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Chapter Text

Belle didn’t know which was worse, the screams of the dying or the terrible silences that followed.  Both haunted her dreams in the few minutes of sleep she was able to catch here and there during the desperate escape from her father’s castle.

Her father had stayed behind with the other defenders as the Ogres broke through.  Given her own choice, Belle would have stayed with him.  She had seen the maps and listened to the refugees who managed to reach the castle alive.  She knew how far they would have to go to reach safety and how many of the enemy lay between them and it.  There was a short sword hanging by her side.  If they were going to die, they might as well do it facing their foes.

But, she’d also seen the desperate hope in her father’s eyes as he told her to make her escape, to live.  Following his orders was the last gift she could give him.  She’d tried to look firm and resolute, as if she believed they stood a chance, while saying what she knew were their last goodbyes.

Then, her father turned to Gaston.  “Protect her with your life,” he ordered.

Gaston had bowed.  “I will defend her to my last drop of blood, my lord,” he said. Then, they turned and left.  Belle dared not look back, afraid her father would see the hopelessness in her eyes—or that she would see the same in his.

The sounds of the battle followed them as they rode through the night.  The sun had not yet risen when they saw the light behind them.  The castle was burning.

Belle had a vision, then.  Madness or truth, she didn’t know.  Her father, wounded and bloodied, stood in his throne room, the last of his men lying dead around him.  He should have been dead, too, with the injuries he’d suffered.  But, he had one last duty to perform.

There was a torch lying on blood-splattered floor, only a few inches from the hand of the fallen soldier who had held it.  A dead Ogre lay near him.  They must know what her father meant to do, she thought, the ones who had followed them in here.  They had tried to stop him and his men before they could carry out this last duty and nearly succeeded.  Even now, watching as her father knelt down to pick up the torch and its guttering flame, she wondered if he would have the strength to rise up again.

He didn’t.  But, he forced himself to crawl across the floor, slipping twice on the blood, knees going one way, arm another, almost dropping the torch.  Belle could hear the Ogres battle cries mixing with their victims’ screams.  They were coming closer.  She didn’t know if they knew what her father was doing here or if that knowledge had died with the ones who had tried to stop him.  Not that it mattered.  Once they reached this room, once they saw inside, they would know all there was to know.

And they arrived.  Belle thought one of the Ogres might be a general, if they had such things.  He was taller than the rest and his armor, crude though it was, was more elaborate than the rest.  The Ogre saw her father and cried out something in their own tongue, grabbing the spear from the Ogre beside him and sending it flying across the room.

It struck Papa in the back, through the left side of the chest where his heart was, and on into the floor, pinning him there.  But, Papa, with his last strength pushed the torch to the piles of dry, oil soaked straw.  The guttering flame at the torch’s end was more than enough.  In seconds, the room caught fire.  The tapestries, the remains of the table where maps and battle strategies had been laid out, her father’s wooden throne, everything went up in flames.

Throughout the castle, similar scenes played out.  Some succeeded, some did not.  But, it was enough.  The castle began to burn, the victorious Ogres found themselves trapped in the fire.

Or so Belle hoped.

And, with them, were the refugees who had fled here for safety, the ones who hadn’t managed to escape under cover of darkness, as Belle had, or find some way to run as the castle walls fell.

“Belle?” Gaston asked, reaching towards her.

“I’m well,” she said, turning her face away from the flames.

“It was a good death,” Gaston said.  Then, the rode on.

Not enough of the enemy had died, that much became clear soon enough.  They drove themselves onward, trying to stay out of sight or out of reach—or, Belle thought, trying to stay ahead of the other stragglers the Ogres might consider easier prey.

They spotted other bands of refugees and fighters in the distance now and then.  None of them tried to join up with each other.  Gaston said some things about tactics and how it was harder for a large group to avoid the Ogres than a small one.  He might even believe it.  But, the truth was they were running blind.  And Belle had heard stories about the armed bands trying to survive in the Ogres’ wake.  Some of them were like Gaston and his soldiers, fragments of what was left of the army trying to carry out what was left of their duty.  Some had become as bad as the Ogres themselves, raiding and killing any survivors they stumbled across.

It didn’t really matter, Belle supposed.  She would rather go down fighting Ogres than men but she didn’t think they had much longer either way.  The Ogres were on their trail and getting closer with each passing hour.  A half day, Belle guessed, maybe less before they caught up with them.

In two days—less than that, if they could keep up their pace, but horses were already near the end of their strength—they could have reached the mountain passes.  With their lighter, smaller frames, humans could move more easily uphill than Ogres could and could hold off larger foes in the narrow passes.  The neighboring lands also had their own soldiers up there, ready to fight off the hordes.  They might find safety if they could get that far.

Or they might find safety if they could fly to the moon.  One was as easy to reach as the other, Belle thought. 

But, then, they saw the small band of refugees only a little ways ahead of them.  Unlike the others, these were close.

And, though some were on foot, they had horses, several horses.

Like Belle’s company, they were fleeing for all they were worth but they were slowed down by the wagon in their group.  Belle wondered why they hadn’t abandoned it till they came closer and she could see the wounded lying in them. 

Gaston had a whispered conference with two of his men before they approached.  Belle, exhausted, had still tried to question him, though she’d gotten used to how he ignored her.  This time at least, he answered.  “We’re being careful,” he said.  “In case they attack.”

The small band looked like they couldn’t fight off a troop of rabbits, but Belle nodded.  They were all of them afraid and desperate, and desperate people did desperate things.

Which was true enough, she realized, when Gaston’s soldiers drew their weapons and aimed them at the refugees.  “Your horses,” Gaston said.  “Give them to us.”

“What?” Belle said.  “Gaston, no!  What are you doing?”

“Getting you to safety,” Gaston said.  “As your father commanded.  Our horses won’t last much longer.  But, with these, we stand a chance.”

“If you take their horses they’ll die here!  The Ogres will kill them!”

“Which will give us more time to get away.”

“No, you can’t!”  Belle rode her horse between Gaston and the refugees, her hand on the hilt of her short sword.  “I won’t let you do this, Gaston!”  Belle searched the eyes of the other soldiers, looking for sympathy, understanding, for any sign that they were more loyal to Lord Maurice’s daughter than to his would-be son-in-law.

But, these were Gaston’s hand-picked men.  A few looked away, ashamed, but they didn’t move to help her.  The rest looked at her with cold, angry impatience.

Gaston held up his hand, signaling his men to stay where they were.  Then, he nudged his horse forward towards Belle.  “My lady,” he said formally, keeping his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear him.  “We can help these people, but first—” and he brought a mailed fist down on the side of Belle’s head, knocking her from the saddle.  She hit the ground hard. “I haven’t time for this,” he said in a louder voice.  Get the horses.  Kill anyone who resists. “

“My lord,” one of the men said. “The lady.”

“She’s made her choice.  And we’ll make better time without her.”

Belle lay on the ground as Gaston gathered up the reins to her horse.  Of course, he wouldn’t leave that behind.  His men moved quickly, cutting harness holding the horses to the wagons and gathering up the rest.  The riders, with a few glances at Belle, didn’t resist. 

“Goodbye, my lady,” Gaston said before riding off.  “I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.”

“So, this is what your sworn word is worth to you,” Belle said.  “I wish I could say I’m surprised.”

Gaston shrugged.  “A man does what he must.” He spurred his horse and rode away, his men following, before Belle could say what she thought of that.

A man helped her up.  “That could have gone worse,” he said.  He was a tall man with dark hair and eyes. Belle guessed was the leader of this small company. 

“It could have?” Belle said.

The man nodded.  “They could have killed us for the horses.”  He looked back the way Belle had come.  “I’m guessing they didn’t have time.  How close are the Ogres?”

“A half day,” Belle said.  “Maybe less.”

The man nodded.  Like Belle, there seemed to be no hope in his eyes, but she couldn’t tell it from his voice as he began to give orders.  “All right, everyone, we’re getting out of here.  Leave the wagon.  There’s a ravine about half a mile from here.  If we can get there, we can stay under cover till we reach the woods. . . .”

There was no talk of leaving their wounded behind.  The man who had spoken to Belle carried one on his back.  A large man named John picked up the other

They moved as quickly as they could, but the leader still fell in step alongside her, ready to question this. . . . .  What did he think of her as?  Another refugee?  An enemy who might turn on them as Gaston had?  An encumbrance he might kill if she slowed them down too much?

 “So, you’re a lady?” he asked.

“Lady Belle of the Marchlands.”

“Huh.” He would have been able to see the castle burning from here, Belle thought, whether or not he’d known what it meant.  “So, if we reached the border, Mist Haven might be glad to see you? And anyone you brought with you?” 

“They promised my family refuge,” Belle said.  “If we could get there.”

“Yeah, that’s the trick,” the man said.  He didn’t look any more hopeful than he had before. “And the guy who left you?”

“They’ll help him, I suppose.  He was my betrothed.” Gaston would probably tell them she’d died on the way.  Knowing him, it would probably be very romantic and dramatic with himself cast as the hero.

“Ah.  That’s rough.”  He looked at the road Gaston had taken.  “Here’s hoping the Ogres follow their trail instead of ours.”

Belle nodded.  “Here’s hoping.”  They said Ogres liked the taste of horse meat, and horses left obvious trails.

But, Ogres also liked easy prey, and their party was large and slow moving.  Belle knew how this was going to end.

Still, they reached the ravine before the Ogres were in sight.  They’d done what they could to hide their trail, little as it was.  The ravine was narrow with harsh, rocky ground.  Belle hoped it would be harder for Ogres to travel over than for them.  But, it was no good.  Moving as quickly as they could, it still wasn’t long before Belle could hear the cries of the Ogres behind them. 

“There’s a bend in the ravine not far ahead,” the man said, handing the wounded man he was carrying over to another.  “That’s where we’ll make our stand.  Fighters with me.  The rest of you, get the children and run.  We’ll catch up with you.”

He was lying, of course, and everyone knew it.  They were all going to die here.  Belle drew her sword.  “I’ll fight with you,” she said.

“No,” the man said.  “You’ve got friends in Mist Haven, people who can help them. You’ve got to go with them.”

“They need every second we can buy them,” Belle said.  “I’m staying here.”

“What about your betrothed?  Don’t you want to see him pay?”

“Of course,” Belle said. “But, I expect I’ll see him in hell.  We can settle things there.”

The man laughed.  It had an odd sound, as if he’d forgotten he could make it.  “Good enough, Lady Belle, If we die, I’ll give you a hand. And, if we live, I say we horsewhip him out of Mist Haven.  If I die. . . .”

“Is there someone in Mist Haven you want me to give a message to?” 

They were around the bend, now.  As ambushes went, it was a pretty poor spot, but it was what they had.  The roaring of the Ogres was growing louder.  That was the one advantage of fighting Ogres on the hunt.  It was the only time you didn’t have to worry about them listening to you.  It wouldn’t be long now.  “I don’t have any family left,” the man told her.  “But, if you meet anyone from the Frontlands, tell them to remember Baelfire, will you?  All right, everybody!” he shouted to the others. “Let’s make these bastards pay!”

The small band raised their weapons as the Ogres rounded the corner.  The roars were deafening, blocking out every other sound except one.

Belle shook her head.  There was a strange, high-pitched noise, like . . . like laughter almost—mad, demented laughter, as inhuman as the Ogres’ in its own way.

It was the roaring, she thought.  It was a wonder her ears weren’t bleeding, this close to that sound.  Or it was like the madness that made her think she’d  seen a vision of her father.  With luck, she might go deaf soon.  Not that it mattered, she was as good as dead.  She met the yellow, hungry eyes of the Ogre charging her and aimed her blade.

Something dropped out of one of the trees growing alongside the edge of the ravine, landing on the Ogre.  Belle had a brief impression of scales, claws, and tattered wings.  The claws seized the Ogre by the head.  Belle thought for a moment the creature was going to try and break the monster’s neck, impossible as that would be.

What happened was more impossible.  The Ogre’s head burst into flames. 

The creature leaped off it, nimbly landing on the ground, the one it had burned screaming as it collapsed.  What Belle had taken for wings was a tattered, moth-eaten cloak.  Still laughing madly, it raised its claws (hands? They might have been hands) against the other Ogres.  They all burst into flames.

“Well, that was a bit of a letdown, wasn’t it?” the creature said.  It turned to them, smiling, showing brown, needle-like teeth.  “No thanks, necessary, dearies.  Just indulging in a little hobby of mine on my way through.  Now, if you don’t mind—”

“Wait!” Baelfire said. “Who are you?  How did you do that?”

The creature gave a flamboyant bow.  “Allow me to introduce myself.  I am . . .” (he paused dramatically). “. . . the Dark One.  You may have heard of me.”

“Uh . . . no,” Baelfire admitted.  “I haven’t.”

“No?  And, yet, I detect the touch of the Frontlands in your accent.  Surely, you have heard a few tales of . . . Rumplestiltskin.”

Baelfire stiffened slightly.  “The only Rumplestiltskin I ever heard of died before I was born.”

“Did he?” the creature looked intrigued.  “And you’ve never heard of the Dark One?  What a curious realm I’ve wandered into.  Now, is there some castle where a weary stranger might rest his feet or. . . .” He trailed off, his voice changing, becoming more human.  “No, of course not.  The only castle I remember in these parts would have years ago.”

Belle stepped forward.  Whoever or whatever this creature was, he’d saved their lives.  She wasn’t entirely sure he was less dangerous to them than the Ogres; but, for now, he seemed to be on their side. “The Marchlands Castle is that way,” she said.  “I don’t know of any other.  It fell five . . . no, six days ago.”

The creature looked as though he’d been stabbed.  “Six days?” he said.  “Just six days?”  Then, he looked at Belle, his eyes growing wide.  “Belle?” he gasped.  He stared at her, as if she were a ghost.  Then, he collected himself.  “Lady Belle, I mean,” he said in his mocking, high-pitched voice.  “Daughter of Lord Maurice?  Whatever happened to your face? I doubt your own mother would recognize you.”

“My mother is dead, sir,” Belle said evenly. “And we’re in the middle of a war.” She swallowed her anger.  This . . . Rumplestiltskin, had he called himself?  Had saved them.  Also, strange and terrible as he seemed, there was something softer in his eyes, inhuman though they were.  He seemed as lost and alone as any refugee she had ever seen during the war.  “I . . . we thank you for what you have done.  I wish I could give you more than just thanks, but. . . .”

“Yes, yes, yes,” the creature said impatiently, waving this aside.  “A bit short on servants and plumbing, aren’t you?  No matter.  I assume you have some idea where such things might be found?  Eventually?  Then, I shall come along with you.”

Baelfire looked like he’d bitten into a rotten fruit.  “You’ll what?”

“Come along with you.  For as long as I want.  Depending on how tedious this becomes, I may find other sources of amusement.  You will repay me for the pleasure of my company by telling me the local gossip, bringing me up to date on whatever little folderols occupy your time.”

“Folderols?” Baelfire said. “People are dying!”

“Yes, that would be one of the stories I’m wanting to hear about.” He smiled pleasantly at them—or as pleasantly as a man with so many sharp teeth could manage.  “Whatever is the matter with you all?” he asked. “Don’t tell me the day hasn’t turned out far more pleasant than you thought it would!  You should be happy!”  He looked at Belle almost shyly, like a young boy afraid his glance would be noticed.  “After all, you never know what things you’ve lost you may suddenly find again.”

Chapter Text

Bones.  Nothing but bones, dead and dried.

Rumplestiltskin had howled in fury, like a wounded beast.  He had beat against the walls of Belle’s prison and would have cursed any fool stupid enough to find him there.  In the end, he had collapsed and wept over them.

Belle had been alive.  Regina had lied to him when, all along, she had been alive.

Until she wasn’t.

Because he had been fool enough to believe that witch—because he had been fool enough not to believe Belle’s love for him was real.

He knew hunger, knew how it gnawed at your guts and pounded at your head.  He knew thirst that left your tongue so dry the skin of it would crack if you spoke.  That was how Belle had died, wasting away alone in the darkness without even the sound of another voice to give her comfort.

He could have killed Regina for this.

But, Regina was already dead, and the mad ghost who rose up in her place—this cold eyed woman who sneered and dismissed all her sister’s crimes because this world wasn’t real—was useless to him.  He could tear her apart with his own claws and she would die still not understanding why he wanted her dead.

It was an empty feeling, dry as dust.

He let her go.

Afterwards, he went and found the Hatter.  He was old, now, and not interested in adventures.  But, his daughter had taken up the trade.  “Find me a world,” he said.  “A world like our own but where there is no Dark One.”

It took her a while, but the young realm-walker found what he needed. 

Perhaps the witch would say this isn’t real either, Rumplestiltskin thought.  A dream within a dream, a wish within a wish, nothing more.  Perhaps she would slaughter the people here as easily as she did in my own world—and with as little regret.

Real or not, he didn’t care.  Just so long as it wasn’t the world he knew.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting.  Peace and prosperity, perhaps.  A world where fishes sang in streams and rodents rescued imprisoned princesses rather than gnawing on their bones.

It wasn’t like that.  Instead, he saw the same pains and griefs he knew from his own world.  Of course, he did.  Did he really believe all evils began and ended with him?

But, the pain eating at him needed to be fed.  He thought about raising an army and finding some enemy to destroy.  It didn’t really matter what.  Or perhaps he could destroy the army.  He’d never much cared for them, not since his first war.

Instead, he found his way to the Marchlands.  Or what would have been the Marchlands in this world.  He didn’t care what it was called.  Their Belle—if they had a Belle—would be an old woman, now.  Or matronly, he supposed.  She would have married her fiancé in this world, a far better fate than anything he could have offered her.  She would have had children and the respect of her father’s people.  In time, he didn’t doubt, she would have earned fame for her wisdom and learning.  If there was justice at all, the whole world would have sung her praises.

But, justice, as he had learned, was not something the world had in great supply.  When Rumplestiltskin found Belle’s castle, it was a burnt out husk.  Ogres marched up and down the land, killing without mercy.

Rumplestiltskin would have killed them all—he meant to kill them all, to pile up their dead bones and leave them to the rats just as Regina had left Belle’s.

But, something had tugged at his thoughts.  Perhaps, it was his gift of sight, not that he had had much chance to focus it on this world (and, unfocused, the gift was unreliable at best.  It had never once warned him about Belle. . . .)  Perhaps, it was only his whim.

Perhaps, of course, it was the darkness inside him, anxious for something to destroy.  But, if that were the case, he would be happy to indulge it.

He moved quickly across the land, giving a quick death to any Ogres who crossed his path.  Perhaps, he thought, he could spend the next few years—as many years as he had spent sitting in prison while Belle died and moldered—hunting down her old enemies and ridding the world of them.  It was a pleasant enough thought.

And, then, he saw the little band setting up for their last, valiant fight.  It was so amusing.  And so hopeless.  He couldn’t help laughing at it all.

Or slaughtering the Ogres.  He saw a woman, her face mottled with bruises, but with hair a familiar shade of reddish brown.  Rumplestiltskin chose the Ogre heading right for her to start with.  Fire, he thought.  Yes, that was the best way to kill them.  Belle’s castle had burned.  He would set fire to these creatures.

Yes, this might be the best way to spend the next few years.  When he was done, he turned his attention to the humans around him, trying not to laugh too much at their terror of him.

“Well, that was a bit of a letdown, wasn’t it?” he said cheerfully, smiling as unreassuringly as he knew how.  “No thanks, necessary, dearies.  Just indulging in a little hobby of mine on my way through.  Now, if you don’t mind—”

“Wait!” one of the men said. “Who are you?  How did you do that?” There was something odd about him, though Rumplestiltskin couldn’t quite place it, something almost familiar.

He bowed low.  “Allow me to introduce myself.  I am . . .” He remembered what he had asked Grace for, in the world she found him.  But, that didn’t mean they might not know about other worlds.  He decided to test the waters. “. . . the Dark One.  You may have heard of me.”

“Uh . . . no,” the man.  “I haven’t.”

Ah, well.  It was worth a try.  And yet. . . .  There was something familiar in the way this man spoke.  He was a child of the Frontlands, by the sound of him.  “No?  And, yet, I detect the touch of the Frontlands in your accent.  Surely, you have heard a few tales of . . . .”  Why was he doing this?  No one here would know of him.  Even they had heard the old stories, years had passed.  No one in this world would remember him.  All the same, he gave it a try, “. . . Rumplestiltskin.”

The man stiffened, something that might have been a memory playing in his eyes.  “The only Rumplestiltskin I ever heard of died before I was born.”

“Did he?” He had asked for no Dark One in this world, but had there been a poor spinner?  But, no.  No one would remember a man who must have died centuries ago in this world.  There would have been no Dark One here to save Bae from being taken away to fight.

But . . . there would have been no Dark One to beat back the parents who tried to save their children.  Had there been a Bae in this world?  Could he have lived?  Might he—just possibly—have named a child for his old father?  And, now, children who only remembered the brave son and not the cowardly father might be proud to carry on his name. . . .

No, this was madness—even by his standards.  Best to keep to safer matters.  And dig up some information.  “And you’ve never heard of the Dark One?  What a curious realm I’ve wandered into.  Now, is there some castle where a weary stranger might rest his feet or. . . .  No, of course not.  The only castle I remember in these parts would have been years ago.”

The bruised woman stepped forward.  “The Marchlands Castle is that way,” she said.  She had a Marchlands accent.  It would be so easy to close his eyes and imagine this was Belle.  “I don’t know of any other here,” she went on.  “It fell five . . . no, six days ago.”

No.  No.  “Six days? Just six days?” 

To have come so far, to have crossed worlds, and arrived six days too late to save them.

No, he wasn’t thinking.  Belle had lived years ago, had died years ago.  This was a different time, a different world.

He thought of the useless, mad Regina who thought his world was just a mad dream—who had murdered a king and queen, claiming the whole while they weren’t real.  She hadn’t been any older than the Regina he remembered.

If time moved differently between worlds, then . . . was it possible?  Could it be? 

He looked at the woman standing across from him, beneath the bruises and the grime.

It wasn’t possible.  It couldn’t be possible.  And yet. . . .

“Belle?” he whispered, and saw the recognition and confusion in her face.

Ah, yes.  Because, there was no way this woman could know the scaled monster standing in front of her, was there?  He slipped back into his usual, mocking manners.  “Lady Belle, I mean. Daughter of Lord Maurice?  Whatever happened to your face? I doubt your own mother would recognize you.”

“My mother is dead, sir,” Belle said evenly.  Ah, yes, he’d stepped into that hadn’t he?  Rumplestiltskin felt like an erring school boy.  But, Belle wasn’t done with him yet.  “And we’re in the middle of a war,” she said.  But, being Belle, her anger didn’t last long. “I . . . we thank you for what you have done.  I wish I could give you more than just thanks, but. . . .”

The dealmaker in him perked up his ears at that.  How easy would it be to get her to agree to go off with him, to promise him forever and whisk her off to his castle.

Not that he had a castle.  Or anything else to offer her.  And not that that had ended so well the last time.  Better not to take her up on that offer.  “Yes, yes, yes. A bit short on servants and plumbing, aren’t you?  No matter.  I assume you have some idea where such things might be found?  Eventually?” A castle, he thought.  I will get you a castle with baths and silks and all the luxuries a princess deserves.  And I will drive the Ogres out of this land and save your people.  “Then, I shall come along with you.”

The man standing beside Belle didn’t look happy at that. “You’ll what?”  Rumplestiltskin wondered who he was.  Might he be Belle’s betrothed in this world?  Best not to turn him into a rose this time around.

“Come along with you.  For as long as I want.  Depending on how tedious this becomes, I may find other sources of amusement.  You will repay me for the pleasure of my company by telling me the local gossip, bringing me up to date on whatever little folderols occupy your time.” Telling me if there’s someone Belle is expected to marry. And a few details about this war wouldn’t go amiss.

“Folderols?” the man said. “People are dying!”

“Yes, that would be one of the stories I’m wanting to hear about.” He smiled at their grim faces. “Whatever is the matter with you all? Don’t tell me the day hasn’t turned out far more pleasant than you thought it would!  You should be happy!”  Belle’s alive, Belle’s alive, Belle’s alive! He chanted happily to himself.  This time, I wasn’t too late!  This time, I didn’t fail her! “After all, you never know what things you’ve lost you may suddenly find again.”

Chapter Text

Baelfire had grown up used to hearing his mother curse his father’s name.  He had been glad to go to war, she said, glad for the chance to prove himself a hero—and he had gone and gotten himself killed in the first battle he faced, leaving her a poor widow with a squalling brat to look after.

“You’re an honored widow,” Morraine’s mother would say wearily when Mama was off on one of her tirades again. 

“Honor doesn’t put food on the table or clothes on our backs,” Mama said. “He should have run away rather than let them drag him off.  He should have crippled himself before he let them take him.  Better a live dog than a dead lion, isn’t that what they say?  Instead, the fool went off and left me with this.”

Mama was always going off like that when she was at home at all.  That was less and less as Baelfire got older.  Sometimes, she sent Baelfire over to Morraine’s house while she was gone.  Sometimes, she just locked him in the house till she came back. 

But, Baelfire had dreams of his papa.  They believed in such things in the Frontlands.  Morraine told him once that her mama had seen how each of her Morraine’s older brothers died in the war.  Mama said it was all nonsense.  But, Baelfire had believed.  He remembered one time when the sound of battle was so close, he didn’t know if they would live till morning.  Mama was gone, and he was all alone.  But, he had closed his eyes, and it was as if he could feel strong arms wrapped around him.  Papa’s here, a voice seemed to say.  Don’t be afraid, son.  Papa’s here.

Mama laughed at him when he told her.  “You were dreaming,” she told him.  “If your papa could stop the Ogres, he’d have done it while he was alive and it could do us some good.” 

A few days later, Mama sent Baelfire into the woods to gather firewood.  It was cold and damp.  He kept having to stop, putting down his bundle so he could cup his hands over his mouth, blowing on them to warm then. 

He was reaching for a black stick to add to his load, when it rose up, hissing, a serpent.  He remembered how it barred its fangs, ready to strike, just as a wooden staff came crashing down on it, killing it.

A strange woman held the staff.  She had matted, red hair, thick as a pony’s coat in winter.  Her face was covered with black, puckered scars where her eyes should be.  He thought they must have festered with rot to look that way.  All the same, she quirked her head towards him, as if she were staring right at him, like a sight hound closing on her prey. 

“Baelfire,” she said.  “Son of Rumplestiltskin.  Do you know me?”

Baelfire, unnerved, shook his head, forgetting she couldn’t see.

She answered all the same.  “I knew your father.  When I was a prisoner, he visited me.”

“A prisoner?” Baelfire asked.  “Are—are you an Ogre?”

She smiled, shaking her head.  She looked like a spider, Baelfire thought.  And her matted hair was some terrible web. “I am a seer.”

“W—what’s a seer?”

“One who sees what others do not.  I saw your father as he truly was.  And as he wasn’t.”

That sounded too much like the things Mama said.  Fear bubbled up into anger.  She was lying.  She had to be.  “That’s not true!  You can’t see anything!  And you’re lying about knowing Papa!”

The seer rested her staff against a tree and knelt down beside Baelfire.  She leaned in close, so he could feel her breath right against his face.  It smelled of autumn herbs and damp earth. “I speak only truth, little boy, and I see many, many things.”  She held up her hands, spreading her fingers wide.  A blue eye was embedded in each palm.  They narrowed, watching him.

“Your father was a kind man,” the seer said.  “A brave one.  I was thirsty, and he gave me water.  I was in prison, and he set me free.  I warned him of his future, and he faced it rather than leave his son a coward’s name.

“When you needed your father, he was there for you.  When you dream of him again, your dreams will be true.  I give you this promise: When the time comes, you will meet the man your father never was. In return, you will give me the one thing I want above all others.” Abruptly, her fingers closed over her eyes.  She rose in a single, swift motion, taking her staff and vanishing into the woods.

A few days later, Mama left him with Morraine’s mother again.  She said she’d heard there was work down by the docks.  She never came back.  Morraine’s mother told him later sailors from a ship rumored to be smugglers—even pirates—had taken her.

Merchants of any sort were becoming rarer and rarer in the ports.  Hordor, the captain of the king’s forces, turned a blind eye to “small troubles,” as he called them, so long as they brought in enough goods.  He wasn’t going to search a ship for Mama.  Morraine’s mother had Baelfire light a candle for her once a year on the Day of the Dead.

But, that first night, when he still didn’t want to believe Mama was gone forever, he had dreamt again of Papa.  He’d heard him saying over and over again, It’s all right, son.  Papa’s here.  It’s all right.

So, Bae grew up alongside Morraine.  Then, the day before her fourteenth birthday, the word went out throughout the village: the Duke had lowered the age of conscription.  All children, fourteen years or older, would be taken.  Morraine’s mother looked at the death wreathes she had made for each of her three sons, the ones who died in the war.  Then, she looked at Bae—not Morraine, just Bae—the blood draining from her face. 

Morraine whimpered, and something in Baelfire broke.  He had to run out of the house, into the night, but stopped at the end of the path leading to Morraine’s home, not knowing what to do.  

“Papa,” he whispered into the darkness.  “Papa, if you’re there, show me what to do.”  He thought of Morraine back at the house.  Her brothers were all dead, and girls didn’t come back from the front any more often than boys did.  But, he knew what happened to families who ran.

Papa was a hero.  He had died fighting Ogres.  He would have known what to do.

“Help me,” Bae whispered.  “Help me save them, help me save Morraine.”

“Hello, Baelfire.”

Baelfire whirled.  By the light of the moon, he could make out the familiar, tangled mass of hair.  As she stepped away from the trees, he could make out the horrible scars of the seer’s face, dark shadows in the moonlight.

“You,” he said.

“Me.  Do you want to save your friend?”

“Of course, I do!”

“And what price will you pay?”

I’ll pay whatever it takes, Baelfire thought.  But, he bit back the words.  He might not know much about magic, but he knew better than that.  “What price are you asking?”

The seer smiled like a wolf about to snatch up her prey.  “Clever boy.  Careful boy.  I’m not the one who needs paying.  But, I’ll warn you, now.  The price will be yourself.  Are you still willing to pay it?”

Baelfire nodded.

“Then, lean close, and let me tell you what you will need to know.”

Later that night, Baelfire came back into the house.  “I’ve found a way,” he told them.  “We can get away safe but we have to leave tonight.  Pack anything you need to take but be quick.  We have to leave while it’s still dark.”

“Baelfire,” Morraine’s mother said. “You’re a brave lad, but there’s nothing you can do.”

Then, the seer stepped into the room behind him.  “You’re wrong,” she said.  “This is something only he can do.”  She held up her hands, and her blue eyes looked at each of them in turn, and smiled.  “I have seen it.”

They packed, all of them except Baelfire.  The only thing he took was a picture his mama had drawn of Papa before he went to war.  They doused every flame in the house except one.  The seer had given him a sheet of beeswax and had brought out a long wick.  Baelfire had pricked his finger and rubbed the blood up and down the wick.  That done, he had placed it at the end of the wax and, very carefully, rolled the wax up around it, pressing it close.

“Why not make the wick longer?” he’d asked the seer.

She gave him her sly, hungry grin.  “It won’t matter.  It’s the nature of the spell.  It will last almost till true dawn.  If you do it right.  If you don’t let it go out.  But, no longer.  Nothing will keep it burning once the price comes due.”

He lit it, now, and put it in the dark lantern the seer had also brought.  He moved its metal shutter so the light was hidden.

The spell will only last while the candle burns, he remembered the seer’s warning.  No longer.

And, when it goes out, the price comes due.

Baelfire went to the window.  He opened the shutters before his fear could catch up with him and stop him.  He breathed out two words into the dark.

“I believe.”

He could see the shadow as it came by the stars it blotted out.  It came swiftly.

It swooped towards him.  The shutters rattled as if a great wind shook them.  Baelfire held up the lantern.  He could see the shadow in its light, a thing of darkness with glowing eyes.  From the waist up, it was like a man, except that its hands ended in scythe-shaped claws.  From the waist down, it was like the long, squiggling tail of certain tadpoles.  As it reached for him, Bae wondered what sort of creature it would turn into when it was fully grown.   

Then, he felt a terrible pressure against his ears.  They hurt as if someone were screaming—screaming so loud he expected blood to pour from his ears.  But, there was no sound, nothing except the shadow being sucked into the lantern in his hands.

“Good,” the seer said, pulling up the hood of her cloak.  “Now, hurry.  The spell won’t last long.”

Baelfire closed up the metal plate on the lantern again, though the candle continued to burn.  They pulled cloaks and hoods tight around them and hurried into the night, making their way by moonlight.  The seer led the way with Baelfire beside her.  They hadn’t gone far before they heard the thunder of hoof beats behind them.  Morraine and her parents dashed into the trees, but Baelfire and the seer stood their ground as Hordor rode into sight.

The soldier looked down at them, grinning.  “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re on your way to the fair in Longbourne?  And the fact that this boy is almost fourteen is just a coincidence?”

The seer stepped forward, her scarred face still hidden by her hood.  “No, Captain, no coincidence.”  She tilted her head as if she were studying him in the dark.  “Hordor, is it not?  When you locked me in that cage, I told you the next time we met, you would pay for all the children you had wronged.”  She threw back her hood and cloak and held up her hands.  “Do you remember?”

Hordor went pale.  “You!”  Fear quickly turned to calculation.  “I don’t know how you escaped, but the Duke will reward whoever brings you back to him.” He turned to his men.  “Seize her!”

“Now, Baelfire,” the seer whispered.

Baelfire opened the lantern.  “Stop the soldiers,” he said.

The shadow came flying out of the lantern, silently howling its fury, and flew at Hordor and his men.

Centuries later, Baelfire could still remember their screams.

The seer smiled as they died.  She put an arm protectively around Bae.  He shuddered at her touch.  “You’re safe, Baelfire.  Don’t be afraid.  You’re safe, and so is your friend.”

“You—I killed them.  I didn’t want to kill them.”

The seer shook her head.  “I killed them.  I saw this moment.  I made it happen.  Years ago, I warned Hordor.  I told him I would see him pay.  For what he did to me.  And to the others.”

“You said Papa freed you.  Why?  You’re a monster.”

“I suppose I am,” the seer said.  “But, even monsters were children, once.  Hordor had no pity for children.  Your father did.  I am paying back what I owe.”

“When the candle burns down. . . .”

“Your friend will live.  As will you.  Now, come.  We have only a little time.”

They hurried through the night.  There were no more pursuers.  If anyone had heard the death screams, they knew better than to investigate.  Baelfire checked the candle as it burned lower and lower.  But, as the seer had hoped—she had not promised, only hoped—it burned till false dawn began to lighten the horizon.  In the distance, they could see the walls of Longbourne. 

“Quickly,” the seer told Morraine’s family.  “Build a fire.  As large as you can.  That will protect you till the sun rises.  Hurry!  When the candle burns down, the shadow will be free!”

And angry, Bae thought.  That was the other warning she had given him.  It will be angry enough it won’t care what its master wanted, and there is only one way to calm it. . . . 

They worked quickly, gathering wood.  Morraine added dry tinder as her mother poured a small bottle of precious lamp oil over it and the wood beneath, her husband already striking the edge of his knife against his flint.  The sparks caught.  Soon, a large fire burned.

The seer looked on satisfied.  She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small purse, handing it to Morraine’s father.  “Gold,” she said. “I almost forgot.  It will help you start a new life.”

“My lady,” he said. “We can’t accept.  What about yourself?”

Again, the seer gave her hungry smile.  “I’ll have what I need.”  She turned and walked to the edge of the firelight as the last of the candle’s flame guttered and burnt out. 

The shadow, screaming its silent, deafening cry, burst free.  It turned towards Bae.  In the darkness of its face, its eyes burned like the sun at noonday.  Baelfire could feel its anger beating against him.  It reached out its claws.

The seer laughed.  “Here I am!” she said. “I am the one who led the boy to you, who showed him how to trap you!  Your master wants him alive, but what about me?”

The shadow turned, wavering between its two choices.  Then, with another silent cry, it flew towards the seer.  She laughed as it tore her apart.

That done, the shadow turned back to Baelfire.

“The Shadow’s master hunts boys,” the seer had told him. “That is the price of its summoning.  It will take you to him.  But, when this night is through, it will let me put down a burden I have carried for far too long.  To show my gratitude, I give you a gift, one last prophecy.  In the land of the shadow’s master, time does not exist.  Ghosts and visions will not find you there.  But, this I promise, when your darkest moment comes, when all hope seems lost, you will see your father again.”

The seer’s words had been true enough.  Baelfire had dreamt of his father often enough in Neverland but he had always woken knowing that was all they were, only dreams. 

And, in the end, he had escaped Pan and all his mad games, binding the shadow one last time.

Chapter Text

It took a depressingly short time to gather up the people Baelfire had sent ahead.  If the wizard of whatever he was hadn’t shown up when he did, it wouldn’t have taken the Ogres long to catch up with them.

It worked, he reminded himself.  The plan worked.  It was one thing he’d learned from the sick games in Neverland: Even if you didn’t see a way to win—or stay alive—survive long enough and maybe you would.  Pan got bored.  A lost boy missed an easy shot.  An exiled fairy suddenly appeared with a burning torch to drive the shadows away.

A scaled, mad wizard came along and made Ogres go up in flames.

The scaled man was looking at Lady Belle shyly, his lizard eyes glittering in the dim light.  The rest of him was a dark shadow.  His clothes would have looked like greasy, black rags if it weren’t for the supple scales on the leather.  Snakes had skins that smooth but it would have taken several of them stitched together to make that suit.  Baelfire had seen crocodiles in Neverland—the mermaids had a liking for them—but they were rough and pebbly.  Dragons were the only beasts Baelfire knew who could have provided those hides.

The scaled man lifted hesitant claws towards the lady’s bruised face, as if he would cup it in his hand, but he stopped short.  “May I?” he asked.

“What do you want to do?” she asked, puzzled and a bit wary, which made sense since the last head she’d seen him touch had gone up in flames.

“The bruises.  They must hurt.  I can help.”

Lady Belle weighed her options before nodding.  “If you can.”

He smiled, eager as a puppy.  Purple and gold light glowed around his hand.  He reached out, not touching her though the light brushed against her skin. 

The swelling and bruises faded away.  The tense lines of pain relaxed.  In a moment, Belle was as she’d been when Baelfire first saw her as she stood up to the warrior who’d left them to die, pale face glowing in the moonlight. 

As he finished, the wizard gave a soft sigh, “It is you. . . .”

“Sir?” Belle asked.  Her fingers ran along the healed skin, but her caution remained.

The eager puppy vanished.  The man gave another theatrical bow.  “Lady Belle, it really is you.  Not that I doubted your word, but the world is full of so many people who are not what we seem.”

“You can heal,” Baelfire said.

The man wiggled his fingers. “Demonstrably.”

Fairies, wizards, sadistic demon-boys, Baelfire knew better than to trust any of them blindly but he also knew how badly they needed help. “We’ve got wounded.  Can you heal them?”

Part of him wanted to know why the imp hadn’t offered to already.  Pan would have been only too eager to play one of his games of cat and mouse, offering a prize while luring his prey into his trap. But, the wizard looked around, puzzled, as if he hadn’t noticed the people who couldn’t walk for themselves or just hadn’t understood what it meant.  His yellow eyes widened.  Baelfire could tell because of how they glowed.

The wizard raised his hands, striking a flamboyant pose.  Then, he stopped, drooping and seeming to shrink into himself.  “All magic—all of it—comes with a price,” he said.  “If I do this, I—I must be paid.”

It was almost what Baelfire expected, offer them what they needed, then shake them down for it.  Except someone who was trying to shake them down shouldn’t look so much like a kicked puppy.

He would if he’s good at it.

“You didn’t need to be paid for killing Ogres,” Baelfire said.

And, just like that, the showman was back.  The imp straightened up, giggling.  “Oh, but I was.  Didn’t you see?’  He giggled again.  “The Ogres paid with their lives.” He looked back at Belle, once again the uncertain puppy.  “It’s the nature of my magic,” he told her, pleading for her understanding.  “If I don’t set the price, other forces will.  You don’t want to see that happen.”

Belle reached up a hand to her healed cheek.  “What was the price for this?”

The imp hung his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  “I can bear that one,” he said.  “It’s a small thing.  It would have healed on its own, given time.  But, the rest. . . .  I’m sorry.  If I were in my home, I have medicines, potions.  It would be easier.  The payment for them was in their making.  But, for here, now, a price must be paid.”

“Your home?” Belle asked.  Baelfire thought it was an odd question, at first.  Then, he realized the lady had caught something he hadn’t. 

“Gone,” the imp said hollowly.  “Lost.  With everything in it.” 

“I could offer you a new home,” Belle said.  “If we reach Mist Haven, they’ve promised me refuge.  I think they would give you a place if I asked them.”

He gave another high-pitched giggle.  “You think?  You think?  Oh, no, my lady, I want something more than think.  You have a castle already.  Offer me that.”

“The castle?” Belle said.  “But, it’s burned, destroyed.  The Ogres—”

“A bit of paint, a few patches on the ceiling, it will be good as new.  That’s my price.  Take it or leave it.”

Maybe it was years of dealing with Pan’s games, but Baelfire didn’t trust him.  “What do you want with a ruined castle?”

“Oh, I don’t want it, dearie.  I’d far prefer something up in the mountains, commanding views, inclement weather, no neighbors fighting through the drifts to borrow a cup of flour.  I dare say I won’t keep the place.  But, it’s a fitting price.  I know what a home is worth.”

Belle nodded.  “Done.  My home for these people.  But, you must help them on the rest of our journey.  If any fall ill or are hurt—”

“Yes, yes, fair enough,” the imp cut her off.  “Anyone hurt or falling sick between here and your refuge, between your old home and your new one, will be healed.”  He looked her in the eye.  For a moment, he was deadly serious.  “You have my word.”

The lady nodded, somber as a queen.  “Then, you have mine.”

The scaled man nodded.  Giving on of his strange, toothy smiles, he lifted his hand to his mouth and blew.  Even in the dark, Baelfire was pretty sure there’d been nothing in his hand, but gold sparks scattered from his outstretched palm, like dandelion seeds from a puff of breath.  The sparks scattered among them. 

XXXXX

Rumplestiltskin watched Belle out of the corner of his eye as healing magic spread over the little band.  She was happy, he thought.  The look she gave him was . . . grateful.

He thought of rat gnawed bones lying in a cell.  He had no right to her gratitude.  None at all. 

The man with the same name as his son led them out of the ravine.  Rumplestiltskin wanted to know what his story was but was afraid to ask, afraid what stories he might have to tell of whoever he was named after.  Dead men always made the best heroes.

The man seemed to be returning the favor.  Whatever he thought about Rumplestiltskin’s name, he didn’t ask any questions.  Rumplestiltskin wouldn’t be surprised if the man wasn’t even thinking of it.  He giggled, wondering what other names the man might be using for him instead.  He needed some good, insulting ones, Rumplestiltskin could tell him about several he’d been known by over the years.

Instead, he turned his attention to the little band.  It was made of two groups.  There were the refugees, a mixed group of families, some orphans, and a few other strays.  Then, there was the bunch led by the man with the fortuitous (or not so fortuitous) name.  They moved silently through the trees and they all seemed to know how to handle the weapons they carried, including the hefty friar and the fair-haired man carrying a lute as carefully protected as his bow.  Rumplestiltskin caught the names they passed among themselves, Alan, Tuck.  There was a dark-haired warrior named Mulan, the only woman and the only one with armor.  A man as tall and solid as an oak tree was jestingly called Little John.

Rumplestiltskin filed the names away.  He had no particular plans for any of them—certainly none that would upset Belle—but names were an old hobby of his and, besides, you never knew when they would come in handy, did you?

As they climbed out of the ravine, clods of damp earth came loose from the ravine’s walls.  Rumplestiltskin forced himself to breathe easily.  The band’s leader was looking at him.  It wasn’t like the smell of earth and stone deep beneath the ground.  It wasn’t.  The darkness was only the early onset of an autumn night, not like the guttering of forgotten torches burning away and going out.

The leader turned away.  “Much,” he said to a solidly built, young man who looked like he might have Dwarf blood in him (and an even more improbable name than Rumplestiltskin, though easier to say). “Go scout ahead.”

Rumplestiltskin sauntered off after him, making sure the young leader could see him saunter (see? That saunter said.  No bad memories here. Nothing going on.  Move along). 

The nice thing about living in the mountains was that you could see people coming, assuming you could be bothered to look for them, not that Rumple often had (he remembered one time, standing in his tower window, watching for Belle.  He shoved the memory aside).   

The lands here were different.  A few more miles and they would reach the mountains.  Once there, if you could find a place to stand free of trees, you could see half the Marchlands.  From down here, you could see a large rock, some trees, some hillocks, more trees, and more rocks.  Not being in the forest was a relative thing.

“Going to climb a tree?” he asked Much.

“Shh!” Much said.  “You want the Ogres to hear us?”

Rumplestiltskin wouldn’t mind, but this didn’t seem the time to mention that—or to comment when Much did climb a tree.  Oh, well, it was one way to get a look around.  Rumplestiltskin thought about giving him a hand.  There were so many things that climbed faster.  Maybe Much should become one of them?  Or things that flew.  Eagles—No, in this light, a bat would be better.  The boy would be at the top of the tree in no time, and a bat would have much easier time seeing (and hearing) whatever there was to see (and hear).

But, there was something about that that didn’t seem quite right to Rumplestiltskin.  He had a feeling Belle might disapprove.  Besides, the boy seemed to be doing quite well on his own, climbing like a squirrel.

While the lad was playing tree-rodent, Rumplestiltskin reached out to nowhere in particular and conjured a spindle into his hands.  Then, he pulled out a few, yellowed strands of grass.  Not quite straw, but it would do.  Once he had a few threads, another twirl of his fingers sent a few, dry leaves blowing into his hand.  He stuck them together into the shape of a bird.  Yellow oak leaves made the body.  Red and brown maple fanned out as wings. 

Then, a drop of gold here for the right eye and a drop of gold there for the left.  He tossed the patchwork bird into the air.  It flew away with a dry rustle of leafy feathers. 

Reaching into the ground, plants and dead leaves hastily moving aside for him, he brought up a fistful of moist dirt (smelling it, he forced himself to think of fresh-turned soil in the Frontlands come planting season, not of . . . other things).  As he cupped it in his hands, it shaped itself into a small bowl of dark earth.  Thin strands of gold slithered up over his fingers into the bowl, gilding it.  

Now, all he needed was water.  That was easy enough.  The cold air was wet enough.  He called the moisture into his hands till he had enough to scry with. 

Images flitted through the water, what the leaf-bird could see.  There were no Ogres near them, which should have been good enough, but he decided to look further.

There were no Ogres here, but there were plenty of them in the Marchlands.  Rumplestiltskin had expected the bulk of their army to be gathered around the castle (his castle, now).  Ogres might not be the brightest creatures ever but they had a liking for trophies taken in battle, and what greater trophy than the last fortress of those who’d fought them?

But, the fortress had burned, and the Ogres had scattered.  The bird’s golden eyes saw the night land below as clearly as if they stood under the noon day sun.  Some Ogres were returning to their camps.  Others patrolled.  Others . . . hunted.

Rumplestiltskin saw an Ogre lifting his club to a half-grown boy, barely larger than Baelfire had been when the soldiers came for him.  He was ragged and alone, his clothes stained with blood, some old, some fresh.  His only weapon was a shepherd’s crook.  There was no hope in his eyes as he lifted it to try and fend of the Ogres’ blow.

No.

Rumplestiltskin spat venomously at the bowl, a sizzling mouthful of flame.  It continued to burn as it slipped beneath the water.  The Ogre froze as its body burned.

All over the Marchlands, the scene was repeated.  Ogres on battlefields or hunting down unarmed bands blazed like torches.  Rumplestiltskin made sure there were a few at the outskirts, far enough away where they couldn’t do any harm, who lived and would carry the tale.  He also made sure all of them, warriors or not, heard him as he whispered over the bowl

“Flee.  This is my place, now.  I rule in the castle.  I am the Dark One and I will have no rivals in the land I call home.”

He may have damaged the effect by giggling, but it didn’t seem to slow the Ogres any.  They might not be bright but, when all was said and done, they weren’t stupid.

“What did you do?”

Rumplestiltskin looked up, half-expecting to see the Improbable Much.  But, it was the other man, the band’s leader.  He was looking at Rumplestiltskin as if he were a ghost.  Belle stood a little behind him.  She had the serious, thoughtful look she had worn when he first saw her at her father’s castle.

Which hadn’t been her.  Which hadn’t happened at all, if he were to believe a madwoman.

And the bones in her cell had never been full of life or laughter.  And she had never died, alone in the dark, hunger clawing at her guts, because he’d failed her.

The bowl glowed in Rumplestiltskin’s hands.  Belle must be getting her first good look at what a monster he was, scales and claws and fangs.  But, there was no fear in her, no horror.  There never had been, he remembered.  Belle was never half as wise as she ought to be. . . .

The poor fellow looking down at Rumplestiltskin was showing more sense.  Really, the poor fellow looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

“I got rid of a few Ogres,” Rumplestiltskin said.  “The ones who aren’t dead are running for the hills.” He frowned, glancing at Belle.  “Not that that means we should all turn around and go back.  The people you need to rebuild will have gone to Mist Haven.  You also might find a bit more there in the way of food and a roof over your head.” Yes, humans were so fragile.  Belle needed something better than a few crusts of bread in a cave or dungeon.

Belle looked like she might argue that.  She always did, he thought fondly.  But it was the young man who spoke first.  “You’re scrying,” he said, pointing to the bowl. “Are you a seer?”

Not a question Rumplestiltskin had expected.  “I picked up a few tricks of the trade.”

The man hesitated.  “I met a seer when I was young.” He said it almost as if it were a guilty secret, as if he were giving something away.

“Did you now?” Rumplestiltskin said.

“Yeah, and I’ve seen other people scry.”

“Lots of people try.  Only a few can.  Who were these people?”

“A fairy who’d lost her wings.  It was always hit and miss for her.”

“It would be.” When Blue stripped away a fairy’s wings, she took their innate magic with it.  But, you didn’t spend a lifetime learning to use wands and fairy dust without learning a bit about magic—or finding out there were other ways to get it, like Maleficent had. 

But, a fallen fairy wasn’t all the man was thinking about. “Who else?”

“A demon, maybe.  He called himself Pan.”

“Pan,” Rumplestiltskin said.  “He’s here, too?” He would not show fear.  He would not—and, if he had to fight him to protect what he’d found here, this time, he would.

“In Neverland,” the man said. “Or he was.  His time ran out.”

“Did it?” It was a standard part of any con to tell the marks what they wanted to hear.  But, Rumplestiltskin knew the sound of a lie and, so far, he didn’t see one in this man.  Well, why should he? Rumplestiltskin knew there’d been an hourglass in Neverland, marking the time his father’s deal had bought him. Old magic had linked them.  As the price Pan had paid for his youth and immortality, he couldn’t kill his son.  But, it also meant, Rumplestiltskin couldn’t break the magic that kept his father alive without sacrificing his life as well.

But, any twin he had in this world would have died a long, long time ago without any help from Pan. Pan’s deal hadn’t bought eternity, only a small slice of it.  When his time ran out and his bloodline was gone, what would he have left to pay?

Still. . . .  “You saw him die?”

The man nodded.  “It wasn’t pretty.  At the end, he kept looking for something he called ‘the heart of the truest believer.’  That was one of the reasons he kept taking kids.  He hoped one of them would turn out to be have it.”

Belle had been content to listen up until then.  Now, she broke in. “Have it?  You mean—you don’t mean—a heart?  A literal heart?”   

“Hearts tend to be literal for demons,” Rumplestiltskin said.  He hesitated, but Belle deserved the truth—and the warning.  “And for dark wizards, too.”

“Yeah, Pan was looking for the kid who would have it. But, he never got him.”

“Him?” Rumplestiltskin said. “He knew it would be a boy, then?”

“He had a drawing.  Maybe from whoever gave him the prophecy.”

Rumplestiltskin doubted that.  The Shadow was likely the one who had told him the terms, even if the prophecy hadn’t been clear.  That was the way such bargains worked.  But, whatever the Shadow’s powers, patiently sketching a face (even if it was a chosen murder victim’s) wasn’t one of them.

Had Pan sought out other oracles, then?  And never found the right one?  Or never understood what he’d been told?

“Did you see this picture?” Rumplestiltskin asked.  When the man nodded, Rumplestiltskin held out the golden bowl cupped in his fingers.  “Show me, if you will.”

“How?”

“Put your hands around mine and think on it.  The water will do the rest.”

The man began to reach out then stopped.  “Magic comes with a price.  What do I get from this?”

Rumplestiltskin grinned.  Always fun to get a haggler, especially when they thought they had the better of you.  “What do you want?”  Always a good question to ask at the beginning of a deal and one that promised nothing, whatever the person bargaining with you thought they’d heard.

“Show me something else,” the man said.  

“You can ask,” Rumplestiltskin said.  “There’s no guarantee the water will show you anything.”  Though there were other forms of prophecy, if you were willing to pay for them—ones much more costly than a bit of gold and water.

Pan always preferred deals where other people paid.  Was that why he’d died?  He’d been unwilling to pay even when his life was on the line?

“Good enough.”  The man cupped his hands around Rumplestiltskin’s.  An image rippled in the water, black ink on yellowing paper.  It was a face, and not one Rumplestiltskin had expected.

“Prince Henry. . . .” he murmured.

The man’s hands fell away.  “You know him?”

Rumplestiltskin shrugged.  “A prince in a faraway land.”  It didn’t fit.  Pan had sold his only son.  The logic that underlay magic suggested the next price would be just as close, his blood, his family.  Rumplestiltskin had half-expected to see Bae’s face forming in his hands

But, this world was not his world.  He knew Belle, but this man was a stranger to him.  A boy with Prince Henry’s face might have a very different history than the prince.

 “This Henry,” Belle asked.  “How old is he?”

“Just turned fourteen.”

She turned to the man.  “I’ve read of Neverland.  You would have been a child when you lived there.  How long ago did Pan die?”

“Fourteen years ago.”

And had that been the Shadow’s joke?  Telling Pan whose heart he needed to survive, knowing the boy who bore it wouldn’t be born till after he was dead?

But, that wasn’t what caught Rumplestiltskin’s attention.  “Fourteen years.  And how old were you when you went you went to Neverland?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen.  And from the Frontlands.  Were the Ogre Wars still raging, then?”

“The first one, yeah.”

“The Duke of the Frontlands took children as young as fourteen to fight in his wars.  So I’ve heard.”

“He did.  And I was.  Or four days short.  It was my best friend’s birthday when the Shadow took me.”

“Your friend.  And what was her—or his—name?”

The man stared at him levelly.  “Does it matter?  It was centuries ago by the time I got back.  She’s not around anymore.”

Morraine.  Rumplestiltskin didn’t say the name out loud.  People can lie while speaking nothing but the truth, he reminded himself.  It’s the first part of a con, hearing what you want to hear.  Especially when the one conning you didn’t even have to say it. He needed more information.

And, really, there was nothing as revealing as finding out what someone else wanted to know. “So, ask for what you wanted to see.”  He held out the bowl to him.

“Wait,” the man said.  He pulled out the knife from his belt.

Going to try and kill me? Rumplestiltskin thought, amused.  Well, that will certainly be revealing. But, there’s only one dagger that can do that, dearie, and it’s not the one you’re holding.

But, the man (who had been a boy, long ago, in the Frontlands and who had known a girl who may or may not have been named Morraine) pricked his own finger with the blade and squeezed three drops of blood into the bowl.

Clever, Rumplestiltskin thought. Although, the man’s hands were dirty enough from scrambling up the dirt wall of a ravine and days before that of living rough, there was a fair chance it would get infected.  But, I promised Belle I’d heal any who fall sick before I get them to Mist Haven and safety.  Did he remember that? Or is he one of those fools who thinks he can never get ill?

“Who taught you to do that?” Rumplestiltskin asked. 

“Pan.  Tink—the fairy—only did it after I showed her.”

There were many magics that could be done with blood.  Say this much for fairies, they tended to avoid the grislier ones like the plague.  Bleeding people dry was mostly a metaphor with them.  Malcolm, on the other hand, was a much more literal-minded soul. 

I do not miss you now you’re gone, Father.

The man cupped his hands around Rumplestiltskin’s again.  “Show me what the seer meant, the father who is not my father.”

XXXXX

Belle knew it was stupid to run after the wizard as he sauntered away from the ravine.  Just because he’d taken care of some of Ogres didn’t mean there might not be others.  There could also be men like Gaston, wild animals, and a dozen other dangers. 

She wasn’t even sure why she went after him.  He could fight of small armies and possibly large ones.  It wasn’t as if he were in any danger.

But, there was something in the way he switched back and forth from bravado to shy and stumbling and in the way he looked at her, like a man who had given up all hope during a drought when the rains begin to fall.  Or maybe it was the haunted look she’d seen in his eyes as they scrambled out of the ravine.  They said the dead sent visions, dreams of hope, dreams of peace.  But, there were other ghosts, the kind men who had survived the wars carried around in their own heads.  Belle was only certain that she wasn’t going to leave him alone. 

Baelfire cursed and came after her.  He might have meant to reason with her or just drag her back.  But, he stopped when saw Rumplestiltskin produce a spindle from somewhere and begin spinning autumn grass into gold.  That done, he gathered leaves like flames and tumbled them together into a golden eyed bird that flew off into the night. 

At first, Belle didn’t understand what he did after that, pressing earth into his cupped hands and watching what he held there.  He spat flames like an archer fish spat water.  His hands glowed with fire.

“No. . . .” Baelfire whispered.  More loudly, he said, “What did you do?”

There was something dreamlike in the conversation that followed.  Baelfire and Rumplestiltskin seemed to speak a language of their own, full of demons and fairies.  And, yet, at the same time, she could see secrets lurking behind their eyes and the things they didn’t say.

 Until the wizard offered Baelfire his hands, and Baelfire took them, completing their bargain.

“Show me what the seer meant, the father who is not my father.”

It was a private moment.  It should feel wrong to invade it.  Yet, Belle found herself kneeling beside them, unsure how she had come so close, and looking at the gold limned water cupped in the wizard’s hands.

Images began to form, a human man, enough like the wizard to be his twin.  A young girl, hideously scarred, sat in a cage and begged for water.  As he pressed it into her hands, she whispered prophecies of a child and a terrible choice. 

More images followed, like glimpses of a dream.  Somehow, Belle understood more than she saw, fear, pain, a man walking through fire to save his son and the terrible curse that followed his choice.  Despite it all, the child was lost, falling into the dark. 

Belle saw bars.  Like the girl before him, the wizard was trapped in a cage.  Or not the wizard.  Belle saw him breaking the doors of a tower cell, bursting in and finding—

Pain burst through Belle, a grief that threatened to drown her, and something else.

She saw the bones, white and stark, and knew them—knew she was looking at her own remains, long dead and picked clean, scattered on the stones.

She was about to scream, when the images stopped.  Baelfire’s hands had fallen away from the wizard’s.  He looked almost as sick as Belle felt.

“You—you were in a cage,” he gasped.

“For thirty years,” Rumplestiltskin said, shrugging.  “Someone misplaced the key."

“Who are you?”

For a moment, he looked lost and empty.  He started to speak but changed his mind, giggling instead.  “No one, dearie.  In this world, I’m no one at all.”

“They died, didn’t they?” Belle said.  “The ones you tried to save.  I saw—I don’t understand what I saw.  But, they died.”

“A bad dream,” Rumplestiltskin said.  “That’s what she called us.  She said our world was a bad dream, and nothing in it mattered because it wasn’t real.  So, I tried to find a real place, a place where the Dark One had never been, a land without even memories of me.  I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Papa?” Baelfire whispered.

The man hunched in on himself.  “No.  Your father died a hero.  I lived.  I couldn’t let you grow up fatherless.  But, I failed you.  I failed both of you.  You died.”

“We’re real,” Belle said softly, as if she were speaking to a wounded beast she was trying not to frighten.  “You said it yourself.  You were looking for the real world, and you found it.”

He shook his head as if her words wounded him.  “You’re real.  I’m not.  I couldn’t help you, not in time.  I let them trap you, and you died.”

“We lived,” Belle said.  “You saved us, and we lived.”  She reached out, cupping his cheek with her hand.  His scales were smooth and warm.

He put his hand around hers, feeling her reality.  “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, his eyes darting back and forth between her and Baelfire.  “Even if you’re not real, don’t leave me.”

“Stay with us,” Belle said.  “Come with us into Mist Haven.”  She gave him a tentative smile.  “After all, I promised you a home.”

Chapter Text

In a garden full of roses, a young child ran along a golden path in a dress of red velvet till she reached an arbor twined with flowers where a man with golden scales sat beside a woman reading a book. The little girl waved a crown of gold and red roses. “Mama! Papa! Look what I made!” she cried as she ran into her father's arms.