking the brass latch and popping open the lid with a lovely snap.

And it's a ring.

Nestled in cream-colour satin rests the loveliest ring. It is a band of silver, sweeping into a V with a vine-like pattern of cut-outs leading to a marquise-cut amethyst that sits center of the V. The vines scroll upward to frame the stone beautifully. The setting is even pretty, set with chips of what may or may not be cubic zirconium, but what I rather suspect to be diamond. In the lamplight, the center gem sparkles with a brilliant purple fire. I can do nothing but stare at the small box in my hand. Sure, I'd been anticipating jewelry, yet nothing like this.

"I am afraid it is not new," he tells me softly.

"That is perfectly alright," I whisper in a halting whisper. "Gives it character."

He chuckles. "You can take it out, you know. It is for wearing."

"Oh, yes," I say faintly. When I fail to remove the ring, however, Mr. Gold develops a put-upon look and removes the jewelry himself, slipping on my middle finger without much ceremony.

"There. Lovely."

"Yes."

He lifts my hand up into the light. "Very lovely. My dear, I do hope—" he hesitates. "This isn't what you might suspect it to be. I merely mean for it to represent a promise, a reminder. Unless, that is, you would want….?"

"Ah," I feel the urge to recoil, but sit passively beside him. "Not particularly."

This doesn't upset him, to my relief. It had been anticipated. Naturally.

I stretch out on the bed beside him, snuggling close. The affectionate motion seems to relax him greatly. For a while we just sit comfortably beside one another, talking of a variety of things-the town's clock, Regina's recent behavior, our new shipment of Polish pottery coming in next week, etc. Time passes slowly, but for once, I don't particularly mind. Rain lazily pelts our windows, adding a further level to the mood. Eventually, Mr. Gold suggests we ready ourselves for bed.

-XXX-

The ring hadn't followed me here, which I'd realized with great disappointment the day after we had returned. Only now, here before me, nesting in the center of this tiny wooden box (rosewood, probably from the Guldian forests to the north) is that exact ring. Or, at least, a very good replica.

"You like it?" Rum asks softly. I sit, open mouthed. "Ophelia?"

"Oh, yes." I breathe. His face alights in a smile, sincere and natural and just for me.

"I searched the entire kingdom for a silversmith competed and skillful enough to create this." When I look up, he adds hastily, "I knew magic couldn't replace craftsmanship, not by a long shot. So, I sketched a few designs, kidnapped a few jewelers…voila!"

Staring into the fire of the amethyst's center, I am transfixed. Gold chuckles beside me. I finally look up to meet his amused gaze. Since our "true love's kiss," specific aspects of him have altered to appear slightly more human. His eyes, for instance, are smaller, more hazel. Then his skin, which has faded in it's colouring. Still grey-gold, with tinges of green, but now it's paler-nearly human. The texture still has a particular scaliness to it. But even so, he could almost pass for a regular guy.

"It's perfect. You're perfect. You are brilliant and thoughtful and, dear lord, I love you."

It isn't the first time I've said it in the last year or so. We've worked slowly, progressing to saying the three-word phrase on special occasions over the course of six or so months. I don't think it will ever be a casual thing for us. Not ever. That's perfectly fine, however. Then I don't think the words would mean as much. The thirty-one year journey we've taken to get here would not be quite as valued. They need to be valued.

Rum says nothing, but smiles. He gestures toward the box. I pass it over. With a flourish, the magician opens the box to remove the ring. He examines it briefly, polishing it on the shelve of his shirt before extending one hand. The fingers are wiggled in an animated manner, indicating that he wants my limb. I place my hand in his with an "oh-please-you-dork" expression. He counters this with raised brows, clearly saying "ah-my-love-you-know-you-appreciate-it."

"And, my dear, with this ring…."

"Oh, don't say it." I beg.

He looks surprised. "What?"

"'With I thee wed.'"

Rum has the dignity not to laugh. "Of course not, my love. We've discussed this."

And so we had. Marriage isn't in our stars. Not yet, anyways. We're dedicated, loyal, bound to one another. In nearly every way, we are "together." Still, Rum is insistent that we "prevent" the formalities of a ceremony until he's a little more un-cursed. He's still changing, you see, bit by bit. I asked once, why it was still occurring.

"Because," he answered fondly. "We're still building love, my love. True love doesn't simply happen."

He's perfectly right, of course.

"I don't need a ring to remind me where my heart belongs," I tell him quietly. "You know that, Rum."

"Of course," he acknowledges, dipping his head. "But I thought you might like to have it back. Besides, everyone needs a reminder, sometimes, of the one they love."

"Oh? And do you have one of me? A reminder, I mean?"

He flicks his fingers carelessly, withdrawing from the air some mist I can only assumed was bore by the lake, spinning it with one finger, then snapping once. The ring of mist stopped mid-spin, hung in the air, one snap more, and a cool silver band dropped to Gold's palm. I lift it, turning the silver in my hand. One could hardly tell it to be magic-made. The metal is still warm. I smile, feeling my heart flutter as butterfly wings in the center of my chest.

The band is slipped onto his center fingers of his left hand. For several minutes we sit, staring at one another's hands in quiet wonderment. It's nothing much, really, these rings, yet I can't help but feel as though they're sealing the deal. It's us. For real. Legit.

My memories have, for the most part, surfaced. However, I'm stuck living with a triple-life in my head, spread between our time in Storybrooke, my mysterious dreams (of which Rum claims to have no part in), and our year here. When I made a deal to meet with the most cunning of tricksters twice a month under the darkest and brightest moon. They're vague now, the worse of the three. Still, I've become rather adept at balancing. One can only hope I'll soon learn to juggle. Three lives is something already difficult to bear.

Gold-or Rumpelstilskin, whichever he prefers at any given moment-promises that things will be easier. He doesn't know why I was different, why I defied the norms of the spell, but he isn't nearly as troubled by it as before. Turns out, I'm not such a different person, after all. Not old, not new, not too different. Simply Ophelia.

Which is one of his theories. "Everyone essentially changed from what they were. Their happy endings taken away," said Rum, swiftly while we sit over a late dinner one night shortly after our return. "But you…well, you're still the bookbinder's daughter. Still the little sister, still in the same state of half-happiness. Your life was empty-"

"Gee, thanks."

He ignored me. "-and you were just content enough to leave well-enough alone. Essentially, you hadn't changed."

It is an interesting idea. I'll give him that.

After a hearty silence, Rum shifts from the bed to stand before the wardrobe once more, hoping to remove the rest of his attire. But I pull him back. As we speak, discussing the goings-on of the castle in his absence, I unlace his boots.

"Any news from town, my love?"

I twist my lips. "There is never any news."

"Well, perhaps not." chuckles Gold. "Nothing of Charming and Snow? Nothing of our Savior Emma? Henry?"

"Well," I admit. "A few trifles, though I am sure you would know better than I. The only news, besides that, is the recent shipment of books from the northern cities."

His eyes alight. "Oh?"

"Roughly half the wagonload was for me." My tone is slightly apologetic. Slightly. He never seems to care, really, how much I spend on sillier things-books, hair ribbons, comfortably-sized bird cages-or if he does, displays it not. Money, it would seem, is no object. "And a good deal of them require repairs."

"Good." He is satisfied. "Your hands long for labor. It shall keep you busy."

I swat him again, though, his is right. I have been entirely bored as of late. The castle is barren. Without even so much as a bird to talk to, it is all too easy to live a dull life. I was raised between four brothers and two sisters. Alone? I was never alone as a child. Bookish I may be, but I'm not a hermit, thank you.

"I missed you."

We're beneath the sheets now. I'm turning the ivory end of my hairbrush, still sitting up in bed. The oil lamps have been extinguished. Moonlight seeps in, brushing the planks of the floor with glorious silver light, painting long shadows. I watch the shadows as they blur, flicker. Rum stretches out next to me in bed. His limp, now gone, is sometime recalled in these moments when he does things that might have once struck me as weird. Every so often, the bad leg will spasm with memory. I massage it when this happens. He says it's a sign of our progress. I say I don't care what he looks like, I just want to stay.

Rum visibly softens. He rolls on the pillow, facing me. The gold-green eyes are glassy, lazy with contentment. Before coming here I'd never seen him so lax. "I missed you, as well."

We both know he's not speaking of the "now," necessarily. It's the "always."

"Good to know."

He smiles. "Yes."

With that, I lay back, curling into him. Nimble fingers trail over my stomach, leading to arms tightly wrapping around my waist. For a while, we talk into the darkness, telling stories, asking questions. Then, when we both begin to fade into sleep, our voices grow heavy, and finally silence altogether. He shifts slightly, holding me closer. Against my back, I can feel deep breaths. Rum has found sleep, immersing in glorious and profound REMs. My eyes cannot yet close, though. They're drawn to the pearl in the sky; the moon. Bold and bright. Crying silently into her midnight world.

Once upon a time, I wished on that exact moon. More than life, more than anything…

With a touch of luck, a breath of wit, I'd found what I wanted without even knowing I wanted it. And then, when all was lost, I'd found my way back to it.

Of course, he wouldn't let me go any other way.

But, then again, I couldn't have it any other way, too.

THE END

It's been a whirlwind of a story- - - the first 20 chapters written over the course of ten days. The bulk was meant to be in the fairy tale world. It wasn't supposed to be over 15 chapters. Ha, funny how things happen. I'm so grateful for all of your support. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed this, and continue reading my stuff in the future. I'm not done with OUaT, not by a long shot. I've had the best readers. Last time I checked( mind you, I'm writing this on March 23, 2012) we're just 5 reviews shy of hitting 400. That's amazing. That's the most I've ever pulled in.

Please continue reviewing! You guys are brilliant, and I could not have chugged on without the enormous amount of support I've received from the community. I can't say how much your feedback has uplifted me. The OUaT community is one I'm proud to be a part of.

To finish, I will conclude with something I promised about 44 chapters ago. This story was inspired by several tales of folklore. Many guessed Beauty and the Beast. Which is partially right, as East of the Sun, West of the Moon could be called a variation of- - - - at the very least, it's an Aarne-Thompson type 425A, which is very similar to Beauty and the Beast. Robin McKinley's work as a whole really influnced me, as well as Meg Cabot and Jane Austen. Another piece that I used as inspiration was Keturah and Lord Death, which That0negirl correctly guessed.

You're all brilliant! Thanks a million.