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Rumplestiltskin hangs upside-down in the rafters of his cell. His knees are locked tight around the bars, sore and shaky, and though his exertion squeezes sweat from his forehead, his eyes remain closed. This position is enough to keep the strength in his muscles, yet the pain isn't enough to distract him from his true pursuit: He's using his foresight, chasing visions of futures yet to be. There's very little else to pass the time.
The visions are difficult to sparse. They collide and entangle. Imagine a skein. Imagine all those woven, interlocking threads. Imagine hooking your fingernail in one and pulling it loose... and loose... and loose... It keeps on coming. There's always more than what there first appears to be. It's difficult to tell when something will happen or has happened or will never happen.
Case in point, the encounter that's about to occur. A vague flash of it came and went some time ago, though Rumplestiltskin does not recall it. There's so much going on in his head that one insignificant little moment is hardly going to leave a lasting impression. Besides he has much more interesting futures to chase. Thus, when the visitor does arrive, it's as surprising as it would have been had it not been foretold at all.
First, Rumplestiltskin hears the patter of approaching feet. The sound is so light that at first he mistook it for rain pattering against the cavern walls, however he quickly notices that the sound has a constant rhythm to it and is most assuredbly not rainfall. Distracted, he opens his eyes. The string of fate he'd been chasing in his mind struggles with him, like a fish on the end of a line. His attention is split. He begins to part the yarn into smaller fibres as he listens for his visitor - the guard, he assumes - to announce their presence.
"Hello?" calls a voice after a moment.
It's most certainly not the guard.
Rumplestiltskin snaps alert. The string of fate falls into the web with the others, lost. With an irritated sneer, he drops to the ground as noisily as he is able. He finds a dramatic entrance often intimidates his visitors. The small figure in the darkness startles when he lands. Rumplestiltskin does not end the theatrics there. He lunges for the bars, seizing them, and lets out a quiet hiss that's only half pretend. Better to frighten the intruder away than suffer a prolonged interruption. There are fates to watch unwind and not much time before the Evil Queen enacts her curse.
"My, my, my, how unexpected! You're much too skinny to be a dwarf." He presses his forehead to the cool iron bars and squints at the shape. Wisely, the intruder remains in the shadows, avoiding the torches fixed to the walls. They must have heeded the guard's warnings. "Are you lost, child?"
"No," the boy replies, shuffling his feet. He can't be older than twelve.
Rumplestiltskin raises his eyebrows. "Oh? So you've come to pay the Dark One a visit?"
A nod, slow and deliberate enough to be seen in the dark.
"How lovely! But foolish. It was very foolish of you to come here, boy. And alone, too! Didn't you hear why I've been locked up?"
"It was because you were bad."
What a delightfully simplistic way of putting it! Rumplestiltskin giggles. "The worst!" Adjusting his stance, he reaches through the bars and points a sharp, black fingernail at the boy. "You really ought to know... I'm in here... because I wanted to take someone's child."
"I know," the boy says. "Everyone knows. But no one will tell me why. Is it because you’re lonely?"
The honest curiosity in the boy's voice makes Rumple's heart sting. Twice as painful as the last time someone had asked him that. He wrinkles his nose. "Perhaps - Perhaps I was hungry! There's a lot of fat in children, although you..." He runs his gaze up and down the silhouette. "...are rather stick-like."
The boy shuffles back. Though the action could be interpreted as fear, there's confidence and even a touch of amusement when the boy says, "You don't eat children." As if Rumplestiltskin were a clown who had told a slightly amusing joke.
"You don't know the things a man will do when deprived of food. And I am feeling rather peckish!" He makes a show of dragging his tongue along his lips. The salt of his sweat grazes his tongue like a firework in a silent sky, a spark that lights up in his mouth and behind his eyes. He swallows roughly. He has been in this cell far too long, spent far too many nights waiting, watched far too many visions. Visions which call to him even now, whispering promises of his goals met. He grips the bars tighter. "You best run along, boy. This prison won't hold me forever, and I'm very, very hungry."
"The guard bring you food every four hours," replies the boy, matter-of-factly.
"And how do you know that?"
"I watched them. He's gone to get your food now actually."
"Oh? And you just snuck in, did you?" He doesn't need the boy’s confirmation. There's no jailor with him or lurking in the tunnel behind him. Whatever business brought him here, it brought him here alone. Rumplestiltskin tries to locate that strand of foresight that told him of the boy's arrival, but it's lost to the weave. A weave that needs tending to, unspinning and re-spinning, so that he might glimpse any fragments alluding to Baelfire. It's all he has left of him now. He tuts. "Shoddy! I'll have to make a complaint!" He raises his voice, "I expect better!"
That's what makes the boy startle and spin to look over his shoulder. Perhaps the guards aren't as far away as he claims.
"Oh jaaiiilor!" Rumplestiltskin sing-songs.
"Please be quiet!"
"Ah-ha! No one knows you're here, do they, boy?"
"I'm being brave. And I didn't lie," the boy says in a panicked voice, as if dishonesty would be the bigger crime. "I told Papa I was going to visit someone. I said 'Papa, I'm going to the dwarven mines to visit someone who lives there.' And the guards left without me having to say anything! See? I'm being brave."
"How sweet, but it's a little too early for your teen rebellion." Rumplestiltskin tilts his head, squinting as he tries to discern the boy's age. "Or, I suppose, it's a little late, given that the world's about to end. I bet you didn't know that. That everything you know is about to be over? Such a terrible shame."
"I know," the boy says sadly. Rumplestiltskin is getting a little tired of hearing it. Just who is this boy, who knows so much? He watches the boy kick at the dusty ground. His tiny red shoe pokes into the light and back out again. "All the grown-ups had a big meeting about it at the castle."
Rumplestiltskin lifts his chin. "Oh?" He studies the boy, reassessing. A nuisance, yes, though potentially a useful nuisance. He should have paid more attention to his vision. He wouldn't have the ability much longer. "And what of the child, boy? The little bump in Snow White's belly. Hmm? What do you know of the royal to-be?"
The boy doesn't reply straight away. Rumplestiltskin was beginning to think that he’d swallowed his tongue before he finally answers. "You're supposed to give me something in return."
Rumplestiltskin laughs so hard it shakes his lithe body. "Oh! Oh, oh, oh..." The boy inches a touch back as Rumplestiltskin rises to his full height. "Clever, clever boy. But cheeky. Very cheeky." He wags a finger, tutting. "What must your mother and father think of you."
"I don't have a mother."
"They're overrated." He waves dismissively. Last thing he wants on his mind is Godforsaken mothers. Especially not now his visitor has become so intriguing! He reaches through the bars and beckons the boy. "Come. Step into the light. You wouldn't deny me the sight of my kindly visitor, would you? You could be my last. It'll be nice to see a face...before the end."
One cautious step at a time, the boy steps into the torch lamp’s glow. He's younger than Rumplestiltskin initially surmised, not yet ten. Possibly not even eight. Though his body is trim, his face is round with puppy fat and dotted with freckles, and though his wide eyes speak to innocent there's an edge to them too. On his head sits a red bycocket with a feather tucked into the ribbon along the brim and from under it reddish-brown hair pokes out. He's holding something in his hands, which he nervously plays with, but his eyes don't leave Rumplestiltskin's. A brave boy, indeed. An arrogant boy.
The Seer had warned of a boy. If this is who the prophecy spoke of, he's earlier than Rumplestiltskin expected. "Just who are you supposed to be, hmm? You work in the castle. Prince Charming's valet, perhaps? Or the court jester. You certainly dress like one." He giggles.
The boy frowns, looking puzzled rather than insulted.
"Well? What do you want, boy? Chop, chop. That jailor won't be gone forever!"
"Is it true that you can look into the future?"
"Hehe, of course! But it'll cost you, boy."
"I won't say anything about the baby," he says. "I promised. When you break a promise, it turns into a lie."
"How noble! I do appreciate a boy who keeps his word." Rumplestiltskin flourishes his hand. "No matter. I don't need to know about the baby." He'd already spun those yarns. It's up to Snow White and Prince Charming to set the course and Rumplestiltskin knows they won't fail. Little Princess Emma will be spared. "But you don't get something for nothing and you, dear boy, are refusing to negotiate!"
The boy pouts. "No, I'm not."
"So what will you give me in exchange? Your name, perhaps?"
The boy shakes his head.
"Don't be stubborn. My civility is waning."
"Sometimes you ask for things instead of names," the boy points out. He drops his gaze to look at the little toy he'd been playing with. He sucks in a breath and shuffles a little bit closer to the cell. The toy is wooden, hand-carved. The boy holds it out.
"You know an awful lot," observes Rumplestiltskin.
A shy smile. "People like to tell stories. I like to listen."
Rumplestiltskin feels a twitch of a smile. He likes this boy.
That won't do.
He lurches through the bars and snatches the toy off him. The boy lets out a gasp, and Rumplestiltskin cackles. Despite the growing fear in his eyes the boy does not run. Running his fingers along the smooth back of the toy, Rumplestiltskin holds the boy's gaze, daring him to look away. The boy does not. Rumplestiltskin lifts the toy into his line of sight. It's a water bird. A duck or a goose, perhaps.
Completely useless. "Why on earth would I want this?" He tosses the bird out of the cage. It skitters past the boy's feet.
Sniffling, the boy bends and picks it up. "It's special. It's a swan."
In his mind's eye, the yarns of the future light up and call out. Swan. Emma Swan. Simple irony? A coincidence? No such thing. Rumplestiltskin narrows his eyes at the boy. "Where did you find it?"
"I made it."
Rumplestiltskin places his hand over his chest and shows his teeth in an exaggerated display of flattery. "For me?"
The boy nods.
Oh. A little warmth lights up in Rumplestiltskin's heart. He drops his hand, his extravagance giving way to something a little more sincere. Feeling awkward, he rubs his finger with his thumb and forces himself to sneer. "Why should I care if you made it?"
The boy purses his lips. "I thought maybe... you needed something to believe in. Something to keep you company. My papa told me that if you believe in something so hard, it'll come true. Like in The Ugly Duckling."
The thoughtfulness behind the gesture was sickeningly sweet. Far too reminiscent of young Bae handing him finger paintings. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," he mutters.
"I like swans."
The threads of fate sing once more. Rumplestiltskin regards the boy. "You know, on second thought, I will have that little swan of yours. A swan for a peek into the future. Do we have a deal?"
The boy looks up, too hopeful for a child looking into the eyes of the Dark One. He shuffles forward, holding out the swan, and Rumplestiltskin takes it. He brushes against the boy's tiny fingers and recognises the unmistakable presence of magic. He freezes. This boy is... something different. Connected to Emma Swan, somehow, and something not quite ordinary. He pulls away slowly, staring as the boy takes a step back. The boy looks at him and smiles shyly. Rumplestiltskin realises his expression has gone slack and tightens it up with an impish grin. "This will be good for exerting blunt trauma."
The boy's smile drops.
With a playful hum, Rumplestiltskin sweeps to the back of his cell, where he has hidden the quill with squid ink and a piece of parchment with Emma's name written on it. He tucks the little wooden swan under the rocks with the rest and, turning sharply on his heel, approaches the boy once more. The boy has settled down on the dusty ground, crossed-legged and square-shouldered, and his eyes lift to meet his. Rumplestiltskin does the same, so they're sitting opposite each other. "So tell me, dearie. What is it you want to know about your future?"
"Not mine. Someone else. Can you do that?"
"Of course! But you'll have to be more specific. A name, if you please." At this, the boy looks uncertain. Rumplestiltskin rolls his eyes. "Not so clever now. Didn't you ever stop to think why I deal in names? Names give clarity to the tangled webs of the future!" He gives an exaggerated sweep of his hands. "It's simple. If you want to know about someone, I'll need to know who. Unless, of course, you don't want to know..."
"No, I do!" The boy sucks in a breath, gathering courage. "It's Geppetto."
Rumplestiltskin stares. "You came to ask... about a wood carver?"
The boy nods eagerly.
"Congratulations! You've managed to pick the most boring subject imaginable!" He flaps his hands. "Wh-why in the world would you ask about a wood carver? I can tell you anything! Reveal the darkest secrets from the very, very distant of futures. Your first lover. The day you die. Anything at all!"
"I just want to know if he's going to be okay after the curse."
"You do realise it's the Dark Curse, don't you?" At the boy's imploring stare, Rumplestiltskin sighs. "Very well. Allow me a moment to peak into Geppetto's future." He closes his eyes. His mind skips along the threads and images come to him. "His cursed life will be dreary, dearie. That which he loves most has been ripped from him. But you already knew that. He'll...have a place to carve wood. A little shop. He’ll be a handyman in a town that’s always breaking. He'll find the work satisfying but monotonous, and nothing he fixes will stay that way. He'll live peacefully, relatively speaking, in a sombre, lonely, childless existence." He opens his eyes. "There. Satisfied?"
When he gazes upon the boy once more, he finds he's looking into watery eyes.
"Wh-What are you sniffling for, boy?" Rumplestiltskin says, stunned. "As fates go, that isn't half bad!"
The boy holds his tears in, though he's struggling. His little nose twitches as he sniffs. He drops his chin and begins whispering to himself, "I'm brave, I'm brave, I'm brave." He rocks back and forth as he says it. It's quite disconcerting.
"Boy." Rumple uncrosses his legs and grips the cell bars once more, bringing himself as close to the child as he is able. He haltingly reaches out before he realises what he's doing and pulls his hand back again, tucking it smoothly under his chin like he meant to do that all along. "Enough whittering! Boy. Boy?"
Through his little mantra, the boy manages to talk himself down from a panic attack. He breathes in and out, and brushes away his tears, and looks at Rumplestiltskin once more. "Thank you, sir."
Sir. Rumplestiltskin blinks. Not even the 'fairest of them all' had called him sir. He stares as the boy uncrosses his legs and begins to stand. Rumplestiltskin holds up his hand. "Wait a moment. Why are you crying?"
The boy pauses, pursing his lips. The bravery keeping him here is clearly running dry.
"Why are you crying?" he asks again, softer.
The boy takes another deep breath. "I'm going to die."
Rumplestiltskin gawks at him. "Where in the world did you get that idea? You look perfectly healthy to me."
"The curse."
"Don't be ridiculous. The curse won't kill you. It'll simply tear you away from your loved ones, erase your memory, and trap you in a perpetual cycle of misery. No biggie!"
"Not me," whispers the boy. "If the magic goes, I go."
"Your life... depends on magic."
The boy nods.
"A pity."
He means it. The boy seems like such a bright lad. There have been many times when Rumplestiltskin had gifted health in exchange for one thing or another, the lives of dying babes most often. Babes born sick. Toddlers who wander and ingest deadly poisons or are bitten by dangerous creatures. This boy is not one Rumplestiltskin had saved. When he saves a life, he saves it. There's no conditions attached once payment is exchanged, and his deals are never broken.
It is a pity. It's heart-breaking. Rumple swallows.
"It's okay," decides the child, rising. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his shorts. "I'm nearly eight."
Nearly eight. Younger than Baelfire was when he was lost. Rumple exhales. "Who are you?" He had an inkling. Geppetto's wooden boy, turned real. But he had no idea what the boy's name was. "Tell me your name."
"I'm nearly eight," the boy repeats to himself, a tremor in his voice. His tears spill. He rubs dust on his cheeks as he dries them.
It has been centuries since Rumplestiltskin comforted a child. He isn't sure he knows how to anymore. Yet, watching the boy struggle to keep his composure, Rumplestiltskin finds he has no choice. Pushing back from the bars, he retrieves the wooden swan and hurriedly returns. He softens his voice. "Here you are, sunshine, have this back. You certainly need it more than I do. Have this back." He presses the swan into the boy's hands.
The boy's eyes go wide. "You can't return this. It's part of our deal."
"Consider the deal free of charge. A sample, if you will."
The boy's fingers refuse to close around the toy. Rumple, desperate, takes the boy's hand in both of his own. "Take it. And tell me your name. I can look for you in my visions of the future, but I'll need your name."
"No!" The boy rips his hand free, leaving the wooden swan in Rumplestiltskin's hand. "You're trying to trick me! You're a liar!"
"I'm not trying to -" The boy is running. Rumplestiltskin shakes the bars. "Come back! Tell me your name!"
Too late. The boy has vanished down the mines, returning to wherever it is he came from. Rumplestiltskin's arm is outstretched through the bars, and he slowly curls his fingers in, wrapping them around the wooden swan. He brings it to his chest and studies the crude cuts that make its shape. He tries to use it to focus his foresight but to no avail. Swan, is what it tells him. And Swan tells him Emma Swan. The boy's connection to her is present but frail. The glow of his string is outshined by the string that calls Emma Swan and when Rumplestiltskin tries to pull it towards him, it frays into its own web of microfibres that are impossible to grasp.
Rumplestiltskin scoffs. What does he care? It's of no consequence. Many have died in the creation of the Dark Curse and many more will suffer. What's one more child? Rising, he walks in a circle until he's standing in the moonlight that shines through the barred ceiling. The moonlight catches the wooden swan. The boy had varnished it; the brush strokes are visible and a tiny fingerprint where the boy had touched it before it had dried. Rumplestiltskin covers the print with his thumb.
Something to believe in.
He sneers, shaking his head. He places the carved swan on the ground beside the candle he lights every year for Baelfire.